The Cold Cash War

by Robert Asprin

  "It seems to indicate you aren't developing as fast as we hoped, or you hoped, for that matter," Wolfe continued as if he hadn't heard.

  "But I haven't had a chance to get to know..."

  "So we've worked up a plan for your leaving. It involves six months on full pay and another..."

  "Now just a damn minute!" Pete was on his feet.

  "Sit down, Peter. There's no need to shout."

  "If you aren't happy with my performance, there are other alternatives, you know! I've been thinking of putting in for a transfer."

  "Pete, I'm trying to be pleasant about..."

  "What about a transfer!"

  "Look, Hornsby!" Wolfe's face was grim. "I've been trying to get you transferred! For a week before I came and for the last three days! Nobody wants you! Now sit down!"

  Pete sank back into his chair.

  "Now, as I was saying." Wolfe was again the pleasant salesman.

  "Why?"

  Wolfe pursed his lips for a long moment, then sighed and leaned back.

  "Basically because of Eddie Bush."

  "What about him?"

  "Specifically the circumstances surrounding the way he died so conveniently for you."

  "Now look! If you're trying to say..."

  "If we had any solid proof, Hornsby, we'd turn you over to the authorities and that would be that. As it stands, there are just suspicions, perhaps unfounded, but enough that no one wants you working under them. I don't want you, and no one else wants you."

  Pete's eyes fell before his gaze.

  "Now then, as I was saying, you'll get six months..."

  "How long do I have?"

  "Beg your pardon?"

  "You know what I mean."

  Wolfe sighed. For the first time he looked sympathetic.

  "There's an armed guard waiting in my reception area to escort you out. Your files and office are being placed under lock and key as we're talking now. If you come back Saturday, a guard will meet you at the gate and escort you to your office where he will watch while you have half an hour to remove your personal effects."

  "Has my staff been told?"

  "A memo was distributed as you entered my office."

  Pete thought for several moments.

  "Then there's nothing else to say, is there?"

  "Well, you could let me tell you about the separation plan we've worked up for you. I think you'll find it more than fair."

  "Save it. Send me a letter. Right now, I just want to leave."

  "Very well."

  Pete rose.

  "You'll understand, sir, if I don't shake your hand?"

  "Frankly," Wolfe's eyes were cold, "I hadn't planned to."

  He strode through the common corridors, head high, ahead of his guard. He had a disembodied, unearthly feeling, like he was walking in a dream.

  He was screwed! No one would hire him now. Job hunting at his pay level without a job or a recommendation!

  C'mon, Pete! You can work it out later. First try to put a little style into the exit.

  He forced himself back into focus and began to look around him. Maybe a few casual nods or a wink or a wave at a couple of people on his way out. He suddenly realized he didn't know anyone in the halls. Nobody looked at him. Not that they were avoiding his eyes; they were all busy and their eyes passed over him as unimportant. Just a few curious glances at the guard. He didn't see any of his staff. Usually there were a few of them around.

  The window! One of the office windows overlooked the executive parking lot! They would be watching from the window. Some to wave goodbye, some from morbid curiosity, but they'll be at the window! Okay, Petey boy. We'll show them bastards how Peter Hornsby goes to meet his fate.

  He cleared the door, forcing a jaunty air into his walk. He found he couldn't whistle, but decided it didn't matter.

  As he reached his car and fumbled for his keys, curiosity forced him to sneak one peek at the window.

  No one was watching.

  17

  Mausier winced as the gun under his coat bumped against the edge of the viewscreen with a loud "klunk!" He shot a covert glance around the office, but no one else seemed to notice. He heaved a sigh of relief, but was promptly assailed with additional doubts. More likely the staff had noticed and known what had happened, but chose to ignore it. The fact he was now carrying a gun was common knowledge since the afternoon he had accidentally triggered the clamshell shoulder holster, and the weapon had slid from under his coat to bounce on the floor in front of the whole office. A few had raised their eyebrows in surprise, but the majority of them had merely smiled indulgently. Mausier had secretly writhed in agony under those smiles, as he was writhing now under their tolerant silence. They obviously thought he was silly, a child with a toy gun pretending to be dangerous or endangered. They weren't aware of the potentially explosive and violent situation they were all living in.

  Then again, how sure was he? Mausier considered for the hundredth time taking the gun back to the store. It was doing him no apparent good and causing him untold embarrassment. His wife never tired of making little digs about "that thing" when he stripped and cleaned it each night. Even though he weathered her taunts in stoic silence, it was beginning to take its toll on him.

  He felt foolish. Who would want to attack him anyway? He wasn't a key figure; in fact, he wasn't a figure at all. He didn't make any decisions, he never even touched the various items of information his office posted and negotiated for. He was a watcher, not a doer. All he had was some wild guesses and theories based on information any number of people could have if they read extensively and thought about what they read. Why should anyone come after him specifically? More importantly, what could he do if they did?

