you were given unbelievably high marks, suppose that when I entered the Nuits St. George I found you wearing two left shoes, or you were hunched up in posture, or you were dressed in khaki shorts and a man's shirt like a prole. Suppose further that when subjected to a 'pompous superior'—I believe that was your term—you were willing to accept him as your boss.'
She laughed. 'That was all put on! You were testing me.'
He grinned back and nodded. 'If you hadn't the other qualifications we were looking for, you might still have been employed—somehow. But we also wished to check your poise, grooming, physical attractiveness, and sensibilities. You passed with flying colors.'
She looked at him levelly. 'So, if I passed your exam that goes beyond the Ability Quotient tests, just what is this position you have in mind? I've already bombed out as an infiltrator of the Anti-Racist League.'
The other leaned back in his swivel chair and was silent for a few seconds. 'What do you know about the World Club?'
'Why, I suppose what everybody else knows: it's the think tank to end all think tanks—a multinational philanthropic organization which digs into socioeconomic problems confronting the world. Lagrange Five and Asteroid Belt Islands, too, for that matter.'
He nodded but said, 'It's a great deal more than that. It also keeps track of the population explosion, resources, pollution, religion, the tendencies toward the police state, terrorism, and… racism. For your ears only, the Race Research
Foundation is a subsidiary of the World Club. That would be a shocker even to the most diligent news media expose' experts.'
She was wide-eyed now. 'But what has this got to do with me?'
'You've been selected to work directly under the Central Committee, which likes a low profile. For the media, it doesn't exist.'
She was too flabbergasted to speak. He took up a stylo and readied it over a paper pad. 'Before we go further into that, suppose we get the details of this interview you had with the black from the Anti-Racist League. His name?'
'Horace Hampton. Known as Hamp.' Gary McBride flicked on a desk screen and said into it, 'Liz, check out a Horace Hampton, a.k.a. Hamp, of the Anti-Racist League, a black.' Lee said, 'I don't know his I.D. number.' Gary smiled at her. He was a damned sight more likeable than he had been in the restaurant. He said, 'He's black; a member of the Anti-Racist League. He'll be one of their better men if he was your contact. We'll have some record of him.'
They did. Shortly, his dossier began flashing on the screen. From time to time, he read out some extract to her. 'Seems to have some independent source of income, since seldom uses all of his GAS. No criminal record, though he is suspected of being one of the top trouble-shooters of the Anti-Racist League. Suspected in the slapstick fake assassination of Governor Teeter, though thus far there is no evidence.'
Lee was taken aback by that. 'He said that they were against violence.'
Gary chuckled as he looked mockingly at her. 'That's what he said. From what you've reported, he knew that you were a plant. What else could he say?'
'But he seemed sincere.'
'Oh, he's sincere, all right. He sincerely believes that extreme racists, such as Teeter, should be dealt with.' Gary McBride, still scanning the black's dossier as he spoke to her, grunted his surprise.
He glanced up at Lee. 'This is strange,' he said. 'That's possibly the thinnest dossier I've ever seen— especially when it comes to the criminal record.'
She wrinkled her forehead. 'How do you mean?'
'He has none whatsoever. Not even a traffic violation. And, as a result, he has no fingerprint record.' He thought about it. 'I think I'll just forward the name of Horace Hampton to Rome. Perhaps they'll wish to look further into this.'
'Rome?'
'That's where the World Club is based. And that's where you're going, my dear.' His smile was disarming. 'That is, if I can talk you into it.'
Chapter Eight: Frank Pinell
A voice from a far distance was saying, 'Cooee, wot in the flashing hell happened?'
Frank came alive to find, groggily, that he was sitting on the sidewalk, supported by an anxious Nat Fraser, who was hunkered down on one knee.
Frank got out, 'Mugged. Two of them, I think.'
'Barstids,' the Australian growled. 'Damned buggering ragheads. A bloke's not safe to walk up the street. Come on, cobber. We best get you to a sawbones. Never know, might have some broken ribs. They give you the bloody boot?' He got a long, sinewy arm around the fallen American's body and up under his armpits.
'I… I think so,' Frank got out, trying to help himself erect.
'My car's over here. Just luck I came along. Don't usually use this street, Rue d'Angleterre, but I was heading up to Panikkar's place on Cape Spartel.'
Frank half staggered, was half manhandled by his rescuer, to the small sports model hovercar which was parked, door open, at the curb.
As he was wedged into the bucket seat he got out, 'I…1 can't afford a doctor.'
'Don't be a bloody fool, cobber. Let me worry about that.'
The Aussie slammed the door shut and went around the front of the vehicle to the driver's side and got in, not by opening the door, but by winging a long leg over the side, slipping down into place. He said, as they took off up the wandering street, 'It's bonzer I did a bunk from Paul's right after you left, cobber. A bit of luck, eh?'
'In English?' Frank said. The rash of the cool night air was bringing him around.
The Australian laughed and pushed his bush hat down more firmly on his head. 'We'll be there in no time flat, cobber, and then the fur'll fly. Did you see them?'
'No, not well. Couple of Moroccans, I think. Native clothes.' Frank hadn't the vaguest idea what the other was talking about. What fur would fly?
The streets weren't well lighted but they seemed to have left the medina completely and were now in the European part of town. The road climbed.
'Up here's the Marshand,' Nat called over to him. 'The more money a bloke's got in this bloody town, the higher up on the mountain he lives.'
Frank felt the back of his head gingerly. He had no doubts he'd have a beautiful knot there in the morning. He felt his ribs. Nothing seemed broken, but you never knew. He understood you could go around with a broken rib for weeks and sometimes not know it. He searched for a handkerchief and came up with one, about the only thing that his assailants hadn't taken. He coughed and spat into it. There was no blood.
They emerged from the town proper. The houses were more widely spaced and reminiscent of the Spanish Colonial architecture of Southern California and the older towns of Mexico. Most of the villas were surrounded by pine and gum trees and now the road ran along a cliff with incomparable views of the sea and the Spanish coast beyond.
Frank said, 'Where'd you say we were going?' He was feeling better by the minute.
'My boss's digs. He'll have a sawbones there.' Shortly afterward, Nat said, 'Cape Spartel. Farthest west a bloke can get in Africa.'
Frank blinked at the group of buildings they were approaching, by far the most extensive estate they had passed. They were surrounded by a wall of dressed fieldstone, possibly six feet high. Wrought-iron uprights were planted at the top, and the spaces between were entwined with vicious barbed wire.
They came to a halt outside a small fortress of a gatehouse, also of fieldstone. Frank noticed that they had passed over a trigger plate in the road.
A guard came out. He was wearing a beret, what looked like a paratrooper's combat uniform, and heavy leather boots. He carried a small submachine gun which he handled with the ease of a professional. A bright light came on from the guardhouse and zeroed in on their faces. There was a series of audible clicks and Frank got the feeling that a TV lens was on them. Okay, it was their needle, they could thread it as they liked.
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
