Deathwish World

by Mack Reynolds

  “No accident,” Hamp said. “And the Central Committee isn’t going to stand for one of its members being coldly murdered for opposing you. Your name will be mud in the World Club, Brandenburg.”

  The old man hadn’t taken his eyes from his top aide. “Why wasn’t I informed about this?” he demanded.

  “I told you, Chief. I was going to bring it up this morning, don’t you know? A bit of bad luck, wasn’t it?” Windsor’s eyes went from his employer to Hamp and then quickly back again. “You’re not taking this bloody fool’s word against mine, are you? He’s obviously up to something, but the silly ass has put himself into our hands. We’ll show him what the drill is around here. A bit of scopolamine and we’ll find out what he’s all about.”

  “You must think me a dolt, Peter,” the Graf said coldly. All his languid pretenses were gone. Peter Windsor shot to his feet, his face in a fury. He turned red and stalked from the room.

  The Graf said to Margit, who had been sitting quietly through all of this, “Our Peter seems a bit impetuous these days, Fraulein.”

  “I’d noticed it,” she said without inflection.

  The Graf turned back to Hamp. “You mentioned a deal. I confess I haven’t the vaguest idea of what you might have in mind.”

  Hamp said, “Frank, here, was left a sizeable estate by his father. It’s in the hands of a Berne bank, almost forty-five million pseudodollars in the form of immediately convertible securities. First, you will cooperate in securing the inheritance for him.”

  The Graf gave one of his humorless chuckles. “I have never heard of such a thing.” He turned to Margit. “Have you, Fraulein?”

  But Margit failed to take the cue. “Yes,” she said deliberately. Her eyes seemed to glaze slightly. “Its provisions are that the fortune be turned over to Franklin Pinell when he reaches the age of thirty. Until that time, he would be able to acquire it only with your permission. Both of you would have to appear in Berne to testify. If he should die before reaching thirty, the fortune goes to various American charities. If you should die before he reaches thirty, then the fortune reverts to him, as soon as he has reached twenty-one—which, of course, he already has done.”

  For once, the Graf lost his aplomb. He glared at her, started to speak, and then stopped himself. He turned back to Hamp and said firmly, “That doesn’t sound like a deal to me, Herr Hampton.”

  Hamp said, “That’s just the beginning. Is there a drink around here?”

  Frank groaned low protest but continued to hold his peace. He was almost completely at sea.

  Somehow, the Graf must have signaled, since Sepp materialized at a door leading to the back. He bowed and said, “Bitte, Herr Graf ?”

  The mercenary head looked at Hamp, who said, “Cognac, preferably.”

  Frank sucked breath in and groaned again.

  The Graf said, “A bottle of the Grand Champagne cognac, the V.V.S.O.P., Sepp, and a glass.”

  “Bitte.” The servant bowed and turned, his limp barely perceptible.

  “He won’t need the goddamn glass,” Frank muttered. While Sepp was gone, Margit looked at Hamp strangely.

  She said, “For some reason, I get the impression that your complexion is lighter than I had at first thought.”

  Hamp said, offhandedly, “Few American blacks are full-blooded. We have been interbreeding for centuries. One of my grandmothers was a Scot. Before that, I have no idea how many of my ancestors were at least partly white.”

  “But—your skin,” she said, frowning.

  “That will be all, Fraulein,” the Graf growled.

  Sepp entered with an ancient squat bottle and a glass centered on a gold tray. He set the tray on the end table next to the couch on which Hamp sat. The cork had already been removed. Hamp poured with satisfaction. Sepp bowed and withdrew.

  Hamp sampled the aged cognac with his nose and sighed. “Damn good brandy,” he said, sipping.

  Frank rolled his eyes upward in appeal to greater powers. Lothar von Brandenburg said coldly, “And now, sir, we come to the balance of your deal.”

  It was then that Peter Windsor re-entered the room. He carried his submachine gun. With all eyes upon him, he took a chair, one that dominated the room.

  “That would hardly seem necessary, Peter,” the Graf said.

  “I jolly well hope not, Chief, but I don’t like these two.”

  The Graf shrugged it off and looked back at Hamp. “Well, sir?”