  The closest thing to an attack that had happened to him had occurred last week. He had been walking through the parking lot of a shopping center and a panel truck backed into him, knocking him sprawling. The driver could have backed over him as he lay on the pavement. Instead he stopped the truck and leaped out to help Mausier back to his feet, apologizing profusely and offering to buy him a drink. At the time, Mausier's gun was locked in the glove compartment of his car two hundred feet away. He had left it behind for fear of tripping the shoplifter detection devices in the store.

  If it had been a real attempt on his life, he would be dead. What could he have done to stop it even if he had had the gun along? Shot the driver when he heard the gears engage? He could hurt a lot of innocent people that way. Besides, the modus operandi was wrong for the assassin teams. They preferred to work from long range with scoped rifles. Okay, if one of those had taken a shot at him, what would he do, assuming, of course, the assassin missed his first shot, which they didn't seem to do very often? Draw his handgun and try to outshoot him? A professional assassin two blocks away with a scoped rifle? Fat chance.

  The handgun he carried was a Walther P-38, a nastily efficient, medium-sized automatic. Its double action allowed him to carry it with one round chambered and the hammer down and still have the ability to get off the first round by simply squeezing the trigger without fielding slides or anything. He practiced with it at a local firing range at least once a week until he considered himself a moderate shot. That is, he could put the entire clip into a man-sized target if it was close enough for him to hit it with a thrown rock.

  He was comfortably content with his abilities, or had been until one afternoon when he noticed the young man practicing in the lane next to him was outshooting him easily, snapshooting from the hip. "Instinct shooting" the youth had called it, all the while bemoaning how much his abilities had atrophied since he left the service.

  No, Mausier had long since abandoned any hopes he might have once entertained about outshooting the pros. Still, he clung tenaciously to the weapon. It was a chance, a slim chance admittedly, but still a chance. Without it, he would have no chance at all.

  He glanced at his watch. Another hour and the workday would be over. He was anxious for the staff to lea
ve so he could return to his hobby. There were two new items on the board today he was particularly eager to start digging on.

  One was an information request from the oil corporation linked to the Brazilian branch of his pet mystery. The request was so off-the-wall he almost wondered if they were putting it on the board as a confusion tactic. They wanted lists of any people who had left service with the Treasury Department of any country in the free world within the last year. Special bonuses would be paid for leads on people who had been directly involved with the minting of currency.

  Moneymakers? What in the world were they up to? What possible mess could they have gotten themselves into that would require money experts above and beyond those already available to the corporate world? Counterfeiting? If so, why didn't they simply turn it over to the governments to run down? Maybe the problem was so widespread that they wanted to hush it up by handling it themselves. Maybe it was so widespread they were afraid of an economic panic if the truth leaked out.

  Mausier shook his head. He was groping at straws. He'd have to hold off until he had time to scan the files for additional details or related items. Instead, he turned his thoughts to the other new item.

  The C-Block had a new information request on the board. This one concerned the Japanese industries which they had been watching. They were asking for a complete listing of personnel taking the newly offered bonus world tour. If possible, they also wanted details as to timetables and rotation schedules.

  Tour groups! His Brazilian workspace was getting overloaded with items. Soon he would either have to rent additional computer time or start weeding it down. Tour groups and moneymakers. This whole puzzle was starting to get out of hand.

  Sometimes he wondered if he wasn't imagining it all. One of the hazards in the intelligence profession was getting hold of minor data and blowing it all out of proportion. If one tried hard enough, it was possible to take any three newspaper articles chosen at random and weave them into a conspiracy of national or international proportions.

  Take as an example those items about the weapon design corporations. Suddenly many of the corporations on his list were inquiring about who the arms designers were building what for. It had puzzled him for the longest time until he finally figured it out. They were exploring another possible lead on the assassin teams. If the teams were, in fact, using special weapons, someone was supplying them. Very clever, actually-an angle the governments hadn't thought of checking into yet. Now, if he were the overly suspicious and paranoid type, he could build those inquiries into...well, he didn't know what, but he could build it into something.

  But tour groups? Where in the world did they tie into the picture? There was one thing which might be worth looking into. If he recalled the small article he had noticed on the Japanese tour correctly, their first stop on the world tour was Brazil. It was the first time he had been able to draw even the vaguest connection between the Japanese crew and the other groups of corporations on his list. It was shaky and probably purely coincidental, but it was still worth looking into.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Ms. Witley, who told him a gentleman was in the lobby who wanted to talk to him about selling some information. Mausier was not enthused over the news and briefly considered stalling the visitor until the morning. Only occasionally did walk-ins have anything really worth selling, and they were always incredibly long-winded about the risks they had run to obtain their worthless bit of trivia. Still, there were occasional pieces of gold among the gravel, and he hadn't gotten where he was turning away potential clients.

  With that in mind, he instructed Ms. Witley to fetch the man back to his office. When he arrived, Mausier's appraising eye quickly classified him as pure corporation. It was more than the distinctive conservative suit-it was the way he held himself. His shoulders were tense, his smile forced, and his jovial pleasantness almost painful. Definitely corporate, maybe middle management, obviously desperate, probably overestimating the value of his information.

  "Nice little layout you've got here." The man took in the screens with a wave of his hand.

  Mausier didn't smile. He was determined to keep this brief.

