Deathwish World

by Dean Ing

  She said briskly, "Lothar, Peter," and took her chair.

  Peter said, "There's one item, Chief, on which we should get cracking. This Roy Cos, who signed a standard Deathwish Policy in Nassau."

  "The Wobbly organizer? Yes, of course. I thought we notified Cellini, in New York, to put a couple of top men on him."

  "Jolly well," Windsor said in disgust, "but our Mr. Cos is still with us and Brett-James, who sold the contract, is screaming like a chap with the blue spiders. Cos and his business manager, a Forrest Brown, are spending money like autumn leaves on the wind. Ordinarily, the poor bloody clods who sign these contracts have neither the imagination to spend a fraction of their million pseudo-dollars a day available, nor to avoid our people. They usually go on a drunken, woman-chasing binge in some expensive resort. They take the most posh suites and they buy—dear God, do they buy!"

  The Graf eyed him in incomprehension. "But what does this Cos fellow do?"

  "He's spending, right up to the hilt each day, on prime Tri-Di time for his lectures. He's also renting huge auditoriums for his rallies, and hiring a large staff of bodyguards and aides, such as publicity men and speech writers."

  Margit said, "Can't he be reached through bodyguards or other employees?"

  Windsor shook his head. "Not so far. We had a publicity man lined up but he was discovered. The bodyguards are all trusted Wobblies and the attempts to bribe them into defecting have all met with violence. But that's not the only difficulty. His message is beginning to get over. For a century and a half the few radicals of the United States have been a laughingstock. Nobody bothered to listen to their demands for fundamental changes, don't you know? But now the proles, caught up in the emotion of his plight, are beginning to consider his program. I've heard from two members of the Central Committee of the World Club. This man is a potential danger to the overall program. They demand that he be liquidated posthaste."

  The Graf said, "Notify Cellini to drop all else and concentrate on this man. Why can't he be picked off by a sniper from a distance?"

  "Because wherever he goes there are mobs around him. Not just bodyguards—there are eight of them now—but his staff and thousands of gawking curiosity seekers, most of them at least partially in his favor. A hit man can't get near him without running into considerable danger, and from a distance, there are so many people about him that a man with a rifle can't get a clear bead on the sod."

  The Graf said impatiently, "That is for Cellini to solve, Peter. And that brings up the matter of the World Club. How did the operation against Harold Dunninger work out?"

  "Completely as planned. A really good show. Nils Ostrander deserves a bit of a bonus."

  The mercenary head looked at his secretary. "Refresh me on the details, Fraulein."

  Margit's eyes went vague. She recited, "Harold Dunninger, international tycoon. Candidate member of the Central Committee of the World Club and, until his recent death, considered most likely to be admitted to the Central Committee upon the retirement of Grace Cabot-Hudson. He belonged to the so-called liberal element in the Central Committee, which includes such people as Jeremiah Auburn, Fong Hui, and Mendel Amschel, who wish to see the forming of a world state based on more democratic principles than most. The liberal element is opposed by such members as Harrington Chase, John Warfield Moyer, and the Committee's secretary, Sheila Duff-Roberts. Also, of course, by such candidate members as the Prophet of the United Church and yourself. It became necessary that Harold Dunninger be eliminated to increase your chances of being nominated a full member of the Committee. Obviously, it could not be handled in the usual manner or suspicion would immediately fall upon Mercenaries, Incorporated. So our mole in the Nihilists was instructed to kidnap Dunninger and hold him for a ransom of fifty million pseudo-dollars, with his life forfeit if the ransom was not paid."

  The Graf interrupted, speaking to Peter Windsor. "Suppose he had paid the ransom. Then the Nihilists would have had no escuse to execute him."

  Peter yawned and said, "We looked into it thoroughly. He was on the outs with his wife, don't you know? And she was in control of his interests in his absence. We were quite certain that she would never pay such a sum. She didn't. He's dead and the killing laid at the doorstep of the Nihilists."

  The Graf thought about it and finally nodded in agreement. "Very well, I understand that the Central Committee is in session in Rome. You will go there as my deputy, Peter, and exert what pressure you can to have me entered as a full member into the Committee. I assume that your strongest competitor for the honor will be the Prophet."

