Deathwish World

by Dean Ing

  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 pseudo-dollars desposited 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 chiefs 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 Grafs 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 Buck, 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."

  "But my mother is dead now."

  The Grafs usually expressionless face registered surprise. "I didn't know that. I should have kept a closer check on you as the years have gone by. But still, I hadn't wished to interfere with your mother's plans for your education and upbringing. It was the only thing for which she would draw upon your father's accumulated fortune and, even then, frugally. I had planned to make contact with
you upon its completion."

  "It's completed now," Frank said flatly.

  "I see. And the employment computers didn't select you for a position in whatever field you had selected?"

  "That's correct. In any of the fields I selected."

  "Why not?" the Graf said bluntly.

  "Because there are jobs in our economy for only about five percent of the population. But the fault is largely mine. I switched subjects too often. I started in aviation, but after a few years, I could see that it was becoming so highly auto-mated that there were going to be practically no positions available. So I switched to space and spent a few years cramming so that I might be chosen to go to Lagrange Five or the Asteroid Belt. But then the government began cutting back drastically on new space expenditures, so drastically that it was all but impossible to get out to the space islands. So then…"

  "Very well. I can see your problem. So when you finished your schooling you were unable to find employment."

  "Actually, I've never quite finished it, though it became more difficult after my mother's death and my source of income was cut off. She never gave me access to my father's resources, hating them as she did. I'm not even sure that she could have. I don't know what the legal arrangements were. Since then, I've largely been on GAS. However, I've held a few small jobs out of the ken of the computers. In between I continued my studies as best I could."

  The Graf leaned back in the couch. "You might consider a position in my organization, Franklin."

  Peter Windsor had been listening, his eyebrows a little high. Obviously, much of this was new to him but he learned best by listening.

  Frank Pinell, who had been gaining confidence over the past fifteen minutes, shook his head at the old mercenary's words. He said, "I have certain reservations. Nat Fraser and Colonel Panikkar gave me a rundown on the position you assume on the things you do in your, uh, organization. However, I suspect that toward the end, at least, my father might have had some of the same reservations. What did they call him? The Lee Christmas of the 21st century. I've read a little about Lee Christmas. I wonder if he ever went in for outright political assassination."

  "Possibly not. I checked on this early American mercenary after Fraulein Krebs gave me a bit of his background the other day. He was an uncouth, uneducated man—a railroad worker, I understand, before becoming a soldier of fortune. Undoubtedly, he had the usual prejudices of his time and his upbringing."

  The Graf's voice was becoming a bit impatient. "See here, Franklin, you must realize that mankind accepts the fact of killing his fellow man under acceptable circumstances. What are acceptable circumstances is the bone of contention. Even the assassin can become a hero—given circumstances. Let us take a few examples from the history of your own very aggressive nation. Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, and Colonel Travis, heroes of the Alamo, were not Texans. They were American adventurers; mercenaries. The Alamo was not garrisoned by Texans, it was garrisoned by men of many nations sent to that part of Mexico to seek their fortunes with their guns. The flag that flew over the Alamo was that of a troop of New Orleans volunteers. How many true Texans were there I do not know, but certainly Crockett was not one of them. He had been a Representative in Congress from Tennessee."

  "I didn't know that," Frank murmured.

  The Graf went on. "A group of American mercenaries during the First World War formed the Lafayette Escadrille, a pursuit squadron in the French Air Force. By American law, this should have deprived them of American citizenship. Instead, as soon as the United States entered the conflict, they became heroes, and their squadron became part of the American forces. The Flying Tigers who fought as mercenaries under Chiang Kai-shek against the Japanese before Pearl Harbor? These men were all highly trained pilots from American army, navy, and air force schools, and they flew the latest in American fighters. They were paid for each plane they shot down, with American money funnelled to China. But they were mercenaries, and became American heroes, instead of losing their citizenship.

  "So much for mercenaries; let us consider assassins. Suppose that in my own country the General Staff had been successful in assassinating Hitler. Would they not now be heroes?"

  The young American was unhappy. He said, "Panikkar and Nat Fraser gave me similar arguments. They didn't convince me."

  Peter Windsor said, "Let's face reality. Man kills his fellow man for profit, don't you know? Take the owner of a colliery. The mine is unsafe because he has ignored expensive safety devices. It caves in and fifty of his miners are buried alive. Indirectly, he has killed them—for profit. Is he ever brought to trial? I fancy not. He is a pillar of the community."

  The Graf said, "But enough of this for now. You must be

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  tired, Franklin. We'll meet for dinner. No need for you to make a decision at this time."

