Deathwish World

and be answered in another—even occasionally in Spanish, Italian, or Russian.

Von Brandenburg looked back at Peter Windsor. 'How is that fracas in Somalia progressing?'

'Dormant. However, the Sheik has put in an order for two hundred infantrymen and six hover-tanks, the British Vickers model.'

The Graf looked at his secretary. 'Do we have them available?'

'At the Gao depot,' Margit said. 'They can be available for shipping within twenty-four hours, with crews.'

Peter shook his head. 'Where does the beggar get the funds for a contract of this size? One would think there would be Sweet Fanny Adams in his treasury.'

'From the Arab Union,' his chief told him. And then, 'Speaking of Africa, what is the latest on Mahem Dhu? I had an indignant call from the Prophet's man last night. This fanatic's movement is spreading like wildfire. He wants the man to be taken care of immediately.'

Peter nodded. 'It's had its complications, you know. I put Spyros Kakia on it. He's our best cover-builder and analyzer. Spyros concluded that hitting the so-called Mahdi wouldn't be overly difficult; he's out in public constantly, for all practical purposes without guards, as befits a holy man. But Spyros sees no possibility of a successful hit. I fancied that our only possibility was to locate a gull—a patsy, as the Yanks call it. One's turned up from the States. Chap named Franklin Pinell, a deportee. Guilty of a homicide romp. He was duped into selecting Tangier for his refuge and that Aussie Nat Fraser took over. Pinell was stripped of everything and then convincingly taken under the wing of Ram Panikkar, with his usual efficiency. A bit of a swine, Ram, but unbeatable at this sort of thing. Pinell is grateful to Ram and agreed to take the Mahdi assignment. His cover will be as a media man, which will guarantee his access to Mahem Dhu. He'll perform the hit.' Peter sighed. 'Unfortunately, the fast chopper which is supposedly posted for his escape will never materialize.'

The Graf nodded acceptance. 'Those fanatical followers will tear him to pieces.' He frowned. 'What did you say his name was?'

Peter looked down at his clipboard. 'Franklin Pinell.'

Von Brandenburg thought about it, his smoky eyes nan-owing. He said finally, 'What was the name of Buck Pinell's son? Remember? Buck was always proudly bringing forth his wallet and insisting we look at his snapshots.'

His right-hand man thought back. 'Frankie,' he said.

'The name isn't that common.' The Graf looked at Margit. 'Buck Pinell was before your time, Fraulein, but get me his dossier and that of this Franklin Pinell.' He looked back at Peter Windsor. 'What was Buck's real first name?'

'Willard, wasn't it? He never used it. I didn't know him as well as you did, Lothar. What was it the news chaps used to call him? The Lee Christmas of the 21st century.'

'Yes,' the Graf murmured. 'We were young men together in the early days of the organization. My best friend, I suppose you would say. Who was Lee Christmas, Fraulein?'

Margit Krebs had already activated the communications screen which sat next to her chair, to order the required dossiers. Now her eyes seemed to film and she recited, 'Lee Christmas, most notable of the pre-World War One American mercenaries, operated in South and Central America. Almost singlehanded he was successful in several revolutions and military revolts, especially in Honduras. He would attain high rank in the new administration but inevitably step on the wrong toes and be dismissed, often to flee for his life. Later he might return and participate in the overthrow of the government he had brought to power. A lone soldier of fortune who owned a Maxim or Vickers machine gun, could gather a handful of followers and defeat a Central American army. He was considered unique among the other mercenaries because he refused to fight on the side he thought in the wrong.''

The Graf laughed softly, which brought Peter Windsor's eyebrows up. The other wasn't prone to displaying humor. 'That sounds like Buck,' he said. 'It was his one shortcoming.'

He came to his feet absently and went over to the huge window to stare out over the Furstensteig path along the high ridge dividing the Rhine and Samina valleys. The peaks reached six to seven thousand feet, the highest in the Leichtenstein Alps.

The dossiers, in printout, dropped from the slot in front of the secretary. Margit took them up and quickly scanned them. She said, 'You were correct, Herr Graf. Franklin Pinell is the son of Willard Pinell. Their photos are even remarkably similar.'

Lothar von Brandenburg said musingly, 'And why was young Franklin deported?'

'He had four felonies on his record. The final one was decisive. He shot a man to death.'

'Why?'

'He refused to reveal that. His victim was evidently unarmed, shot down in cold blood.' The revelation didn't faze Margit Krebs.

The Graf turned and faced Peter Windsor, who was already eyeing his superior in concern. He said, 'Find an alternative gobemouche to liquidate the Mahdi.'

Peter stood, one hand out in protest. 'Oh, look here, Lothar, this is a million-dollar contract! We can't afford to flub it, don't you know? The Prophet would be incensed. This Pinell chap seems to be a natural, and I daresay it might take donkey's years to find another dupe.'

The older man's expressionless, smoky eyes took him in. 'I will not condone the sacrifice of the son of Buck Pinell, Peter.'

'I didn't expect sentiment from you, Chief.'

'Neither did I. However, I suggest that instead of the Mahdi contract, you send young Pinell to Paris. Have him remonstrate with Colonel Rivas, who seems to be getting too big for his britches, as Buck would have put it. Let him accompany Nat Fraser on the assignment. The Australian is an old hand; he can report how Franklin Pinell reacts to being blooded. I'll want a full report from him and then, possibly, we'll have Buck's son here to the Wolfschloss to gather our own impressions.'

His second in command shrugged it off, clearly dissatisfied, and turned back to his clipboard. 'Now: this Dave Carlton chap in New Jersey has been poaching on our military surplus enterprises. Last week he sold one hundred Skoda assault rifles to Chavez, that guerrilla in Colombia who is attempting to arouse the Colombians to throw off their affiliations with the United States of the Americas.'

Chapter Twelve: The Nihilists

Rick Flavelle looked over at his sole surviving companion, who leaned against the steel wall near one of the gunports.

Rick said, 'It's damn quiet.'

'Yeah,' Alfredo said. 'Ever since they yelled for us to surrender and you told them to get fucked. You know what they're doing? They're bringing up something to open up this tin can.'

'Hell,' Rick said, checking the clip in his Gyrojet automatic. 'They'd need a laser rifle. How's your arm?'

'I immobilized it with a syrette. But it's sure as hell useless. How's your side?'

'Okay,' Rick lied. He carefully slid back the slide of his gunport and peered out. There was nothing to be seen.

The steel pillbox in which they were making their ultimate stand was beautifully camouflaged in almost the exact center of the Dunninger Mountain resort home, in a beautiful patio garden. Beautiful, but on the shot-up and bombed-out side right now. From the exterior, as they well knew, the pillbox looked like an innocent rock garden. One had to scramble about it quite carefully to find the well-disguised door, not to speak of the gunports.

Rick said, 'How's your ammo?'

'Down to the last clip. I'm too fucked up with this dead arm to throw the clip and count them.'

'You better click the stud over to single fire,' Rick said.

The other made a face in pain and growled, 'You think I'm a dizzard? I long since did that.'

Rick brought his gun up and carefully brought the barrel to the gunport. He squinted and gently, gently, squeezed the trigger.

'What the hell you shooting at?' Alfredo growled. 'Did you get him?'

'I don't know. Just keeping them honest. I thought I saw something move. You think the bastards might be gone?'

The other laughed bitterly. 'You think the fucking sun will rise in the west tomorrow? Why should they be