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 narrowing. 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 Liechtenstein 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 Flavelle 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 reso
rt 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.
Rick said, “How’s your ammo?”
“Down to the last clip. I’m too fucked up with this dead arm to throw the clip and count them.”
“You better click the stud over to single fire,” Rick said.
The other made a face in pain and growled, “You think I’m a dizzard? I long since did that.”
Rick brought his gun up and carefully brought the barrel to the gunport. He squinted and gently, gently, squeezed the trigger.
“What the hell you shooting at?” Alfredo growled. “Did you get him?”
“I don’t know. Just keeping them honest. I thought I saw something move. You think the bastards might be gone?”
The other laughed bitterly. “You think the fucking sun will rise in the west tomorrow? Why should they be gone? We’ve had it. Whatever they want, it’s sitting in their laps now. I haven’t heard any fire from the other boys for ten minutes. They’ve had it.”
“What they want is Dunninger,” Rick said emptily. “He was the only one here when they came in. All the family just left for Mexico. Have you called him?”
“Hell, no. He’s down there in the bomb shelter, probably shitting his pants. Damn this arm. You know, maybe Cliff had some shells left.”
Rick looked over at the body lying still where it had fallen. “He had an assault rifle,” he said. “The ammo wouldn’t fit either of our gyros.”
Alfredo snarled, “Use your goddamned head. Get his rifle, and when you’ve used up your rocket shells, use his gun. I’d get it myself but you can move easier.”
Rick nodded, leaned his automatic against the metal wall, and painfully made his way over to the fallen body. There was little chance of enemy fire penetrating the two small gunports but he moved in a crouch, instinctively. The wound in his side wasn’t helping any. He could have taken a syrette to localize it but he wasn’t sure of the effect. He couldn’t afford to have his whole right side paralyzed.
The inert Cliff had no spare clips. That stupid bastard Dunninger had insisted that their uniforms be neat and presentable. He didn’t want them distracting the family and visitors with bandoliers of ammunition and grenades dangling from their belts. So, aside from the clips they’d had in their weapons, the bodyguards had at most two spares. They had largely used them up in the first moments of the assault on the Dunninger home. And from then on, they’d had insufficient firepower to keep the attackers at bay. It had been a balls-up from the start. Nobody had time to make his way to the little armory for more ammo.
Rick worked his way back to his gunport, trailing the assault rifle behind him. His side was feeling worse by the minute.
He peered through the small port again. He said, trying to keep down their mutual fear and apprehension by talk, “What the hell happened, anyway? Who are they?”
“The Holy Mother only knows. If that stupid bastard Luca Cellini hadn’t pulled the other four guys off, we would’ve had a chance. But eight of us weren’t enough, especially with one shift sacked out when the sons of bitches hit.”
Rick said, “Cellini was rotating them. Another four guards were supposed to show up for replacements.”
“Yeah?” the other sneered. “Bullshit. It’s too much of a coincidence. Old man Dunninger’s family leaves him alone here, four of his bodyguards are relieved, and next thing we know, we’re all in the dill. There must be twenty of the bastards out there. They knocked off the dogs and three of the boys before we got wise. We’re lucky we made it to this overgrown tin can with me covering for that fat cat Dunninger. Listen, there’s not enough money in the country to pay for holding down a job like this.”
Rick said wanly, “You should have thought of that during the two years we’ve been on this cushy assignment.”
“Yeah, great, but I wish Luca Cellini was here with us right now. Or, better still, the Graf himself. You know what we oughta do, Rick? Call out and tell ’em we’re willing to surrender if they won’t kill us. Hell, they don’t want us, they want old man Dunninger.”
His companion, his side cramping up now, looked over sarcastically. “Sure, Al. And then spend the rest of our lives on the run from the Graf. He doesn’t like his boys to surrender. And what happens if we do? Not only are we on the run but that’s the end of any compensation, any pension, any further credits from him at all. We’d be back on GAS and, so far as I’m concerned, I’ve got two kids I want to get through a good school, two kids I want to leave a few shares of U.S. Variable Basic Stock so they won’t wind up living on nothing but GAS the rest of their lives.”
“Oh, great,” the other sneered. “Two kids, eh? A regular one-man population explosion. Well, I’m not that far around the bend, Rick. I don’t have any kids. I’m on my own. Those guys out there’ll let us go. They want the big shot hiding down in the bomb shelter, not us. Screw the Graf. We’ll worry about him when the time comes. We’ve both copped one, haven’t we? What does he expect?”