  Evidently, he had signalled somehow since Sepp, the liveried butler, materialized. "Bitte, Herr Graf," he said, bowing.

  "Sepp," the elderly mercenary said, "this is Mr. Franklin Pinell. See him to his suite. I suppose his bags have been delivered by now. And see that he is assigned a valet."

  "Ja, Herr Graf." Sepp turned to Frank. "Mr. Pinell?"

  Frank nodded at Peter Windsor, came to his feet, and followed the stone-faced servant out a side door.

  In the medieval stone corridor along which Frank followed Sepp, the elderly servitor said politely, "If I may say so, sir, you resemble your father remarkably."

  "So everybody's been telling me. You knew my father?"

  "I had the honor to serve with him in two campaigns, sir," Sepp said, his voice politely inflectionless. "Before I lost my leg."

  Involuntarily, Frank glanced down and now noticed that the servant limped lightly.

  Frank said, "I had gathered that the Graf made a policy of granting suitable compensations for his wounded men. Shouldn't you be living in comfortable retirement somewhere?"

  "Well, yes, sir. But you see, I am wanted by both Interpol and the American LABI. I am safe here."

  "That you are," Frank smiled. "From what I've seen of it, this castle has many attributes of a resort. Shouldn't you be able to retire right here?"

  They had reached a heavy wooden door and, for a moment, the servant stood with his hand on the knob. For the first time Frank saw a slight expression on the other's usually immobile face. It was ruefulness. He said, "I suppose so, sir. However, the Herr Graf is used to my service. And… besides, it is of interest to be here in the center of things."

  He opened the door and they stepped inside. Frank's luggage lay in the living room's center. The suite was spacious—an extensive living room with ornate wooden furniture, a bedroom with an enormous canopied bed, a large bath, and what Frank assumed was a small study. He was again surprised at the art of whatever interior decorater had redesigned the donjon of the Wolfschloss. The man had been a genius in merging the old and new. That the rooms were those of a

  Dark Ages castle was obvious, but they were modern in the best sense of comfort. That they had once been cold, damp, and grim could easily be imagined, but not with the modern conveniences added. The suite was absolutely palatial.

  "It is satisfactory, sir?" Sepp said with polite anxiety.

  At this height in the keep, it had undoubtedly never been necessary to continue the narrow bowmen's apertures that prevailed on the lower levels. The windows were spacious and looked out on a picturesque setting of Alps, glaciers, streams, and the upper reaches of the Rhine.

  Frank shook his head. "It's a beautiful suite, Sepp. What was this about a valet?"

  "I'll assign you Helmut, sir. A very reliable servant."

  "What do I need him for?"

  The old soldier-turned-butler seemed a touch surprised. "Why, sir, he'll do for you. Something like a batman, an orderly, sir."

  Frank sighed. It would be an advantage to have somebody who could show him the ropes. He didn't even know his way around the corridors. He said, "All right, but tell him the l
ess I see of him, the better."

  "Sir, Helmut will never intrude unless summoned. Is there anything else, sir?"

  Frank looked around. There was even a heavy wooden bar, which looked handcarved, set up against one wall. "I suppose not," he said. "Thanks, Sepp."

  "Not at all, sir. I was always a great admirer of your father, sir. In the fracas in which I lost my leg, he carried me over a kilometer through enemy fire to the nearest field hospital." He coughed before adding, "Although he was wounded himself."

  Frank couldn't think of anything to say to that, and the ramrod-erect old man turned to leave.

  When he reached the door and was about to open it, he hesitated momentarily, then half turned and said, "Don't trust any of them, Mr. Pinell."

  Chapter Sixteen: Frank Pinell

  In the Grafs informal office, Lothar von Brandenburg was saying to his aide, "What do you think of him, Peter?"

  Peter said slowly, "Frank seems a straight-speaking young man. Adequate education, all that sort of thing."

  The Graf looked at him. "You seem to have reservations."

  "Well, not really. But you seem to accept him rather wholeheartedly. He is frightfully young to be taken into our inner circles."

  The older man gave one of his rare, gray smiles without humor. "He is older than you were when I first met you, Peter."

  The Englishman waggled a hand in rejection. "Perhaps we went to different schools."

  "We shall sound him out further at dinner, but meanwhile, I am quite impressed," the Graf told him. "Ram Panikkar and that Australian fellow didn't hoodwink him for a moment. Meanwhile, let us be about the day's developments. Where is Margit?"

  It wasn't a question that needed an answer. Margit entered immediately, obviously having been summoned.