  Windsor said thoughtfully, "Don't you think it would be better, Chief, if you went yourself? You've been a Candidate

  Member for years but none of the Committee have ever met you. You'd throw more weight if you attended, I shouldn't wonder."

  The Graf grunted contempt of that opinion. "Peter, I have not left the Wolfschloss for twenty years. The last time I did, three separate attempts were made on my life. The last nearly succeeded. No, I'll stay here. Keep in mind that the Prophet will also be represented by a deputy. He has no intention of permitting a rumor that he is so worldly as to belong to the World Club. Is there anything else?"

  Peter said, "One other item that ordinarily I wouldn't bother you with. A black named Horace Hampton, who seems, ah, an enigma. He is an active member of the Anti-Racist League in America and indications are that he will soon be raised to membership in their National Executive Committee. This Anti-Racist League has come under the scrutiny of the World Club. So long as they were confined to North America alone they could be largely ignored. But with the Central Committee about to take steps to expand the United States of the Americas, these militant anti-racists take on a new posture."

  "How do you mean?" the Graf said impatiently. "The next step in the erecting of a World State is to invite Australia and New Zealand to join the UnituI States of the Americas. The computers conclude that, if invited, they will join. Perhaps Great Britain and Ireland will be next. In all four countries there are few minorities, so the anti-racists are no difficulty. However, offering membership to still other nations poses a problem. Suppose India is approached. If the Anti-Racist League were to infiltrate and influence India, her votes would swamp the new United States of the World."

  "What has all this got to do with Horace Hampton?"

  "He is one of the more intelligent and aggressive members of the League. Sheila Duff-Roberts has given us a contract on this mystery man. I strongly suspect that the National Data Banks have been corrupted to the point of his dossier being a fake."

  Margit said musingly, "It isn't the easiest thing in the world to infiltrate the American National Data Banks."

  "No, it bloody well isn't," Peter said. "And it seems unlikely that an organization as short of funds as this League could do it."

  The Graf said, "So we have a contract on the man. Very well, have it executed."

  Peter looked at him. "Chief, it occurs to me that we might send young Pinell to deal with this beggar."

  The older man's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

  "Because the boy's inexperienced. You've obviously got plans for him. Very well, he handled himself well on the Rivas assignment, to the extent that he was needed at all. But it would seem to me that he needs a bit more blooding. No particular hurry, but it will give him an opportunity to learn something about the organization. He'd have to work through our local representatives in the States, of course."

  "I'll consider the matter," said the Graf. "Very well, if that's all, I'll see you tonight at dinner."

  Dismissed, Margit Krebs and Peter Windsor came to their feet and headed for the door.

  In the corridor, as they headed for their own offices, Margit looked up at the rangy Englishman. She said, softly, "You didn't mention to Lothar that this Horace Hampton is considered the most efficient field man in the Anti-Racist League and very dangerous as compared to our Frank."

  He said, "If you thought so, why didn't you say
something to the Chief to that effect?"

  "Possibly, just to find out what you're up to, Peter, dear." She eyed him mockingly. "You couldn't be getting second thoughts about Buck PinelFs son, could you, Peter? For years now, you've been second man in Mercenaries, Incorporated. Undoubtedly, you've expected to take over when the Graf either retires or dies."

  "Who's better suited to take over the reins? But Lothar's in a position to turn over the whole organization to this stripling. If he did, an outfit that has taken half a century to build could go down the spout overnight. Then where would you and I be, Margit, old thing?"

  She reached the door of her office and stood there for a moment, considering it.

  "How do you stand?" he demanded.

  "I don't know," she said evasively .^"Perhaps you're overestimating Lothar's acceptance of Frank."

  "Perhaps," he grunted and went on.

  She looked after him and thought to herself, Peter is beginning to wonder if the Graf isn't getting too old for the job. Perhaps a touch of senility. I'd hate to be in the crossfire if it came to a showdown. Margit, my girl, you'd better start considering on what side of your own bread the butter is on.