  "Ms. Whitley said you had some information to sell?"

  "Yes, I have some information on the terrorist assassin groups everybody's looking for."

  Mausier was suddenly attentive.

  "What kind of information?"

  "Say, do you mind if I smoke?"

  "I'd rather you didn't." Mausier nodded at the electronic gear lining the office.

  "Thanks," said the man, lighting up. "Now where was I? Oh, yes. I guess I know more about the terrorists than anyone. You see, I'm the one who invented them for the corporations..."

  Mausier suddenly realized the man was more than slightly drunk. Still, he was intrigued by what he was saying.

  "Excuse me, what did you say your name was again?"

  "Hornsby, Peter Hornsby."

  18

  "Tell the driver to slow up. It should be right along here somewhere."

  "I still haven't seen the buses." Clancy scowled through the dust and bug-caked windshield of the truck.

  "Don't worry, they'll be-there they are!"

  The buses were rounding the curve ahead, bearing down on them with the leisurely pace characteristic of this country. Tidwell watched the vehicle occupants as they passed, craning his neck to see around the driver. The bus passengers smiled and waved joyously, but Tidwell noticed none of them took pictures.

  The mercenaries smiled and waved back.

  "The fix is in!" chortled Clancy.

  "Did you see any empty seats?"

  "One or two. Nothing noticeable."

  "Good. Look, there it is up ahead."

  Beside the road there was a small soft shoulder, one of the few along this hilly, jungled route. Without being told, the driver pulled off the road and stopped. They sat motionless for several long moments, then Aki stepped out of the brush and waved. At the signal, the driver cut the engine and got out of the car. The two mercenaries also piled out of the car, but unlike the driver, who leisurely began taking off his shirt, they strode around to the back of the truck and opened the twin doors. Two men were in the back, men of approximately the same description as and dressed identically to Tidwell and Clancy. They didn't say anything, but strode leisurely to the front of the truck and took the mercenaries' places in the cab. Like the driver, they had been briefed.

  The two mercenaries turned their attention to the crates in the back. Aki joined them.

  "Are the lookouts in place?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You worry too much, Steve," chided Clancy. "We haven't seen another car on this road all day."

  "I don't want this messed up by a bunch of gawking tourists."

  "So we stop 'em. We've done it before and we've got the team to do it."

  "And lose two hours covering up? No thanks."

  "I'm going to check the teams. I'll send a couple back to give you a hand here."

  He hopped out of the truck and strode down the road, entering the brush at the point where Aki had emerged.

  Fifteen feet into the overgrowth was a clearing where the teams were undergoing their metamorphosis. Nine in the clearing, and one in the truck made ten. Two full teams, and the buses had looked full.

  The team members were in various stages of dress and undress. One of the first things lost when the teams were formed was any vague vestige of modesty. The clothes had been cunningly designed and tailored. Linings were ripped from jackets and pants, false hems were removed, and the familiar kill-suits began to come into view.

  Clancy arrived carrying the first case. He jerked his head and two already-clothed team members darted back toward the road. Setting the carton down, Clancy slit open the sealing tape with his pocket knife. He folded the flaps back, revealing a case of toy robots.

  Easing them out onto the ground, he opened the false bottom where the swamp boots were kept. These were not new boots. T
hey were the member's own broken-in boots. Clancy grabbed his pair and returned to a corner of the clearing to convert his clothes. One by one, the members claimed their boots and a robot and stooped to finish dressing.

  Tidwell had worn his boots to speed the changing process. He whistled low and gestured, and a team member tossed him a robot. He caught it and opened the lid on its head in a practiced motion. Reaching in carefully, he removed the activator unit for his kill-suit and checked it carefully. Satisfied, he plugged it into his suit and rose to check the rest of the progress, resealing the lid on the robot and stacking it by the carton as he went.

  Conversion was in full swing as more cartons arrived. The shoulder straps came off the camera gadget bags, separated, and were reinserted to form the backpacks. Fashionable belts with gaudy tooling were reversed to reveal a uniform black leather with accessory loops for weapons and ammunition.

  Tidwell particularly wanted to check the weapons assembly. Packing material from the toy cartons was scooped into plastic bags, moistened down with a fluid from the bottles in the camera bags, and the resulting paste pressed into molds previously covered by the boots to form the rifle stocks. The camera tripods were dismounted, the telescoping legs separated for various purposes. First, the rounds of live ammo were emptied out and distributed. Tidwell smiled grimly at this. All the forces' weapons were 'convertibles'-that is, they were basically quartz-crystal weapons, but were also rigged to fire live ammo if the other forces tried to disclaim their entry into the war.

  The larger section of the legs separated into three parts to form the barrels for both the flare pistols and the short double-barreled shotguns so deadly in close fighting. The middle sections were fitted with handles and a firing mechanism to serve as launchers for the mini-grenades which up to now had been carried in the thirty-five-millimeter film canisters hung from the pack straps. The smallest diameter section was used for the rifle barrel, fitted with a fountain pen telescopic sight. The firing mechanisms were cannibalized from the cameras and various toys which emerged and were reinserted in the cartons.