by Dean Ing
His guide hesitated momentarily before saying, "Canadian."
"I guess that makes you an American these days. Been here long?"
The other looked over at him briefly, then turned his attention back to the road without answering. It would seem that questions weren't good form locally, though the Canadian had asked the first one.
It was an excellent road. They had passed out of Vaduz in moments. Frank said, "I work for the Graf, too. At least, I think I do."
That didn't seem to lower any barriers. They went on.
Frank look up shortly and said, "For Christ's sake."
The driver grinned. "Looks like something out of a fairy story the first time you see it, eh?"
Frank had never seen a castle before, save in historical Tri-Di shows. He had no idea that they could be this large. The Wolfschloss was built atop a small mountain. Even the lower foundations were a thousand feet above the valley floor. It brought to mind an action-filled movie revival of the last century, depicting the good guys storming the Alcazar in Segovia. They had used catapults, small primitive cannon, battering rams, and finally, scaling ladders. It had been on the gruesome side, with the defenders pouring melted lead and boiling oil down on the attacking forces. The good guys had finally taken the castle by storm, but Frank had wondered ever since what sort of soldier would be idiot enough to be first man up one of those scaling ladders.
He had never expected a castle to be as large as the looming Wolfschloss. He wondered if it had ever been captured in the old days. He didn't see how it could have been, before the advent of heavy artillery.
Along the road, since they had left Vaduz, they had passed guard houses and on two occasions concrete pillboxes, heavy automatic weapons projecting from their slots, but they had been stopped only once, and then, briefly. The guards were obviously acquainted with his guide.
Now they pulled up before an ultramodern building with two heavy steel cables extending from its interior up to the schloss. There were ten or twenty other vehicles in the parking area.
They got out, each carrying a bag, and headed for the entry. There were two guards there, armed with the usual Gyrojet automatic carbines, stationed to each side of the metal door, and one who, by his shoulder tabs, was obviously an officer wkh a sidearm in a quick-draw holster.
When the two approached, the guide gave an easygoing salute to the officer and it was returned just as offhandedly.
The guide said to Frank, "Your identification?"
Frank handed it to the officer, who looked at it briefly, handed it back, and said, "Go on in, Mr. Pinell. You're expected. Welcome to the Wolfschloss."
The metal door slid to one side, into the thickness of the wall, then slid silently shut behind them. They were in a moderately large room, steel of walls, ceiling, and even the floor, which was, however, carpeted. Six armed men studied the newcomer.
One of the seated officers held out his hand without words and Frank handed over his International Credit Card again.
There was a faint buzzing sound, and the officer looked at him coldly. Two of the guards hurried over. The other two covered Frank, less than casually now.
The officer said, "You're carrying a shooter."
"That's right," Frank told him.
The two guards frisked him quickly and came up with his stubby Gyrojet with its attached silencer. It was put on the desk of the examining officer.
That worthy said dangerously, "You mean you've got the gall to try and get in to see Mr. Windsor armed?"
"For Christ's sake," Frank said, mildly impatient. "It was issued to me by Nat Fraser, in Tangier. Nobody told me where to hand it in."
The officer looked at him for a long moment, then down at the gun. "It's one of our models," he muttered. He flicked on a desk screen and spoke into it in German.
The officer finally looked at Frank's guide and said, "Take him up, Colin."
While this was going on, two of the other guards had taken Frank's luggage, opened both bags, and gone through them. Frank got the feeling that they were being electronically scanned at the same time.
His guide, Colin, said, "This way, Mr. Pinell."
They went through another metal door and into what turned out to be the cable house proper. It looked like the waiting room of a small shuttleport. There were unupholstered benches and chairs, and a small bar at which a pretty young blonde, in a feminine version of the ever-present commando uniform, presided. There were two more guards at their ease here, and three civilian-dressed, bored-looking men, all carrying very ordinary-looking attache" cases.