  Dinner that night was another revelation to Frank Pinell, in a day that had been full of them. The baronial hall in which it was held was one flight up in the keep from the offices and suites. The whole floor was evidently devoted to the Grafs living quarters.

  Frank had entered the palatial living room attired in the dark suit which Helmut, his newly appointed valet, had laid out for him. There hadn't been much of a choice. He had bought two suits in Paris, on Nat Fraser's suggestion, and several pairs of shoes. All the clothing he had brought with him from America he had discarded, also at Fraser's suggestion. But now he realized that he had made a mistake. The Graf, Peter Windsor, and Margit Krebs were all in evening wear. Margit looked stunning and ten years younger in a simple black silk affair that brought out the pale perfection of her Scandinavian skin. She wore but one item of jewelry, a matched string of pearls whose deep pink luster was obvious from across the room.

  The three were seated about a cocktail table, sipping drinks and chatting, as Frank came in. The Graf looked up and frowned but then said, "Please give us the pleasure of your company, Franklin. Sit down." The Graf added smoothly, "We always dress for dinner, Franklin, but I assume your travel clothing is limited."

  Frank said, "I've never worn so much as a tuxedo, not to speak of tails. You don't when you're on GAS, you know."

  "Forgive me. It skipped my mind that you didn't inherit your father's fortune. Yes, Sepp?"

  The butler leaned forward slightly and spoke to his master in German.

  "Ah," the mercenary grunted. "Dinner is served. Margit?" With his secretary on his arm, followed by Peter Windsor and Frank, he passed through the double doors into the dining room.

  Compared to the refurbishing of the rest of the keep, the dining hall had hardly been touched by the genius of an interior decorator. Frank could well imagine the old days when some long-dead duke, princeling, or archbishop had held forth here. His closest henchmen would be present with their women, wassailing about a huge round table, while minstrels and clowns provided medieval entertainment, as scurrying servants brought on heaping platters of food, and huge mugs with foaming beer, mulled wine, or subtle mead.

  The table, however, was considerably smaller than that which must have prevailed in the old days. It would have seated eight at most. The setting was on the awesome side, so far as Frank was concerned. He had never eaten with more cutlery than knife, fork, and spoon, never eaten by candlelight, and most certainly had never eaten off gold.

  The Graf sat at one end of the table, Margit at the other, and Peter and Frank across from each other. It came to Frank that Peter Windsor was a changed man in evening dress, after his informal sports garb of the day. Now he looked as though he had been bom to wear formal evening attire; a matinee idol couldn't have been more at ease in it.

  Sepp presided with two footmen, also in livery, behind each chair. No more than two sips were taken from a wine glass before it was instantly refilled. It was all on the thick side so far as Frank Pinell was concerned.

  It got thicker as the meal progressed. He recognized exactly two of the dishes presented, or at least the ingredients. One was a potato dish which would have been hard to miss, and one a delightful scallop-based fish course. He made the mistake of commenting on the scallops.

  "Ah," the Graf said, pleased. "You mean the Coquilles Saint Jacques Parisienne? It is one of Albert's specialities. He will be overjoyed to know you approve."

  Peter said, after sipping at his Chablis, "Albert is one of the three best chefs in Common Europe, Frank. It's a privilege to eat from his kitchen, I should think."

  Frank said, "You mean to tell me that one of the best three cooks in Europe works here for just the three of you? I'd think he could get a job in any restaurant in the world."

  "The four of us now," his host said magnanimously. "Fortunately, Albert is in no position to tender his resignation."

  Margit said dryly, "Liechtenstein is somewhat like Tang-ier, in that there are no extradition laws; and since Albert made the mistake of killing his wife, he sees fit to remain as Lothar's chef."

  "Poisoned her, to be exact," Peter said blandly.

  Frank looked down at the morsel of scallop on his fork and closed his eyes in sorrow.

  There were eight courses in all, with eight wines, winding up with a dessert which Margit told him was Nesselrode Pudding with Sabayon Fruit, served with a slightly chilled sauterne.

  Largely, the dinner conversation consisted of the Graf expounding on his dreams and turning on what small charm he boasted in order to win the younger man over. Both Margit and Peter seemed surprised at the extent to which he revealed top secrets of the innermost circle of Mercenaries, Incorporated. It would seem that Lothar von Brandenburg was most certainly now considering Frank to be a member of that circle, in which case, it was the most rapid promotion the organization had ever seen.