  Hamp said, “When Frank receives his inheritance, I will turn over to you fifty million pseudodollars. With it, you can settle down in Switzerland, or wherever else you choose, and announce the, ah, bankruptcy of Mercenaries, Incorporated and your retirement. I would suggest that you take along a dozen or so of your best men, although in Switzerland you should be quite safe. For centuries, avidly sought politicians and others have retired there in high-security villas and lived their lives out in safety.”

  “Fifty million pseudodollars!”

  “Take it or leave it,” Hamp said, pouring more brandy.

  The mercenary head scoffed. “I have never even heard of a black, anywhere in the world, who commanded that amount of credit.”

  Peter looked at Hamp and said, “You look paler,” as though unbelieving. “And I still think you look like somebody I’ve met before. And your voice, too…” He let the sentence dribble away.

  The Graf said, “Please, Peter, do be quiet. Well, sir?” This last to Hamp.

  Hamp reached into his pocket, brought forth a folder, and tossed it to Margit’s lap. “A numbered account in the Grundsbank, in Geneva. Check the balance.”

  Margit, her face unrevealing as usual while on duty, went to a set of drawers against the wall and opened one of the top ones. Her back was to them. There seemed to be no question but that the Graf was in a position to check the balance of even a numbered account.

  After a few minutes of pregnant silence, she turned and said, “The account is considerably higher than the amount mentioned.”

  The Graf, much of his commanding presence erased, said, breathing deeply, “What else? Confound it, I know there is something else!”

  “Oh, yes,” Hamp told him, putting down his glass. He bent forward and removed his contact lenses. His eyes, which he directed at Peter Windsor, were a dark blue. “Surprise, surprise,” he said. “Show me a bathroom and I’ll get the black out of this hair. It looks even prettier, reddish.”

  The Englishman goggled. “Jeremiah Auburn!” he croaked. They were all staring now. His complexion was that of a tanned southern European. He fished up into his nose with the nails of his little fingers and brought forth two oval spreaders of metal, his nose losing its broadness.

  “But… the news broadcasts and the reports from my operatives…” Windsor got out.

  The Graf roared, “What in the name of God is going on!” Jerry looked at him with all the emptiness of death in his eyes. He took up the brandy bottle as though to pour again, but before he did he said, “The man who was murdered on the Riviera last night was my brother, James Auburn. You asked me what else; this is what else. I want the man who ordered the death of my twin.”

  Peter Windsor was on his feet. He sneered, “Are you out of your bloody mind?” He flicked the safety stud on the gun and held it at the ready, but now he turned to his employer of many years. “You would have taken him up, wouldn’t you? You would have sold us all out for his fifty million! Well, thank you very much, but I’m taking over. You’ll be washed up with the World Club, but that won’t reflect on me. There’s still Chase and Moyer who’ll back me. And Sheila Duff-Roberts, who has more say about what goes on in the Central Committee than anyone else. It was she who got together with Harrington Chase and suggested the elimination of that McGivern girl and then Auburn, here. She’s with me. If I finished you off now, Lothar, I can blame it on Auburn and Pinell and the organization won’t question it.”

  His eyes left the red face of the enraged Graf and went to Margit, who had been sitting
through it all, her face noncommittal. “Where do you stand, Fraulein? With me, or with this has-been sod? I can use you in taking over.”

  Margit cleared her throat softly. “Very dramatic, Peter, and ordinarily I’d have to think about it, perhaps. But as things stand that gun is inoperative.”

  He chopped out a vicious laugh. “An old trick, Margit old thing, but it won’t work. It’s loaded, all right. I check that out every day or two. I checked again just before I came back in here. You’ve taken your stand, you bloody fool.”

  Margit said mildly, “I didn’t say it wasn’t loaded. I said it wasn’t operative. I didn’t like to see the thing around, so I had Sepp take out the firing pin, some time ago.”

  Peter Windsor swore and pulled the trigger. And then stared down in dismay at the unresponding weapon.

  The Graf was on his feet, spry for his age. He turned and dashed for a small cabinet set up against the huge window which dominated the whole side of the room. He grabbed for the top drawer.

