The Graf said, “So we have a contract on the man. Very well, have it executed.”
Peter looked at him. “Chief, it occurs to me that we might send young Pinell to deal with this beggar.”
The older man’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because the boy’s inexperienced. You’ve obviously got plans for him. Very well, he handled himself well on the Rivas assignment, to the extent that he was needed at all. But it would seem to me that he needs a bit more blooding. No particular hurry, but it will give him an opportunity to learn something about the organization. He’d have to work through our local representatives in the States, of course.”
“I’ll consider the matter,” said the Graf. “Very well, if that’s all, I’ll see you tonight at dinner.”
Dismissed, Margit Krebs and Peter Windsor came to their feet and headed for the door.
In the corridor, as they headed for their own offices, Margit looked up at the rangy Englishman. She said, softly, “You didn’t mention to Lothar that this Horace Hampton is considered the most efficient field man in the Anti-Racist League and very dangerous as compared to our Frank.”
He said, “If you thought so, why didn’t you say something to the Chief to that effect?”
“Possibly, just to find out what you’re up to, Peter, dear.” She eyed him mockingly. “You couldn’t be getting second thoughts about Buck Pinell’s son, could you, Peter? For years now, you’ve been second man in Mercenaries, Incorporated. Undoubtedly, you’ve expected to take over when the Graf either retires or dies.”
“Who’s better suited to take over the reins? But Lothar’s in a position to turn over the whole organization to this stripling. If he did, an outfit that has taken half a century to build could go down the spout overnight. Then where would you and I be, Margit, old thing?”
She reached the door of her office and stood there for a moment, considering it.
“How do you stand?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” she said evasively. “Perhaps you’re overestimating Lothar’s acceptance of Frank.”
“Perhaps,” he grunted and went on.
She looked after him and thought to herself, Peter is beginning to wonder if the Graf isn’t getting too old for the job. Perhaps a touch of senility. I’d hate to be in the crossfire if it came to a showdown. Margit, my girl, you’d better start considering on what side of your own bread the butter is on.
Dinner that night was another revelation to Frank Pinell, in a day that had been full of them. The baronial hall in which it was held was one flight up in the keep from the offices and suites. The whole floor was evidently devoted to the Grafs living quarters.
Frank had entered the palatial living room attired in the dark suit which Helmut, his newly appointed valet, had laid out for him. There hadn’t been much of a choice. He had bought two suits in Paris, on Nat Fraser’s suggestion, and several pairs of shoes. All the clothing he had brought with him from America he had discarded, also at Fraser’s suggestion. But now he realized that he had made a mistake. The Graf, Peter Windsor, and Margit Krebs were all in evening wear. Margit looked stunning and ten years younger in a simple black silk affair that brought out the pale perfection of her Scandinavian skin. She wore but one item of jewelry, a matched string of pearls whose deep pink luster was obvious from across the room.
The three were seated about a cocktail table, sipping drinks and chatting, as Frank came in. The Graf looked up and frowned but then said, “Please give us the pleasure of your company, Franklin. Sit down.” The Graf added smoothly, “We always dress for dinner, Franklin, but I assume your travel clothing is limited.”
Frank said, “I’ve never worn so much as a tuxedo, not to speak of tails. You don’t when you’re on GAS, you know.”
“Forgive me. It skipped my mind that you didn’t inherit your father’s fortune. Yes, Sepp?”
The butler leaned forward slightly and spoke to his master in German.
“Ah,” the mercenary grunted. “Dinner is served. Margit?” With his secretary on his arm, followed by Peter Windsor and Frank, he passed through the double doors into the dining room.
Compared to the refurbishing of the rest of the keep, the dining hall had hardly been touched by the genius of an interior decorator. Frank could well imagine the old days when some long-dead duke, princeling, or archbishop had held forth here. His closest henchmen would be present with their women, wassailing about a huge round table, while minstrels and clowns provided medieval entertainment, as scurrying servants brought on heaping platters of food, and huge mugs with foaming beer, mulled wine, or subtle mead.
The table, however, was considerably smaller than that which must have prevailed in the old days. It would have seated eight at most. The setting was on the awesome side, so far as Frank was concerned. He had never eaten with more cutlery than knife, fork, and spoon, never eaten by candlelight, and most certainly had never eaten off gold.
The Graf sat at one end of the table, Margit at the other, and Peter and Frank across from each other. It came to Frank that Peter Windsor was a changed man in evening dress, after his informal sports garb of the day. Now he looked as though he had been born to wear formal evening attire; a matinee idol couldn’t have been more at ease in it.
Sepp presided with two footmen, also in livery, behind each chair. No more than two sips were taken from a wine glass before it was instantly refilled. It was all on the thick side so far as Frank Pinell was concerned.
It got thicker as the meal progressed. He recognized exactly two of the dishes presented, or at least the ingredients. One was a potato dish which would have been hard to miss, and one a delightful scallop-based fish course. He made the mistake of commenting on the scallops.
“Ah,” the Graf said, pleased. “You mean the Coquilles Saint Jacques Parisienne? It is one of Albert’s specialties. He will be overjoyed to know you approve.”