Rick shrugged it off and peered through his gunport. He thought he could hear something going on in the house. What a sonofabitch of a pickled situation. If the attackers were smart enough to just wait it out another hour, he and Alfredo would have stiffened up to the point that they couldn’t resist anyway.
There came a heavy explosion up against the door that threw him to the steel floor of the small pillbox. He landed, agonizingly, on his wounded side. He lay there, breathing deeply, not sure he could move. A thin piercing tone began a steady whistle in his ear.
He called out finally, “You all right, Al? They’ve got some kind of heavy weapon out there. That was an explosive shell, not just a bomb.”
“Shit! Whad’da’ya mean, am I all right? I keep telling you, we’ve had it! Yell to them. Toss in the towel.”
Another ear-blasting explosion whumped against the steel door. It sagged inward.
“Oh, Jesus,” Rick panted. “Why can’t those four new guards show up? Take ’em from the rear.” He struggled to work his Gyrojet automatic around.
“You stupid dreamer, you,” Alfredo got out. “They’re not coming. We’ve been set up. Left holding the fucking sack.”
The next explosion blew the heavy door off its hinges, sent it crashing to the floor, barely missing the fallen Rick Flavelle.
“Here they come,” Alfredo snarled.
Two prole-garbed fighters popped through the blasted entryway and jumped immediately to each side, crouching. They carried automatic shotguns, on the ready.
Alfredo swore, brought up his gun with his one arm, pulled the trigger, widened his eyes at the weapon’s failure to fire, pulled desperately again. A shotgun blast tore his stomach away.
Rick threw his weapon aside, screaming, “I’m out of it. Don’t shoot! Give me a break!”
The first of the two approached him gingerly, covered by the second. Grimed by dirt, eyes wide with excitement and exertion, he was a good-looking young fellow in his late teens, looking more like a student than a gunman. He kicked Rick’s weapon even farther to one side and shot a quick look at the bodies of Alfredo and Cliff.
He stared down at Rick and said, “Why didn’t you dizzards give up? We weren’t after you. We want that plutocrat, Dunninger. You’re just a couple of working men, doing the best you can to make some kind of decent living.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rick panted. “That’s it. Don’t shoot.”
The young gunman looked around at his companion. “Call for the medic, and Ostrander.”
The second one nodded and went back to the door and shouted, “It’s secure. There’s only one left and he’s wounded. Where’s the doc?”
A newcomer entered the breached pillbox and looked about, making a face at the carnage. He was middle-aged, and toted an old-fashioned assault rifle under one ar
m.
He looked down at Rick and said, “Where’s Dunninger? Don’t make us force you to tell.”
Rick was losing most of his sudden panic but was still breathing deeply. He got out, “Down in the bomb shelter. Over there; the trap door.”
“He armed?”
A doctor entered, carrying a medical bag. He was older, gray of hair, and obviously tired. Rick, undoubtedly, wasn’t the only combat victim he had treated in the past hour of action. He shot his eyes around, dismissed the obviously dead pair, and came over to Rick.
Rick said, “Yeah, he’s armed,” to the one in command.
“That trap door locked from inside?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been down there.”
The doctor said, “Shut up. Let me look at you,” and knelt down next to the fallen bodyguard.
But the commander said, “Is there any way of communicating with him from up here?”
“That phone over there, hung on the wall.”
“Shut up,” the doctor repeated, fishing in his bag.
The commander went over to the phone, examined it briefly, put it to his mouth and ear, and activated a stud on its side.
He said, “Dunninger? You might as well come on out of there, or we’ll have to blow you out and that might wind up plastering you around the walls… No, we won’t kill you. Not yet. Not if your family ponies up the ransom… Don’t be a dizzard, Dunninger. Of course we can get you out of there. We’re here in the pillbox, aren’t we? Stop trying to stall, nobody’s coming to your assistance. This house is too far away from any other for the ruckus to have been heard, and we have a scrambler blanketing all communications. So come on out of there before we scrape you out.”
He listened for a moment longer and then hung the phone back on the wall. He looked at the steel trap door to the bomb shelter below.
Two more civilian-clad, armed men had crowded into the small compartment. They looked down at the doctor working on Rick Flavelle, who had passed out.
The doctor said, “Here, you two men carry this fellow out to the chopper.”
Deathwish World Page 16