  But Peter, tennis-trim, bounded after him and, even as he went, reversed the gun. The Graf spun, a small Gyro-jet pistol in hand. Too late. Windsor crashed the gun butt into his solar plexus, sending him reeling backward and into the window and, screaming shrilly, through it in a shower of shards. His thin screams, unbecoming to one of the Graf’s image, continued as he plunged downward.

  Sepp came into the room quietly, an antique 9mm Luger in his right hand. He took in the scene, his Germanic face politely questioning, still playing the obsequious butler.

  Peter snapped, “Sepp, cover these two!” He waved his disabled submachine gun at Frank and Jerry.

  Sepp turned to Margit Krebs and his eyebrows went up. “Fraulein?” he said.

  “Shoot him,” she said flatly. “He just killed the Graf. He’ll do the same to us, given the chance.”

  Peter Windsor yelled, “No!” even as Sepp brought up the automatic and shot him exactly once in the middle of the chest.

  Frank, walking like a robot, went over to the window through which Lothar von Brandenburg had plunged. For the briefest of moments he looked out over the superb view of mountain peaks and river. Then his eyes went down.

  He shook his head in nausea, pulled in air deeply, and said, “He’s splattered all over the side of the swimming pool. Five feet farther out and he would have landed in the water.”

  Jerry Auburn still bore the brandy bottle in his right hand.

  Margit Krebs, efficient as always, went to a wall and pushed back a curtain. Behind it was a microphone. She reached up and touched a switch.

  She said, very crisply, “Now hear this. Now hear this. Margit Krebs speaking. The Graf is dead. Those of you near the swimming pool can see his body. Peter Windsor is also dead. They killed each other. Now hear this. Now hear this. The Graf, for reasons of his own, has had the Wolfschloss mined. Within the hour, the schloss will go up. He has thrown the switch. Time is short, but with discipline and complete following of my instructions, we can all be saved. The cable car is totally inadequate for evacuation in such short order. It will be utilized only by the guards and crew who have been in control of it. All others will descend into the bomb shelters and then through the tunnels to the countryside. Women and the more elderly will use the elevators to the bomb shelters. All in good physical trim will use the stairs. The hospital will be evacuated; all patients and medical staff will use the freight chopper to escape. The small jet will be reserved for the senior staff. That is all. Remember, cooperation and discipline will enable us to evacuate completely. Any deviation from my instructions will mean disaster. We will rendezvous in Vaduz for final severance pay and distribution of other funds coming to you. Carry on!” She turned back to the others.

  Jerry looked at her thoughtfully. “Are there such bombs?”

  “No. But I had to clear them out of here before they got the idea of looting.”

  “Will they believe you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ve been in this job for ten years and I have never lied to any member. I’ve built up an impeccable record of confidence. Now I’m calling on it. They’ll be shocked when I don’t turn up at that rendezvous in Vaduz.” She looked at Sepp. “You’d better start packing our, ah, luggage; we’re heading for Tangier. No extradition there and Interpol will be after us by tomorrow. We should be able to take eight large bags. We four can carry two apiece down to the jet. We’re not in too much of a hurry. We want everyone else cleared out of the schloss before we cross the enceinte carrying those bags. You might start with that gold tray with the brandy, Sepp. For God’s sake, don’t forget any of the paintings small enough to go into the bags; forget the others, no matter how valuable. I’ll go to the Graf’s private rooms and to the wall safe. I know the combination.”

  The impassive Sepp stuck his gun back into his clothing and, taking up the gold tray, left the room.

  Jerry said to her, “How do you know that any of us can fly a jet?”

  She was unperturbed. “Frank, here, told us that he had studied to be a pilot.”

  Jerry was looking at her in puzzlement. He said, “Why did you make the choices you did?”

  She shrugged. “It was all falling apart. You were right, the Graf was all but bankrupt. I found out very early in my relationship with Lothar that in this organization one looks out for oneself. Very well, I have looked out for myself. Had your offer gone through, I might have gone along. The Graf would probably have taken me into retirement with him. As it turned out, when Peter went berserk, I had to play it by ear.” She turned and left.

  Frank glared at Jerry Auburn. “You damn fool, suppose that gun hadn’t been jimmied? We’d all be dead.”