Peter said, after sipping at his Chablis, “Albert is one of the three best chefs in Common Europe, Frank. It’s a privilege to eat from his kitchen, I should think.”
Frank said, “You mean to tell me that one of the best three cooks in Europe works here for just the three of you? I’d think he could get a job in any restaurant in the world.”
“The four of us now,” his host said magnanimously. “Fortunately, Albert is in no position to tender his resignation.”
Margit said dryly, “Liechtenstein is somewhat like Tangier, in that there are no extradition laws; and since Albert made the mistake of killing his wife, he sees fit to remain as Lothar’s chef.”
“Poisoned her, to be exact,” Peter said blandly.
Frank looked down at the morsel of scallop on his fork and closed his eyes in sorrow.
There were eight courses in all, with eight wines, winding up with a dessert which Margit told him was Nesselrode Pudding with Sabayon Fruit, served with a slightly chilled sauterne.
Largely, the dinner conversation consisted of the Graf expounding on his dreams and turning on what small charm he boasted in order to win the younger man over. Both Margit and Peter seemed surprised at the extent to which he revealed top secrets of the innermost circle of Mercenaries, Incorporated. It would seem that Lothar von Brandenburg was most certainly now considering Frank to be a member of that circle, in which case, it was the most rapid promotion the organization had ever seen.
All of the servants save Sepp spoke nothing but German, and the table conversation was in English.
The Graf had said, “You are acquainted with the World Club, Franklin,” while still on the oxtail soup.
“Just slightly,” Frank said. “Isn’t it an organization of economists, philanthropists, and international do-gooders seeking solutions to worldwide problems?”
“That is the facade we present to the man in the street,” the other said, satisfaction in his voice.
“We?” Frank said.
“Mercenaries, Incorporated is represented in the highest echelons of the World Club.”
�
��That surprises me. I pictured the organization as a group of old-timers with more credits than they know what to do with, supporting a lot of foundations.”
Peter Windsor gave a snort of amusement.
The Graf said, “I expect within a short time to be nominated to the Central Committee, which consists of but ten members and has the ultimate say in all of the World Club’s policies.”
“I didn’t even know they had a Central Committee,” Frank admitted.
“You’re not supposed to, dear boy,” Peter said.
The Graf shot him an impatient look before turning back to Frank. He said, “The real goal of the World Club, Franklin, is world government—a world that has become one under the aegis of the Club. Obviously, such a united world will no longer have wars and…”
Frank interrupted, “But then what would happen to Mercenaries, Incorporated? It seems to me that your organization depends upon a multitude of antagonistic nations. You should be supporting nationalism, not trying to do away with it.”
The Graf smiled his gray smile. “It’s a far-seeing man who is able to accommodate inevitable changes, Franklin. Sooner or later there will be world government. When it comes about, I wish to be part of its direction, not a leftover from the past. This new world government will still have police, still have armed forces…”
Frank interrupted again. “Why armed forces?”
The old mercenary nodded at the question. “To keep the peace. Contrary to popular belief, the first need a state has for an armed force is not to fight foreign enemies but the potential enemy within. As an example, take Latin America before it amalgamated with the United States. They spent billions annually building up their armed forces though there hadn’t been a major war in South America for a century and a half. Those arms were to keep their own people in subjection. So in the future, armed forces will still exist. I will be at their head.”
Frank looked at him in open skepticism.
Margit said, “The first steps have already been taken, Frank—the formation of the United States of the Americas. The World Club is already secretly agitating in Australia and New Zealand for them to apply for admission into the United States. For a long time now, those countries have been closer to America than to England and the rest of Common Europe.” Frank looked over at her. Candlelight did nothing to detract from the charms of Margit Krebs. She flashed sloe eyes at him, aware of their impact.
He made a mental note of her obvious availability, then turned back to his host. “If the United States of the Americas eventually becomes a United States of the World, wouldn’t the IABI become the international police force?”
The Graf waved that aside, saying, “It’s true that John Warfield Moyer, a member of the Central Committee, foresees a united world in which his IABI will be the sole police force; but his organization has been a farce since before the FBI and the CIA were joined together. An organization of clowns, headed by clowns, compared to my own. Moyer will be taken care of, in good time.”
Frank thought about it. He said slowly, “Then you’re in the process of phasing out your mercenary activities in expectation of becoming legal under this new world regime.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Peter said.
Lothar von Brandenburg said, “You are beginning to have second thoughts about my organization, Frank?”
“Perhaps. What about these assassinations, though?”
“Such as the Mahdi? The only thing that will make sense under a world government is a state religion. The United Church, under the Prophet, backs the World Club. The fanatic who calls himself the Mahdi stands in the way of the amalgamation into one of all the world’s religions. I’m afraid he must go. Others, too, of course. Always remember, Franklin, that a comparatively few key figures can change history. The example of Somerset Maugham comes to mind. In his earlier years, while working for British espionage, he was sent to Petrograd to sabotage the Bolshevik revolution. He wrote later that if he had been sent two weeks earlier he might have accomplished his task and the revolution would never have taken place. How would he have done this? He probably had in mind the assassinations of Lenin and Trotsky and perhaps of a few others of the old Bolsheviks.”
