Deathwish World

by Mack Reynolds

  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 comers 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 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 Graf’s 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 park-like 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 big-shot 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 the 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.

  Margit said briskly, “This is Frank, Peter. I’ll check with Lothar.” She turned and left.

  “Sit down, dear boy,” Windsor said. And then, as Frank was doing so, “Yes, I can see the resemblance. You could only be the son of Buck Pinell.”

  Frank said, “You knew my father?”

  “Not too well, really. Saw him off and on for a few months, I’d imagine. I don’t think that he really fancied me, if the truth be known.”

  “I didn’t know him much myself. I was too young and he was away most of the time. What was he like?”

  The other thought about it, sending his lime-green eyes ceilingward. He murmured finally, slowly, “A sort of dashing chap. He liked combat, I shouldn’t wonder. Some men do, you know. They live for the excitement. He liked nothing so much as to find what he considered a just cause and then fight for it. He didn’t mind making a profit at the same time, but for him, the enjoyment was in the combat. For myself, and for the Graf, I think, it has always been purely business. Buck fought for causes, we for money. He wasn’t really cut out to be a soldier of fortune, you know.”

  “How do you mean? From what I’ve come to understand, he was a mercenary.”

  The Englishman nodded. “He was a soldier but I fancy that the fortune part of it wasn’t of uppermost interest.” Frank didn’t know if he quite understood that or not.

  The other put down the report he’d been perusing, took up another, and rapidly scanned it. He said, “And how did the Boris Rivas affair come off last night?”

  “Exactly as you had it set up. Everybody close to the colonel had been bought—even the concierge at his hotel and his long-time bodyguard. Poor bastard never had a chance.”

  Peter Windsor said coldly, “Never give an opponent a chance if you can avoid it, Pinell. Take every opening you can, every advantage. In that manner you’ll live longer. Rivas had his chance. He was a bloody fool for not coming in with us. There was no use mucking around with him when he refused.”

  Frank said, “I suppose that Senegelese sergeant of his will get a good position with Mercenaries, Incorporated now.”

  Peter Windsor shook his head at him. “No. He’ll be paid the amount promised and sent on his way. If he’d betray Rivas, how can we be sure that he wouldn’t betray us, given the opportunity? The Graf never welches on his commitments but, on the other hand, he demands loyalty.”

  Frank said, very evenly, “How did the ethical code apply to me? I was to be sent on an impossible mission. It’s unlikely that I could have escaped.”

  The Englishman shook his head again. “At the time, dear boy, you weren’t actually a member of the organization in the same sense that our exuberant Nat Fraser or Colonel Ram Panikkar are. However, you were offered a sizeable sum, a hundred thousand pseudodollars deposited to your account in the Bahamas, before you were to leave for Central Africa. Upon the success of your mission you were to make your escape and enjoy the amount in whatever manner you saw fit. Very well, where was the betrayal? If you accomplished your assignment, your pay was awaiting you.”

  Frank said softly, “The colonel told me there was to be a chopper available for me to escape in—not that I was to be on my own.”

  Peter Windsor raised eyebrows and said, “He did? He wasn’t authorized to make such a pledge. I’ve always thought Panikkar a bit of a swine. I’ll have to take this up with him. It wouldn’t do for the chief’s reputation to have such items bandied about.”

  There was a faint humming at one of the desk screens and Peter swung his feet down to the floor. “That’s the Graf now. Come along, Frank.”

  Frank stood, and as he did so, his eyes came upon the racked submachine gun. “A keepsake from the old days?” he said.

  The Englishman said dryly, “I haven’t used it for some years, but it’s still kept loaded.”

  He led the way, strolling casually out a rear door and down a short, empty hallway to an elaborate double door. The screen on it picked him up and half the door opened. They entered.

  The Graf’s informal office was impressive. So was the Graf. He stood at the ceiling-to-floor window which framed the Rhine and its valley, his hands in the coat pockets of his immaculate business suit. He was staring out, his face characteristically expressionless. On their entry, the short-statured Graf turned, and, for a long moment, stared at Frank. Frank, feeling uncomfortable, came to a halt and simply remained on the spot.

  The spry old soldier approached and looked him in the face with open candor. The American was taken aback by the smoky gray-flecked irises of the other’s eyes and more so when Lothar von Brandenburg put his womanishly small hands on his shoulders.

  The Graf sighed and said, “Yes, you could only be Buck’s son. You’re Buck as I first knew him, many years ago when we were both, ah, callow youngsters.” He turned to one of the oversized couches and lowered himself, saying, “Sit down, Franklin.”

  Peter Windsor cleared his throat and slumped into one of the chairs, crossing long legs nonchalantly. He said, “He does look like Bu
ck, at that. I told him so.”

  Frank found a place and joined them, still without the vaguest idea what he was doing here.

  The Graf said, “We were somewhat surprised when your arrival in Tangier was reported.”

  There was no point in pussyfooting around. Frank had already decided there was no retreat. He said, “I couldn’t have been much of a surprise. It was already set up. I suspect that the two IABI men were in on it, possibly even Judge Worthington back in the States. Certainly the cab driver and the two muggers in the medina in Tangier. First came Nat Fraser, as implausible a knight in armor as ever came down the pike. He took me to your Colonel Panikkar, who lavished good will on me, supposedly putting me deeply into his debt. He gave me strong arguments for taking an assignment for you. I might look young and ah, callow, as you put it, but I’m not as much a fool as all that. It was a suicide project. Actually, I wouldn’t have taken it, but Panikkar didn’t know that. I played along, just to see what the hell was going on. But it was called off from your end, before I ever turned it down. What’s got me wondering is why.”

  The Graf remained silent through all that. Now he nodded.

  Peter Windsor said, “Because we discovered that you were the son of Buck Pinell, dear boy.”

  Frank hadn’t taken his eyes from the Graf. He said, “Boris Rivas claimed you might have been the cause of the death of my father.”

  The old man nodded again. “Then, for once, Rivas spoke the truth. I was the cause of your father’s death, Franklin.”

  Frank stared at him.

  The Graf said, “It was my fault, but I did not kill him, Franklin. Your father died in my arms, after saving my life. He sacrificed himself to rescue me. He was my best friend, and I, his. I have not had many friends in this life, Franklin. His last words were to put your life in my care.”

  The young American took long moments to assimilate that. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “You didn’t seem to do much in the way of carrying out his request.”

  The Graf said, “It was taken out of my hands. Your mother was fanatically against me and all I stood for. She had been violently against your father’s, ah, profession. When my representative approached her, she absolutely refused to allow me to participate in your raising. She refused to accept any of your father’s extensive earnings, as she had always refused while he was still alive. The relationship between your father and mother was not a close one, Franklin. She was contemptuous of him. She only continued to allow him to visit occasionally because he was your father and you loved him. Your mother was a good and compassionate woman with whom Buck Pinell was deeply in love. She refused to marry him, though he wished it. Their affair ended when she discovered your father’s way of life.”