  All of the servants save Sepp spoke nothing but German, and the table conversation was in English.

  The Graf had said, "You are acquainted with the World Club, Franklin," while still on the oxtail soup.

  "Just slightly," Frank said. "Isn't it an organization of economists, philanthropists, and international do-gooders seeking solutions to worldwide problems?"

  "That is the facade we present to the man in the street," the other said, satisfaction in his voice.

  "We?" Frank said.

  "Mercenaries, Incorporated is represented in the highest echelons of the World Club."

  "That surprises me. I pictured the organization as a group of old-timers with more credits than they know what to do with, supporting a lot of foundations."

  Peter Windsor gave a snort of amusement.

  The Graf said, "I expect within a short time to be nominated to the Central Committee, which consists of but ten members and has the ultimate say in all of the World Club's policies."

  "I didn't even know they had a Central Committee," Frank admitted.

  "You're not supposed to, dear boy," Peter said.

  The Graf shot him an impatient look before turning back to Frank. He said, "The real goal of the World Club, Franklin, is world government—a world that has become one under the aegis of the Club. Obviously, such a united world will no longer have wars and…"

  Frank interrupted, "But then what would happen to Mercenaries, Incorporated? It seems to me that your organization depends upon a multitude of antagonistic nations. You should be supporting nationalism, not trying to do away with it."

  The Graf smiled his gray smile. "It's a far-seeing man who is able to accommodate inevitable changes, Franklin. Sooner or later there will be world government. When it comes about, I wish to be part of its direction, not a leftover from the past. This new world government will still have police, still have armed forces…"

  Frank interrupted again. "W
hy armed forces?"

  The old mercenary nodded at the question. "To keep the peace. Contrary to popular belief, the first need a state has for an armed force is not to fight foreign enemies but the potential enemy within. As an example, take Latin America before it amalgamated with the United States. They spent billions annually building up then* armed forces though there hadn't been a major war in South America for a century and a half. Those arms were to keep their own people in subjection. So in the future, armed forces will still exist. I will be at their head."

  Frank looked at him in open skepticism.

  Margit said, "The first steps have already been taken, Frank—the formation of the United States of the Americas. The World Club is already secretly agitating in Australia and New Zealand for them to apply for admission into the United States. For a long time now, those countries have been closer to America than to England and the rest of Common Europe."

  Frank looked over at her. Candlelight did nothing to detract from the charms of Margit Krebs. She flashed sloe eyes at him, aware of their impact.

  He made a mental note of her obvious availability, then turned back to his host. "If the United States of the Americas eventually becomes a United States of the World, wouldn't the IABI become the international police force?"

  The Graf waved that aside, saying, "It's true that John Warfield Moyer, a member of the Central Committee, foresees a united world in which his IABI will be the sole police force; but his organization has been a farce since before the FBI and the CIA were joined together. An organization of clowns, headed by clowns, compared to my own. Moyer will be taken care of, in good time."

  Frank thought about it. He said slowly, "Then you're in the process of phasing out your mercenary activities in expectation of becoming legal under this new world regime."

  "That's one way of putting it," Peter said.

  Lothar von Brandenburg said, "You are beginning to have second thoughts about my organization, Frank?"

  "Perhaps. What about these assassinations, though?"

  "Such as the Mahdi? The only thing that will make sense under a world government is a state religion. The United Church, under the Prophet, backs the World Club. The fanatic who calls himself the Mahdi stands in the way of the amalgamation into one of all the world's religions. I'm afraid he must go. Others, too, of course. Always remember, Franklin, that a comparatively few key figures can change history. The example of Somerset Maugham comes to mind. In his earlier years, while working for British espionage, he was sent to Petrograd to sabotage the Bolshevik revolution. He wrote later that if he had been sent two weeks earlier he might have accomplished his task and the revolution would never have taken place. How would he have done this? He probably had in mind the assassinations of Lenin and Trotsky and perhaps of a few others of the old Bolsheviks."