Deathwish World

by Mack Reynolds

  Cary 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.”

  Cary 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.”

  Cary 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.” Cary 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… I 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 rush 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.

  Nat Fraser said, “What—o, Hercule?”

  The guard nodded at him but said nothing. The light went out, and in a moment the clicking sounds came again. The automated steel gate swung open and the little vehicle slithered through. The winding road that lay beyond must have been a full quarter of a kilometer in length.

  They pulled up before an ornate entry and a young man dressed like the gate guard, but bearing no visible weapon, issued forth.

  He approached, smiled at the Australian, and said, “Willkommen, Herr Fraser.” He looked at Frank questioningly.

  Nat said, “A new Yank recruit. I vouch for him, Karl. Is the colonel in?”

  “He is expecting you, Herr Fraser.”

  Evidently, the Australian had called ahead on his transceiver on the way up. Frank hadn’t noticed, but he had been in no shape to be noticing things.

  Nat got out of the little hovercar the same way he had entered it—over the side—pushed his bush hat back on his head, and went around to help Frank out.

  Karl assisted, seeming to find nothing strange about the appearance of the soiled and battered newcomer.

  They got Frank up the four stone steps and to the door. Nat took over completely there.

  Karl said, “Colonel Panikkar is in the study, Herr Fraser.”

  “Too right,” the Aussie said, and helped Frank down the short hall that stretched ahead.

  There was an identity screen on the heavy carved wooden door. Almost immediately, it clicked and opened. Beyond was the most impressive study Frank Pinell had ever seen. By the looks of it, it was a combination of library study and office. Bookshelves lined the walls, floor to ceiling, filled with leatherbound books of the old style. Tasteful paintings of both East and West were represented on the walls, none of them modern. But there were also steel files and on both of the two desks were the usual office equipment, including a voco-typer on the smaller one. The furniture was heavy and functional, but in excellent taste. Only the battleship gray of the carpeting detracte
d from the otherwise impressive decor. It gave a military effect.

  Behind the larger of the desks, looking up at their entry, was a man of possibly sixty. Square of face, gray of hair and heavy mustache, he was dark complexioned. He wore traditional Indian clothing, including a black, frock-length coat and jodhpurs. He had a dignified military posture.

  Nat said, “This is the young Yank I called you about, Colonel. Strike me blind but he’s got the luck of the Irish. Been in this buggering town no more than hours but a couple of the flashing ragheads set on him and leave him on the street with a broken block.”

  Then he became more formal. “Colonel Ram Panikkar, Frank Pinell.”

  The colonel came around his desk to shake hands, western style. His face was indignant as he took in Frank’s dirt-fouled clothing and bruises.

  He said to Nat, “Make your man comfortable, Nat. I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

  The Australian got his still-shaky companion into a chair. The colonel said into a TV screen, “Doctor, could you bring your bag and join us at once in my study?” He then flicked a switch and commanded, “Get me Foud, immediately.”

  He looked up at Nat. “Where did this take place?”

  “On the Rue D’Angleterre, just up from the bloody Grand Socco.”

  The Indian looked at Frank. “Just what did the hooligans get away with?”

  Frank took a deep breath and said, “Most important, about two hundred pseudodollars worth of Swiss gold francs and dirhams. Also my Moroccan police papers which I got at the airport, my pocket transceiver, and the usual odds and ends.” A face had appeared on the phone screen—a dark, evil face crowned by an orange turban. Its owner would have had no difficulty whatsoever landing a part as a stereotype fanatic assassin on Stateside Tri-Di.

  The colonel said, his voice dangerously crisp, “As-salaam alaykum, Foud.”

  The other answered, his own voice careful, “Alaykum as-salaam, Ram Panikkar.”

  The Indian spoke rapidly in what Frank assumed was Arabic. Perhaps the colonel was Pakistani, rather than Indian.

  In short order, Ram Panikkar turned back to Frank and his Australian rescuer.

  “Your possessions will be at your hotel in the morning, Mr. Pinell.” And then to Nat, “It was Mustapha and Jabir. The dogs become bolder each month that passes.” He added with satisfaction, “I let Foud know that your friend was under the protection of the Graf.”

  A roly-poly little man entered from a side door, the traditional black bag of the physician in his right hand. He was a fussbudget, pink of rounded face and wearing old-fashioned pince-nez glasses on a bulbous little nose.

  The colonel made introductions. “Dr. Fuchs, Mr. Pinell. Mr. Pinell has been the victim of street desperadoes. We thought it best that he be checked. Do you wish to take him to the clinic?”

  The doctor bobbed his head and said in accented English, “Ve vill zee.”

  The examination was comparatively brief. The doctor hummed importantly as he worked. He wound up very pleased with both himself and his patient. All was well. He gave Frank four pills with instructions for taking them, assured all that Frank was in good repair, then shook hands all around, said goodnight, and left.

  While this had been going on, the colonel had gone to a bar along one wall and, when the doctor had gone, returned with three tall glasses containing the most excellent Scotch Frank had ever tasted.

  As he handed the glasses around, the colonel said, “I prescribe this as even more effective, under the circumstances, than the good doctor’s pills. Cheers, gentlemen.”

  “Fuck Ireland,” Nat murmured.

  But in spite of his light words, the Indian was frowning.

  He took a small sip of his neat whiskey and said to Frank, “Two hundred pseudodollars? I understood from what our good Nat said that you had but landed this afternoon. Surely you have not already gone through eight hundred pseudodollars. Doesn’t your, ah, former government issue each deportee a full thousand?”

