Brandenburg were uncomfortable about his eyes. He dressed during the day in formal business wear, complete with dark cravat, although ties had seldom been worn for half a century. His suits were invariably faultless; though it was untrue that he never wore one twice, still they gave that impression.
Peter Windsor was of a very different sort. Possibly twenty years younger than the man he served as second in command, he was fresh of face, lime green of eye, handsome in the English aristocrat manner. Over six feet tall, his lank body gave an impression of indolence if not downright laziness, he being inclined to sprawl rather than sit. From this graceful indolence, one could easily reach a wrong impression. Peter Windsor, which was not the name with which he had been christened, had come to the attention of the Graf some twenty-five years in the past when the pink-cheeked lad gained a field promotion to brigade commander in a desperately close-fought action in East Africa. Most of the senior mercenary officers were casualties. The Graf had immediately drawn Windsor under his wing, knowing a good thing when he saw one.
The third person was Margit Krebs, long-time secretary, stenographer, girl Friday, and brain trust of the Graf. Her hair was black, unlikely for a Dane, and her face was not Scandinavian, but broad with a wide chin and Magyar cheekbones— the kind of face that aged slowly. Indeed, she could have passed for anywhere between thirty and fifty. She invariably dressed in British tweeds during the business day, which understated her marvelous legs and figure.
The Graf lowered himself precisely into his favorite heavy leather chair and nodded to his two underlings. 'Margit, Peter,' he said, even as he pressed a button set into the side of the chair's arm.
'Good morning, chief,' Peter Windsor said.
And, 'Good morning,
A side door opened and a servant entered. He was garbed in the medieval livery of a Germanic court and bore a tray with coffee things. All were of gold save the Dresden cups. The servant, granite of expression, put the tray on the small table about which the three sat.
'Thank you, Sepp,' the Graf said and reached for the pot.
'
Peter, as he watched the other pour, said, 'Lothar, if the organization ever goes broke we can flog this service of yours and retire in comfort, I shouldn't wonder.'
His superior didn't smile but said, 'It was ever my boyhood ambition, Peter, to start the day off having one's breakfast and morning beverage served on gold.'
When all had their coffee in hand, the Graf turned his enigmatic gaze on his second. '
The tall Englishman, dressed with all-out informality in sweatshirt, slacks, and tennis shoes, had a clipboard beside him. He took it up saying, 'No real crises this morning, Chief.' He looked at the top sheet on the clipboard. 'A contract has come through to have Senator Miles Deillon hit. One of his business competitors.'
'Ah, the American agricultural tycoon? Why bring it to my attention? Couldn't you have handled such a routine matter? A senator, eh, and a major landowner at that. It would be a double-A contract, very lucrative.'
Peter nodded. 'But there may be complications.'
The older man nodded, waiting.
Peter said, 'The senator has had his wind up for some time. Afraid of being kidnapped or worse by the American Nihilists, you know. We supply his bodyguard. Three men per shift on a round-the-clock basis—nine men in all.'
'Yes? And the complication?' The Graf sipped his coffee, holding the cup in a small womanish hand.
His British subordinate blinked. 'I say, we can't be hired both to assassinate a man
'Why not?'
Peter put down his own cup of coffee and closed his eyes for a moment. 'Well…'he said.
The Graf waved a hand negatively. 'I assume that Luca Cellini in New York is supplying the guards. If he fails in protecting the senator, it will be a mark against his reputation in the organization. I assume your hit men will come from the ranks of Jacques's Corsicans. They're the best. Very well, if they are unsuccessful in their attempt, Jacques will be shamed. Luca and Jacques are good organization men but we cannot put up with incompetence. Too many contracts inefficiently carried out would lead to a bad image and our competitors would take advantage. I would dislike seeing either of these men go, but business is business. There are many young men with us who are anxious for promotion, willing and ready to step into the shoes of either Luca or Jacques.'
Peter shook his head and made a mark with his stylo on the sheet of paper, then folded it back to scan the next one. 'I've still got much to learn in this field.'
The Graf said, 'Speaking of competitors, it has come to my attention that our Colonel Boris Rivas, in Paris, is again taking measures to undersell us and provide a mercenary group for some chief in Mali who wishes to overthrow a neighbor. Approach the colonel once more with a suggestion that he join with us.'
Peter said, after making his note, 'There's one small item that might be of interest. One of these so-called Deathwish Policies. We get several a day, of course, but this is an exception.'
'Yes?' the older man said politely.
'A chap named Roy Cos. He took a standard contract with Brett-James in Nassau. It seemed simply routine.'
'Really, Peter, this is a minor matter.'
'It has its element. You see, the clod's disappeared—dropped out of sight. Hasn't used the International Credit Card Brett-James issued him nor, for that matter, his own American card. The lads assigned to hit Cos can't put the bloody crosshairs on him.'
The Graf frowned. 'It seems to me that we had a similar case some years ago which eventually cost us quite a bit.' He looked over at Margit, who sat quietly, hands in her lap. 'Refresh me on our position in this regard, my dear
Margit said, 'If the subject is liquidated within the first week of the contract, we receive half a million pseudo-dollars. However, this amount is lowered to a quarter million if he is not liquidated within the following week. If three weeks elapse before he is eliminated, instead of being recompensed at all, we pay a penalty of half a million pseudo-dollars for each day he survives.'
'Indeed? Yes, now it comes back to me.' He looked at Peter Windsor. 'I assume that you have investigated. Have you come to any conclusion?'
'I checked this Roy Cos's Dossier Complete. He is a national organizer of the Wobblies.'
The Graf turned his empty eyes to Margit.
She closed her eyes and began to recite in an inflectionless voice. 'A revolutionary group founded in 1903 by American unionists, anarchists, and socialists, under the name Industrial Workers of the World, or I.W.W. Their program involved organizing workers into one Big Union which would take charge of the world's economy by legal means. For a time they grew rapidly but their anarchists began to advocate sabotage and violence around 1908, and the government was able to legally crush them. By the 1930s, they had all but disappeared.
'But not quite completely. Their goals and methods have changed until now they have few similarities to the old I.W.W. They contend that the means of production, distribution, and so forth, should be democratically owned and operated by the people as a whole rather than being private property or in the hands of the State. They believe that this would give rise to full employment and a new surge of progress.'
Peter snorted. 'Full employment? With all the automation available? They're heading for the bend, if they're not already around it.''
Margit opened her eyes. 'They seem to believe that the present-day proles, now on GAS, should be put to work in the arts, cleaning up ecology problems, that sort of thing.'
Von Brandenburg sighed. 'Very well, the man is a revolutionist. Does this have any connection with his taking out a Deathwish Policy? It doesn't seem consistent.'
The tall Englishman looked back at his notes. 'He's beginning to get a bit of publicity, don't you know? The news media are making quite a story of it. Before, these Wobblies were seldom heard of.'
His superior snapped to Margit, 'Get through to Luca Cellini in New York and have him put his best people on this. Cos is to be hit absolutely soonest.'
They spoke alternately in English, German, and French. One might ask a question in any of these languages
