"If there is a later," Frank said glumly. They were approaching the first roadblock, a concrete pillbox with three armed men before it. Frank began to pull up but they smiled and waved him on.
Hamp said, "This inner circle you mentioned that you're now being admitted to: who's in it besides the Graf and Windsor?"
"The only one I've met, if there are any others, is Margit Krebs, the Graf's secretary and data bank."
Hamp looked over at him.
Frank said, "She's got complete recall and keeps most of his secrets in her head."
"Nobody else is in this inner circle?"
"Not that I know of. When they're having a conference, the butler, Sepp, is sometimes around and they don't seem to care. He told me my father once saved his life-and warned me about all three of them."
"Sounds like quite a chummy crew," Hamp said. "How long before we start talking to the Graf?"
"If they see us right on through, possibly twenty minutes or so."
"Wizard," the black said and reached into his jacket. He brought forth a container which looked something like a cigarette case, opened it, and took out a hypodermic while Frank looked at him in dismay. Wordlessly, Hamp rolled up his left sleeve and expertly took the contents of the hypodermic into his arm. He then threw the syringe out the window.
Frank said bitterly, "Fer chrissakes, Hampton, isn't all that guzzle enough?"
"Thanks for reminding me," the other told him and opened the glove compartment for a pull at the bottle there.
They pulled up before the cable car terminal and got out of the vehicle, met immediately by a smiling officer.
He saluted and said, "Welcome back to the Wolfschloss, Mr. Pinell. I'm Lieutenant Lugos. Mr. Windsor has instructed me to see you to the donjon.'' He looked Hamp up and down.
Frank said, "This is Mr. Hampton. My luggage is in the back. There's a gun in it."
"Yes, sir. We'll take care of it." The lieutenant turned and led the way.
Horace Hampton seemed only mildly interested in the routine of being admitted to the Wolfschloss, the identity checks, the searches, the cable car ride. And didn't even seem particularly interested when they entered the enceinte in the direction of the towering keep.
Lieutenant Lugos was walking ahead and Frank said, from the side of his mouth, "You act as though you've been here before."
The other shook his head. "No, but I had some of my agents check it out once. They got good video sequences."
"Even inside the keep?"
"On the lower floors. Not up in the living quarters of the Graf. One tried and didn't make it."
The younger man stared, "What happened to him?"
"Peter Windsor happened to him. He was caught, tortured, put under scopolamine and, of course, spilled his guts."
"How do you know?"
"Windsor dropped a hint to me the next time I saw him. Happily, the others had gotten away before the captured one could inform on them. Our chum-pal, Peter, evidently was more amused by my curiosity than anything else. I suppose the Wolfschloss has been infiltrated before."
They had no more difficulty in entering the donjon than they'd had at the cable car terminal. Five minutes after Lieutenant Lugos surrendered them to the guard at the keep's massive door, they had entered the office of Peter Windsor.
The Graf's right-hand man was, characteristically, lounging in well-worn sports clothes behind his desk, his feet up on its surface. He grinned affably and said as he stood, "I say, Pinell, you're full of surprises." He looked at Hamp and frowned slightly. "Haven't I seen you before, somewhere?"
"People keep asking me that," Hamp said. "I must look like some celebrity."
Peter Windsor shrugged. "No point in mucking around, Hampton. What was your idea in coming here? Doesn't make much sense, really."
"I thought I'd explain that directly to the Graf," Hamp told him. His eyes went around the room, in curiosity, not missing the submachine gun on the wall.
"I dare say that's a good idea," Windsor said, lazily coming to his feet. "Come along, you chaps, Lothar is expecting us."
He led the way down the winding corridor to the Grafs office.
When they entered the spacious office of Lothar von Brandenburg, it was to find the Graf and Margit Krebs seated in the same chairs as during Frank's original interview. To top it, after offhanded introductions, during which no one made any pretense of desire to shake hands, Peter Windsor slumped into the chair he had utilized on the first occasion Frank had met the inner circle. Frank and Hamp sat too, on the same couch but at opposite ends.
For a few moments all was silent as Hamp took in the three of them and they returned the compliment.
The Graf said finally, "To be candid, this confrontation surprises me. I haven't the vaguest idea what you had in mind, Franklin." He turned smoky, expressionless eyes to the black. "Nor you, sir. Will one of you explain?" He looked back at Frank and added, "Not, of course, that I distrust your judgment and discretion, my boy."
"Of course not," Peter said dryly.
Hamp said, "I came to make a deal."
The gray-flecked, uncanny irises turned back to him. "Indeed? Please develop it. I am always interested in deals."
"Wizard," Hamp said. His dark eyes took in the short elderly mercenary and they were almost as unreadable as the old man's. "Brandenburg," he went on finally, "you've got a tiger by the tail. You've built up an empire and now you can't abdicate. You're just on the verge of being dead broke and you can't get out from under. The upkeep on this pile of rock alone must be astronomical and that's not counting your other establishments scattered around the world, and it doesn't count the compensations and pensions you're under obligation to keep up. One of these days, you're going to miss a payroll. When you do-well, the people on your payroll are the most dangerous killers in the world."
"What rot," Peter drawled.
"Silence, Peter," the Graf told him without looking in his direction. He said to Hamp, "Since nothing that is said in this room this morning will ever go beyond its walls, we might as well be completely free. What has given you cause to believe me less than-ah, solvent? My interests are widespread."
"So are mine," Hamp said flatly. "I have sources and I have my common sense besides. Mercenary use has been declining for decades. So have clandestine sales of arms. The citizens of smaller nations are in revolt against their governments so far as military purchases are concerned. They've had a bellyful of it for a century or so. They're also getting a bellyful of assassinations and terrorism. All sorts of inquiries are going out about you and your activities. And this Roy Cos affair is almost sure to wind up with Deathwish Policies declared illegal on a worldwide basis, especially if and when the United States becomes the United States of the World. To sum it up, your business is melting away, Brandenburg."
"I see," the Graf nodded agreeably. "I am amazed at your interest in my affairs. But let us delve into it a bit further. Would it surprise you to learn that my plans include joining the upper echelons of the World Club and participating, along with my organization, in the World State?" The Grafs emotionless voice held a touch of smugness.
Hamp shook his head definitely. "No. Not after last night. And not on top of Harold Dunninger."
The old man's voice was now ice. "What about Harold Dunninger?"
"It's come out that you were behind his kidnapping and death. That you wished this candidate eliminated so that you would be able to assume Central Committee membership. But last night you went too far."
The Graf looked over at Margit Krebs, scowling. "What happened last night?"
Peter said quickly, "I was going to bring that up at our morning meeting, Lothar." He cleared his throat. "I fancied that you'd be surprised. Jeremiah Auburn has been reported killed in a vehicle crackup on the French Riviera. An accident, I imagine."
"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 pseudo-dollars 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 signalled, since Sepp materialized at a door leading to the back. He bowed and said, "Bine, 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 pseudo-dollars. 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 pseudo-dollars!"
"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 some-body 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.
Dean Ing & Mack Reynolds Page 36