  Frank said bitterly, “My IABI escorts decided that such a sum would be wasted on me. They handed over two hundred. It seems that on their way back to the States they intended to lay over in Madrid and blow the rest of it at, uh, I think a bar named Chicote’s where the whores congregate.”

  Nat blurted indignantly, “And wot’d you do, mate?”

  Frank looked over at him in disgust. “What could I do? They were armed and I was completely out of my element and in a strange country.”

  “I see,” the colonel said ominously. “And what other adventures did you have today?”

  Frank told him about the cab driver and his stolen luggage. The colonel’s dark complexion became even blacker with fury. He said ominously again, “And what else?”

  Frank shrugged it off. “The customs officer took a rather valuable camera that had been left me by my father.”

  “I’m not sure that even I can do anything about that,” the colonel muttered.

  He turned back to his elaborate TV phone, dialed, and said, after a moment, “Rafa? Ram Panikkar, in Tangier. Tonight there should be two IABI agents in Chicote’s. They’ve shaken down one of the boys for eight hundred pseudodollars.” He looked up from the screen and over at Frank. “What were their names?”

  Frank said, “MacDonald and Roskin. I don’t know their first names. Look here…”

  But the colonel was back at his screen, where he repeated the names. He said, “I want the eight hundred back here by morning. I also want them taught a small lesson. Not to be overdone, you understand, but I want them left in no condition to travel tomorrow. You understand.”

  He listened for a moment, then said, “Yes, two IABI men, probably armed, but this has been going too far. I do not wish Tangier to get the reputation of being wide open for extortion. If you wish to check this out with Peter Windsor at the Wolfschloss, go right ahead. I am sure he will agree with me.”

  He flicked off the screen, thought a moment, then dialed again. A face must have appeared, since he said, “Samir? I am speaking in my capacity as Tangier representative of the Graf. One of your drivers this afternoon stole two suitcases from a passenger from the airport. I make this perfectly clear, Samir. I want those two bags here, with all contents, before the night is out. No, I do not know the name of the driver. That is all, Samir.”

  He flicked off the screen again and turned back to Frank and Nat, grim satisfaction on his face.

  Frank stammered, “I… I don’t know how to thank you, Colonel Panikkar.”

  The Indian waved a hand in dismissal. “You simply presented us with an opportunity, Frank. Tangier is possibly the most extensive center of the Graf’s operations. We have no intention of putting up with small-time local hoodlums bothering our people, disrupting our activities.”

  Frank said unhappily, “But that’s the point, Colonel. I’m not one of your people. I told Nat I didn’t think that I could come in with you.”

  The other looked from Frank to Nat and then back again. “Ah, I didn’t know that. However, it is your own choice, of course. We have no intention of coercing you. Nat, would you see to refills for our glasses?”

  “Too right,” Nat said, heading for the bar.

  The colonel said wryly, “And Nat, dear boy, where in the world do you get those hats?”

  The Aussie grinned back at him over his shoulder and touched the bush hat, which it seemed he never removed, even indoors. “Me titfer?” he said. “Had it shipped from Sydney. A bloke’s got to keep up appearances, that’s wot I say.” He returned to the others with an imperial quart of whiskey and poured for all.

  The colonel snorted but turned back to Frank. “I am rather surprised. It would seem, under the circumstances, that you would welcome employment.”

  Frank said unhappily, “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your kindness, Colonel. But I heard Nat out and I don’t believe I’d make a good mercenary.”

  The colonel shrugged and sipped lightly at his new drink. He said, “The Graf’s
activities are not limited to mercenary matters, Frank. Let me give you some background. In the very old days, such as when Xenophon led his 10,000 Greek mercenaries to fight for Cyrus of Persia, such matters were handled on a large and efficient scale. But of recent centuries wars have largely been conducted by national governments with citizen armies, along with such related matters as weapons procurement and so forth. Mercenary activities have been hit and miss. Professional soldiers of fortune would apply singly or in small groups for employment. Seldom were more than a few hundred involved. Often, those that were found themselves, ah, holding the bag when the war was over and their side had lost. They could only whistle for their hard-earned pay. We are changing that. For one thing, modern weapons are not easily mastered by uneducated peasants. A Congo bushman does not fly a rocket fighter plane.”

  Frank nodded at that.

  “So today, in the occasional wars that develop, it is necessary for large numbers of professionals to be at hand in the underdeveloped countries. Would it surprise you to know that the Graf can handle a complete action without going outside his own organization? He can field a full disciplined division within a month, and arm them completely, including air cover. From espionage preceding the actual conflict, to getting money out for the officials of collapsing governments, washing it, depositing it in Nassau or Swiss banks, and then spiriting absconding officials to safety to enjoy their, ah, loot. Or, another service might be the—removal?—of other politicians. All of this is on contract, so arranged that the Grafs organization is always guaranteed its pay, bonuses, and insurance in case of death or disability. The Graf takes care of his own.” He grimaced in amusement and looked about the luxurious study. “As you see, I do not live in poverty.”

  Frank was frowning. “It’s hard to believe that this Graf can field a completely armed division. He has ten or twenty thousand men on his payroll?”

  Nat chuckled and poured still more of the priceless Scotch.

  The Indian smiled and shook his head. “No, of course not. He supports a permanent staff spotted about the world, such as my operation here in Tangier. Senior executives such as myself, office workers, and so on. He also has on retainer, between actual contracts, a cadre of officers who can spring to duty within hours; all experienced veterans. He then has, on call, thousands of available infantrymen, pilots, tank men, logistics specialists, and so on, ready to enlist at any time for any duration. They are not on the permanent crew. They usually exist on GAS, or its equivalent in the advanced countries, between employments.”