The ceiling was only partially roofed and the double cables, which were attached by heavy links of chain to the floor, extended through the opening. In only moments, a cable car came sliding into the room and descended into the slot built for it into the floor. One of the guards went forward and unlocked its door. Two passengers emerged, one a tall, well-dressed black carrying a very large briefcase, the other an efficient-looking, middle-aged woman who looked Spanish or Italian. They headed for a door other than the one Frank and Colin had utilized.
The three other men, one an Oriental, entered the cable car. Frank and his guide got in, too. The car was rectangular, with rounded corners and modest windows. By the looks of them, none of the windows could be opened, and Frank suspected that the glass was bulletproof. As Frank took a seat, the guard outside locked the door and they took off with a slight lurch, climbing at a sharp angle though the swaying gondola remained horizontal.
Frank stared out a window in fascination. Beneath them were scrubby, hardy trees and massive, jagged boulders, occasionally with wiry grass. From time to time he could spot a zigzag trail ascending the hill. It looked as though it hadn't been used for years and, from time to time, there were indications that it had once been wider—perhaps a narrow road. In the distance were spectacular snow-topped Alps.
He looked over at Colin and said, scowling puzzlement, "You mean that this cable car is the only access to the, uh, schloss? Surely it can't be supplied from a gondola?"
"Of course not," the other grunted. The guide was slumped back in his seat, not bothering to look out. He had obviously made the trip many a time.
In ten minutes, the cable car swung into an aperture again and settled on its skids into another slot. Frank could see, through the windows, only a small portion of huge castle wall, partially brick, partially massive stone, before they passed into the interior.
A guard unlocked the door and all issued forth. The three other passengers hustled off. They left the waiting room of the terminal by one door, and Colin led Frank through another.
The steel room into which Frank was ushered was similar to that below, but not identical. For one thing, there were ports in one of the walls which evidently overlooked the cable car ascent. Before each of them was mounted heavy weapons of a design Frank had never seen before, even in films. There were six guards on duty here and, once again, two officers. Their shoulder tabs looked more impressive than those the two below had worn.
He went through much the same procedure as before: he was electronically searched, and his credit card was checked out, then handed back to him. "Righto, corporal," the bored officer said. "You're cleared for the donjon."
"Yes, sir," Colin said, saluting in the offhand manner that seemed to apply to these professionals.
This part of the castle had been reconstructed recently. On the other side of the metal door through which they exited was a modem, though militarily barren corridor, which couldn't possibly have dated back to medieval times. It extended only fifty feet or so before they were confronted by another heavy portal, which automatically opened for them onto a vista which made Frank gasp.
Before him lay an immense area, more like a park than the courtyard of a looming fortress—a park devoted largely to sports. From where they entered, Frank could see an enormous swimming pool at the far end, with scores of bathers, both men and women, enjoying the place. Nearer were a dozen tennis courts, also well patronized
. And nearer still, a fairly good-sized putting green, largely patronized by older types. There were also practice courts for basketball and jai alai. Between them were pleasant walks, extensive lawns neat as a golf green, fountains and gardens spotted here and there.
To the right, however, was also a copter landing pad, and on it two aircraft, one a heavy cargo carrier, the other a fighter, weapons protruding from apertures. Frank realized then what his guide had meant when he'd answered that the cable car wasn't the only manner of supplying the Wolfschloss.
One had to look about the walls, the battlements, the projecting turrets, the round towers at the corners of the walls with their conical tops, to realize that this was indeed the interior of a castle, centuries old.
"Not bad, eh?" Colin said. "The Graf must have spent a mint doing the enceinte up like this." He led the way.
"Enceinte?" Frank said.
"The ward," the other told him. "The open area inside the walls."
It came to Frank that the Wolfschloss must house the population of a small town. The buildings, snuggled up against the heavy stone walls, were sufficient to provide all the needs of thousands.
The closer Frank looked, the less medieval it seemed. He could make out anti-aircraft guns, missile launchers, mortars, and machine guns. He said with a touch of sarcasm, "One small nuke and that's the end of the whole works."