The American said grudgingly, “I suppose in some respects you’ve made your point. Under some circumstances, assassination can be called for. But what happens when someone approaches you with a proposal to kill someone who doesn’t deserve killing?”
The Graf raised his eyebrows. He put down his glass of wine. “My dear Franklin, we are pragmatists, not mad dogs. Our interests are not only money. Suppose, for instance, that Mercenaries, Incorporated was approached by an enemy of the Prophet. As I told you, we support the United Church in its efforts to join all organized religions into a single worldwide state church, ending once and for all conflicts between faiths. Very well, not only would we refuse the contract, but we would inform Ezra Hawkins, the Prophet, about this foe of his, so that he could take steps to protect himself.”
“By hiring Mercenaries, Incorporated to eliminate the enemy?” Frank said.
Peter Windsor chuckled. “You’re catching on, dear boy.” Following dinner, they sat for a time in the living room over coffee and cognac. The talk drifted, in deference to Frank, to stories involving his father. The Graf carried most of the conversation, since his relationship with Buck Pinell had extended over years, but Peter Windsor was also able to contribute a few anecdotes. Most of the stories were of a humorous nature and it came to Frank that combat veterans seldom talked much about actual combat itself. When it was shop talk, yes; something involving business at hand. But not as light conversation. Perhaps amateurs might brag of their exploits under fire, but professionals, no. And you couldn’t get much more professional than Lothar von Brandenburg and Peter Windsor.
When the party broke up, Margit offered to conduct Frank back to his suite. The winding corridors and stone stairways of the keep took some learning, and under the influence of the wines during the meal and the generous brandies following it, Frank wasn’t sure he could find his way unaided. The Graf looked tolerant, Peter amused, as they said their goodnights. On the morrow, Frank was to be assigned a guide to show him the Wolfschloss in detail.
As they strolled along the stone corridor, Frank decided that nicety wasn’t called for.
He said, “Your rooms, or mine?”
She looked up at him from the side of her eyes. “I thought you’d never ask. Yours. You might never find your way back to your own suite in the morning.”
And that was the full extent of their courting, their preliminary love play. Margit was a businesslike woman, in her sex life as well as her secretarial work.
In fact, she was as straightforward a woman as he had ever bedded, and at his age, Frank had seldom gone without horizontal refreshments when he had desired them.
In his bedroom, she had stripped with flattering haste, and had pirouetted exactly once, to show off the woman’s body, saying, “Like me?” before sliding into the emperor-sized canopied bed.
His voice was on the thick side as he told her, “Yes,” climbing out of his own clothes.
“Good heavens,” she said, teasing him, “is that for me?”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely, already rampant.
Not for Margit Krebs were new variations of the world’s oldest theme. She took her sex straight and lustily, somewhat surprising Frank, who had expected unique desires on the part of this sophisticated wanton. Perhaps that would come later, he decided as he performed for her. For the present, his lady wanted immediate basic action.
And wanted it again, within minutes after they had both reached rapturous climax. He began to wonder if he had known what he was getting into, so to speak.
Later, as they rested, both staring up at the rich cream-colored canopy above, he said, only partly in humor, “And what is a nice girl like you doing in this kind of work?”
She followed along. “What’s the classic answer to that? Just luck
y, I guess.”
“Come on, come on. On the face of it you’re the junior member of the staff that runs the toughest organization on Earth. Why would a woman like you want to hold down such a job? With your obvious ability you could get top positions anywhere. So why be the notorious Graf’s secretary?”
She looked at him strangely. “It’s where the power is.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Graf is the single most powerful man in the world, darling. Not the wealthiest, not the one with the most political clout, but the most powerful. Others may not always realize that, but he is.”
“Why?”
“Because he holds the life of every other living person in the palm of his hand.”
He thought about that for a long moment, before saying, “But that’s him, not you.”
“The Graf doesn’t operate in a vacuum,” she told him patiently. “There is no such thing as a one-man dictatorship. Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, Mao were the heads of teams. Without the team around them, they wouldn’t have been able to cope. The same with Napoleon and Alexander the Great. Alexander would have been nothing but a headstrong, alcoholic youth had it not been for Nearchus, Parmenion, and other leaders trained by his father Philip. True enough, the Empire broke up upon his death, when the team started fighting among themselves. But while they were still a team, with him at the head, they were invincible. So it is with the Graf. He does not stand alone, making all decisions. He has a team. I’m part of the team. You might be, too.”
That quieted him.
She said, a quirk of amusement there, “I should warn you about Lothar. I think perhaps he’s getting a bit tired of Peter, who isn’t quite as young and pink-cheeks as he used to be.”
That came as a surprise. “You mean he’s gay?”
She laughed. “What is your old American expression? He’s as queer as chicken shit.”
“Not my cup of tea,” he said gruffly.
“You’ve already proven that, darling, though I do hope that you’re up to proving it again.” She reached over to stroke him intimately.
Frank said, “Wizard, but hold it for just a little, eh?”
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