  The other grinned at him, a glint in his blue eyes. “Sometimes you have to take chances. When I saw that gun on his wall, I decided that it was useless. Sooner or later, here in the sanctum sanctorum of the Graf, somebody would have done something to it. Besides, in narrow quarters like this, you can often take a man with a gun before he can finish you off. Why did you think I asked for this bottle of guzzle?” He grinned again. “I’m a crack shot throwing a bottle.”

  Frank Pinell took a deep breath. “All right,” he said. “How did you pull off that skin-color change?”

  The other shrugged. “For a long time we’ve had chemicals that can change complexion, either lighter or darker. I’ve known blacks who passed that way, and I once knew a white news reporter who circulated among blacks getting inside information hard for a white man to acquire. He turned himself darker. No big thing.”

  Frank said, “All right,” again. Then, “Windsor got what was coming to him. So did the Graf. I get my inheritance. Margit and Sepp get to loot this place, which should enable them to retire, I suppose. What is there for you, Jerry?”

  The other shrugged it off. “For me, there’s always the brandy bottle,” he said, reaching down for it.

  Aftermath

  When Jerry Auburn stopped off at Lee Garrett’s suite in the Palazzo Colonna, she was gathering her things preparatory to a Central Committee meeting.

  She flashed him a smile and said, “Hello, darling. So you’re back. Sheila was afraid you wouldn’t make it. Where have you been?”

  He smiled back at her, which would have been difficult not to do. Lee Garrett, as always, was radiant. He said, “I was just checking out a few things. A few things like the American National Data Banks. Honey, you still make a lousy agent provocateur, spy, or whatever.”

  She stiffened and then stared at him, at first uncomprehendingly, then slowly it dawned. “Why… why, you’re that… what was his name? Hamp. Hamp, something or other, of the Anti-Racist League. But he was a black and you’re white!” She was completely confused.

  He grinned at her. “Actually, I’m kind of gray,” he said. “Over the generations, I’ve become so racially mixed I don’t know what I am, except that I’m rabidly anti-racist. But to get back to the National Data Banks. It seems that you had a boyfriend. A pretty close boyfriend, which make
s me a little jealous of course, since I’ve been planning on a permanent relationship with you, Lee. And it seems that he had a ranking job in the data banks.”

  “Why, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Like hell you don’t, girl of my dreams. The fact is that you’ve got a nicely high I.Q. and Ability Quotient but not quite that high.”

  She stared at him, dismayed.

  He said, “Your boyfriend jollied around with the equipment so that you were a cinch to be sent here to Rome for a job with the World Club. I doubt if even you expected it to be quite as good a job as this, though. Now, come on, honey, what are you really doing here and who was it that you were really reporting to? And don’t tell me your mother.”

  She was defiant. “It was my mother. She’s as opposed to the World Club’s meddling as I am, and as strongly as my father was. He fought it all of his life and neither my mother nor I am satisfied about the way he died.”

  That took the smile from his face. “They were at it that far back, eh? So what was his case against us?”

  “He wasn’t entirely against eventual world government but he was opposed to it being under control of a handful of Western billionaires, plus a high-ranking police bureaucrat, and a religious fakir. He was of the opinion that such a government would stifle healthy competition, which is the source of much progress. He was absolutely appalled that a State Church was being considered, not to speak of Mercenaries, Incorporated as a possible world police. At any rate, mother and I schemed to have me infiltrated into the World Club to keep an eye on developments and possibly help expose them.”

  Jerry ran the back of a hand over his mouth ruefully. “Maybe we’re not as far apart as all that,” he said.

  She was still confused. “But you were a member of the Anti-Racist League.”

  “Still am, honey. However, some time ago it seemed to me that the World Club might offer a quicker way to end racism, so I got into it, too. As a matter of fact, I belong to various other outfits. One of them is African-based. They’re fighting racism there—against whites. There’s quite a bit of anti-white bullshit going on in parts of Africa.” Then he murmured something that made no sense to her. “Pod Hampton, I wonder if you ever dreamed what the hell you started when you ripped off that silver.” He looked at his wrist chronometer. “But we’d better go to the meeting.”