Colin looked over at him as they walked. "Straight down, about half a mile, are the bomb shelters. You're as safe here as you'd be in the Octagon in Greater Washington."
"I'd hate to dig myself out, afterwards."
"You wouldn't have to. There are tunnels leading off to exits more than a mile away. The Wolfschloss couldn't take a fusion bomb, maybe, but it could take a helluva lot."
"Where are we going?" Frank said.
"To the donjon."
"What's a donjon?"
"The keep."
"That tells me a lot."
"In the old days, it was the final defense. It was where
DEATHWISH WORLD igj everybody retreated when the walls were breached Now the Graf and his staff live there.''
Frank could see the keep, the highest and the largest of the towers. It was a castle within a castle and must have been one hell of a disappointment to come up against in the days when you had nothing more than a crossbow, sword, and battleaxe
He was apprehensive about what was to come in his confrontation with Peter Windsor, the Grafs front man One thing was certain: there was no line of retreat for him If something went wrong, there was no possible way for him to get out of the Wolfschloss, even if he had been armed
Chapter Fifteen: The Graf
As Frank and his guide drew nearer to the keep, its true size became ever more impressive. By the time they drew up to its sole entrance, he realized that it was as large as some apartment buildings.
Before the entry were stationed four uniformed guards and an officer. Gone was the easygoing air Frank had come to associate with the mercenaries of the Graf. These five were alert and efficient.
Colin came to attention and saluted the officer, who responded just as snappily and then eyed Frank.
"Franklin Pinell, sir," Colin said crisply. "On appointment to see Mr. Windsor."
"Your identification, sir," the officer said, holding out his hand.
Frank gave him his card. At this rate, the thing would be worn out before too long.
The other examined it carefully, returned it, saluted Frank with the same snappiness, and said, "You're expected, sir."
The ancient medieval door had long since been superseded by a massive steel one. Built into one side of it was a smaller door, just wide enough so that two persons could have walked in side by side. It now slid open. Colin said to Frank, "This is as far as I go, Mr. Pinell. I'm not cleared for the donjon. Good luck."
Frank went through the door and was again surprised, as he had been by the parklike effect of the enceinte. The basic medieval aspects of the keep had been retained. The stone walls and narrow apertures were still there. The floors were still flagstone. Otherwise, the ground floor of the keep seemed an ultramodern office building.
There were a score or so office workers in the lobby, walking briskly here or there, papers in hand. They ranged in age from Frank's early twenties to sixty or more but most, both men and women, were on the youthful side. Some were uniformed, some not. Frank approached the first of the desks, mildly surprised that it wasn't automated. Behind it sat a sharp-looking young blonde who would have done the reception room of the largest multinational corporation in Manhattan proud. She smiled encouragingly. Frank said, "Franklin Pinell to see Mr. Peter Windsor."
"Your identification, please?"
She took his card, put it into a desk slot, and scanned the screen before her. She returned it to him, and said perkily, "You're expected, sir. Elevator one."
The three elevators were numbered in gold. Number one seemed somewhat more ornate than the others. Frank stepped in. There was no order screen, nor any other manner that he could see of activating the compartment. He shrugged.
The door closed and started upward. And continued upward. It would seem that Mr. Peter Windsor was officed in the higher reaches of the keep. Eventually, it came to a halt, and he emerged into an office containing four desks and four very busy workers. It was quite the swankest office Frank had ever been in, including that of Ram Panikkar in Tangier. It was difficult to realize that he was in the nerve center of a castle going back to the days of Richard the Lion-Hearted.
One of the clerks got up from her swivel chair and came toward him briskly, smiling in the same pert manner as the receptionist below. She was dressed in what Frank thought must be the latest from Paris. She said brightly, "Fraulein Krebs is expecting you, Mr. Pinell. If you'll just come this way." He said, "I was to see Peter Windsor."
"Yes, sir," she said, leading him across the room to a door which was lettered Margit Krebs in gold. Evidently, he was going to see Fraulein Krebs whether he liked it or not.
