by Dean Ing
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, "Willkom-men, 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 detracted 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 pseudo-dollars 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, "Vevillzee."
The examination was comparatively brief. The doctor hummed importantly as he worked. He wound up very pleased with both himself and his patient. AH 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 pseudo-dollars? I understood from what our good Nat said that you had but landed this afternoon. Surely you have not already gone through eight hundred pseudo-dollars. 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 pseudo-dollars." 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 af
ternoon 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 Grafs 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."
Frank said, "You've suggested that you took on other contracts besides wars and revolutions."
Panikkar nodded. "Yes, many. Last month we conducted a commando action which involved only twenty men. One of our best officers, a Major Shannon, and nineteen veteran non-coms.It seems that there was a half-mad dictator on one of the smaller Caribbean islands. His people overwhelmingly wished to join the United States but he, understandably, refused. He and his family were vampires upon that island's population. However, funds were raised, and the commando detachment was sent to take him out."
"Then you actually do individual assassinations." The Aussie chuckled again but stuck to his drink, rather than joining into the conversation.
The colonel shrugged. "On occasion. We see little difference, morally speaking, between entering into a full-fledged war or killing an individual. But see here, you are an educated young man. You must have read of Genghis Khan, one of the great military men of all time. He rose from being a simple chieftain of a small nomadic tribe in Central Asia to conquer the largest empire the world had ever seen. He destroyed whole civilizations. He slaughtered millions of sedentary peoples so their lands could be devoted to his flocks. Only one thing stopped his hordes from engulfing Europe: he died. Now, tell me, my good Frank, what would the world have been saved had our Genghis Khan been assassinated when he was a young man?" Frank was nonplussed.
The Indian went on. "It goes both ways. Suppose your Abraham Lincoln had been suitably guarded against assassination. What would have been the difference if this good man had lived on to preside over the reconstruction of your South?
It took a hundred years for the South to fully recover from your Civil War."
Frank said hesitantly, "Your Graf provides bodyguards, I take it."
"Naturally. He has the most efficient bodyguards in the world."
"I hope so. Assassination is—well, hell, it isn't civilized!"
"But it can improve civilization." Panikkar finished his second large whiskey. "Take Mahem Dhu, who recently proclaimed himself the Mahdi in Central Africa."
' 'Never heard of him.''
"The Mahdi is a figure of Moslem mythology," Panikkar explained. "Something like a messiah, he is to return as the world is about to end, unite all believers, and destroy those who are evil. It is a most primitive aspect of Islam. The last major leader who proclaimed himself the Mahdi was Mohammed Ahmed in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan in the 19th Century. He called for a holy war and in a few years his followers overwhelmed an area half the size of Europe, slaughtering hundreds of thousands. They beat the British army and killed General Gordon."
"But this new one?" Frank said.
"Mahem Dhu. He's trying the same thing in Central and Northern Africa. He refuses to join the United Church, while many Islamic sects are joining. If he continues, millions of uneducated blacks and Arabs will die. If he should be, ah, removed, their lives will be spared and, with the help of United Church missionaries, their countries will be rapidly upgraded."
"I see your point," Frank admitted. He pulled at his drink unhappily. "Still…"
Nat Fraser scoffed. "Mate," he said. "You bloody well told me that the Yanks deported you for homicide. What's the buggering difference? You knock off some cove on your own, or you do it for the Graf for mucking good pay. And you don't have to take a contract if you don't like it. Strewth, I've turned down more than one."
Frank looked back at the colonel. "I don't see what use I'd be to you. I'm no soldier."
Ram Panikkar shrugged it off. "It's not important, Frank. Sleep on it. We might find you a position appropriate to your abilities, seeing that you're a most personable and a
reasonably educated young man." He looked at his wrist chronometer. "But you must be tired after all your troubles today. And you must be hungry." He looked at the Australian. "Nat, I suggest that you see that Frank gets a good meal and then put him up for the night in one of the dormitories. I'd suggest the non-com quarters. Tomorrow morning he can return to his hotel."
"Too right, Colonel," Nat said, coming to his feet.
Frank stood too and began his thanks but the colonel waved' them aside, smiling, and returned to the papers on his desk without further words.
Next morning, driven to his hotel by Nat Fraser, Frank found not only his suitcases and the personal things that had been stolen from him by the muggers, but a pile of Swiss francs and Moroccan dirhams atop the rickety dresser. They totalled a full equivalent of a thousand pseudo-dollars, slightly more than he had been robbed of. After all, he had owed the cab driver five dirhams and had paid Luigi ten dirhams for room rent, and had bought a round of drinks at Paul's Bar. Even his camera was in one of the suitcases. The colonel had clout.
A vague thought came to him. How had Panikkar known he was staying at the Hotel Rome? He had told neither the Indian nor Nat Fraser.
Chapter Nine: Roy Cos
The shuttle from Nassau to Greater Miami was brief and uneventful. Both men were so deep in their thoughts that Roy Cos didn't even bother to stare out the heavy glass ports at the sea and islets below. Obviously, he was having second thoughts about this whole project. How had he ever allowed the damned newsman to talk him into it?
Forry Brown squinted over at him and tried to rise to the occasion. He knew very well what was in Roy's mind; he even had a twinge of guilt about it. But, the whole thing was now irreversible. He said, "You know the trouble with you Utopians?"
Roy sighed and said, "No."
"You won't like Utopia."
Roy sighed again and said, "There is no such thing as Utopia. As soon as you get to your goal, there's a better one beckoning. No science is more in a condition of continual change than socioeconomics. Utopian? Our revolutionary forefathers in 1776 thought they were creating a Utopia. They didn't."