The identity screen picked them up and the door swung open. The girl said, "Mr. Pinell," and stepped back.
The office inside was luxurious to a point that Frank had never witnessed even in the most lavish Tri-Di shows. Withal, it managed to project a touch of femininity. It could never have been taken for a man's room. Above all, it radiated wealth. Frank was no art expert, but recognized Impressionist paintings when he saw them. There were two on the walls. He had no doubt whatever that they were originals.
Behind one desk sat a serious, studious-looking young man and a woman of, say, thirty-five behind the other. Her strikingly handsome face was difficult to estimate. She had beautifully dark hair, wore tweeds that couldn't disguise a very good figure, and her smile was efficient. But her eyes?
Those eyes had a predatory look as they ran up and down Frank, taking in his face, his frame. He had a feeling new to him. It was usually the man who looked at a woman in such a way as to mentally undress her, estimate her capabilities in bed. Now he felt as though positions were reversed. Did Fraulein Krebs do this to every man she met?
She said, "Franklin Pinell," even as she rounded her desk and came toward him with her hand outstretched. "We've been looking forward to meeting you."
He shook and murmured some amenity, wondering who in the hell we could be. Why in the world would a bigshot in Mercenaries, Incorporated want to see him? Surely there wouldn't be anyone in the organization lower on the totem pole than Frank Pinell. He had been astonished at the reception he had been getting all the way from Vaduz to here, the inner reaches of the keep.
Margit Krebs said crisply, "That will be all, Kurt."
The young man at the desk stood, clicked his heels, and said, "Ja, Fraulein Krebs," and left.
When he was gone, Margit said, leaning her buttocks back against her desk, "And what do you think of the Wolfschloss?"
He managed a small grin and said, "Flabbergasted. I had no idea of the size of these European castles, nor t
he excellent condition some of them are in."
She nodded at that and smiled. "They're not all so large, of course. And Lothar spent a considerable sum in renovating this one."
"Like I said, I'm flabbergasted. How many people live here?"
"It varies from day to day, but right now there are 2,321, counting you. Six left yesterday on assignments, but four others returned."
He blinked at her.
She laughed and said, "I have total recall, which is one of the reasons I am Lothar's secretary. You see, some items involving Mercenaries, Incorporated can't be written down. With me on hand, Lothar doesn't need written records of such items. The records are in my head."
"Lothar?"
She cocked her head a bit to one side. "Lothar von Brandenburg… the Graf."
"Oh." He cleared his throat. "Actually, Ms. Krebs, I was instructed to see Mr. Windsor. I'm not sure why."
"Margit," she told him. "In the inner circles, we're informal. I'll take you to Peter right now. He's expecting you and is rather on the curious side." She turned and headed for a door opposite the one by which he had entered.
For a moment, he looked at her blankly. Inner circles? Was the competent, efficient, handsome Fraulein Krebs suggesting that Frank Pinell belonged to the inner circles of Mercenaries, Incorporated? She obviously had made some mistake. But how could anybody as sharp as the secretary of the Graf be that far off? And why should the notorious Peter Windsor be curious about meeting Frank Pinell?
He shook his head and followed her. They went down a short corridor and, without knocking, she pushed open a door and strode in briskly. More hesitantly, Frank followed.
The office beyond was almost identical to that of Fraulein Krebs in size, but there was only one desk, and the feminine element was missing. The wall decorations were of a military nature, including paintings of war scenes and a flag which was holed in various places by what looked suspiciously like gunfire, and including a submachine gun which was racked in the manner that sportsmen display their shotguns or rifles.
Behind a somewhat battered and littered desk sprawled a lanky man, a report of some kind in his hand. He wore tennis shoes without socks, khaki walking shorts, and a khaki shirt, its sleeves rolled up. Frank's first snap judgment was that the other couldn't be much older than himself, but later realized on seeing the wrinkles at the side of the eyes that Peter Windsor projected an air of youth that wasn't there. He was almost twice Frank's age.
