Since doors were open, it could be seen that there were two bedchambers and a bath. The place was better furnished, more comfortable than would have been expected of the Hotel Balcon.
The room they had entered was filled with chairs, a table, files, piles of papers, maps, and correspondence. Behind an old metal desk sat Colonel Boris Rivas. Rivas sat straight in his chair, his posture military. His face was dark and somewhat oily, so that he looked more like a Greek or Turk than a Frenchman. His black hair was streaked with gray and looked as though it could use a shampoo. He was on the brawny side, and wore his civilian clothing uncomfortably.
His dark eyes gleamed dislike but he said, in passable English, 'Sit down, Fraser.' He looked at Frank, sent his eyes over to Nat again, but then brought them back to Frank, whom he took in at greater length. 'And who is this?' he demanded.
Nat had taken one of the comfort chairs, crossing his long legs. Frank sat down in the other. The big black leaned against the wall and watched them, his face still expressionless.
The Australian pushed his bush hat to the back of his head and said, 'The arrangement was that there be two of us and two of you. Fair dinkum. This is Frank Pinell, one of the Grafs newest boys. Frank, our cheeky cove behind the desk is Colonel Boris Rivas. Who bloody well promoted him to colonel, nobody seems to know.'
'That's enough provocative talk, Fraser,' the colonel snapped. 'And this is Sergeant Sengor, long ago of the Senegalese Airborne Commandos, my right-hand man—and bodyguard.' The colonel brought his eyes back to Frank and said, 'You wouldn't be related to the late Buck Pinell, would you? There is a resemblance.'
Frank wrinkled his forehead and said, 'My father's name was Willard.'
'He was a mercenary?'
Frank said uncomfortably, 'Could be. I was very young when he died and I was told very little about him.'
'If you're the son of Buck Pinell, I'm surprised to see you in the employ of Brandenburg. Pinell was a man. The Graf is a wolf.'
Nat said, 'Cooee, who's giving with the mucking provocative talk now?'
Rivas ignored him. 'I've always suspected that Graf Lothar von Brandenburg was responsible for Buck Pinell's death.'
'Pull your head in,' the big Australian growled. 'A fine bloke you are to throw such narky nonsense around. You're crazy as a kookaburra if you think the Graf did Buck in. They cobbered up with each other when they were both no older than joeys.' He looked over at Frank. 'I never met Buck Pinell meself; before me time, gawdstrewth. But if he was your father, he was a wowser, from all they say.'
The colonel hit his desk a double rap in impatience. 'Shall we get on with it?' he said. 'You contacted me for a meeting. Very well, what do you have to say? I warn you, I will not be intimidated by Brandenburg's cheap threats.'
Nat Fraser grinned at him. 'The Graf wouldn't spend his bloody time on a cheeky zany like you, Rivas. Peter Windsor sent us, strewth. The mucking message is simple enough for a dingo to get it through his block. The mercenary business is too bloody small for any competition. So Windsor says this is your last mucking chance. You and your whole bloody outfit are invited to join up with Mercenaries, Incorporated.'
Boris Rivas's dark face went darker still. He made little attempt to conceal his rage. 'Or else?'
'Windsor thought you'd know,' Nat said easily.
'Fraser, you can take this message to that pig Windsor. I am in control of all contracts in this part of Common Europe. I shall continue to be. I am not afraid of the Graf. His organization hasn't handled a sizeable mercenary operation for years. His contracts these days are almost all individual hit jobs which, of course, are more in keeping with his talents. Sergeant, see the gentlemen to the door!' Boris Rivas pushed out of his chair and made his way over to his improvised bar where he sloshed a sizeable drink into a highball glass, adding no mixer to it before knocking it back.
Without speaking further to the French mercenary, Nat Fraser came to his feet and made a gesture with his head to Frank. 'Let's do a bunk, cobber. This bloody arse is asking for it, strike me blind if he isn't.'
The sergeant, his face still empty of expression, opened the door for them.
When they were gone, the colonel, still in a rage, snarled to his guard, 'We'll see about Nat Fraser, the lickspittle. That Windsor scum has his gall sending two of his gunmen to try and intimidate me. Me! Why, I've seen more combat than Brandenburg and Windsor put together.'
He sat down again at his desk and angrily dialed on his TV phone.
When the face appeared, he snapped, in French now, 'Captain Bois, get over here with as many of your lads as you can assemble within a few minutes, to man my hotel. The Graf has thrown down the gauntlet. We'll have to confer. I'm getting in touch with Major Dupres and Captain Flaubert as well. There's a possibility that we might have some trouble with that Australian swine, Fraser.'
The face on the screen was that of a thin man, somewhat bucktoothed and now looking cautiously unhappy. 'What did Fraser have to say? Dupres informed me that you were to meet with him.'
'Peter Windsor demands that we ally with the Graf. In a subservient position, without doubt.'
Captain Bois said, still cautiously, 'And what did you tell him?'
'I threw him out, of course—Fraser, that is. But now I'm alone here with Sergeant Sengor. I think we'd better move some of the lads into the hotel, just to be sure. One doesn't know what that murderous Fraser's orders might be.'
The thin man shook his head. 'Sorry, Boris. You're not big enough to go up against the Graf. He tolerated small organizations such as ours in the past, while recruiting our best men. But now contracts are too few and far between for him to allow competition. He's amalgamating every mercenary group still outside the ranks of Mercenaries, Incorporated.'
'Traitor!'
The other shook his head again and his tone was apologetic. 'I talked it over with Flaubert. We've both had offers from Windsor to go on the Graf's full-time retainer, with promotions. I'm afraid we're taking the offers, Boris. I suggest that you make your own peace with him. He'd probably promote you to brigadier.'
'Brigadier, you ass! He hasn't had a brigade-sized contract since '80.'
The other's face was rueful, even as it faded from the screen.
Boris Rivas was livid. He came to his feet again, went back to the liquor, and repeated his performance of a few minutes before. He said to the impassive black, 'Get a drink, Sergeant,' and returned to the desk.
Sengbr went over to the bottles, poured himself a small gin, and returned with it to his place against the wall, near the door.
Rivas flicked on the phone screen again and dialed. When the face appeared, it was that of a coarse, middle-aged man who looked as though he was half drunk. In fact, even as he sat there before the screen, he lifted a glass to his lips.
Rivas snapped, 'What's the matter with you?'
'Nothing.'
'Well, confound it, get over here with any of the men you have in mat bistro with you. We're having a fracas with the Graf and his pigs.'
'I know. The word is all about town.'
The colonel stared at him. 'Spread by whom?'
'By Bois and Flaubert, among others. They said that you're washed up, Boris. They're signing with Brandenburg.'
'And what do you think, Henri?' the colonel snarled in a high rage.
The other took another drink. 'I've stopped thinking. I can't afford it. Peter Windsor hasn't approached me. If he doesn't by the weekend, I'll offer him my services. If he doesn't want them, it looks as though I'm retired.'
The face faded and Rivas slumped back in his chair for a long moment. Finally, he got up and poured himself another drink, a smaller one this time. Carrying the glass with him, he went over to one of the curtained windows. He said to the black, 'Turn off those lights.'
The sergeant brushed his hand over the switch at the side of the door. Rivas stood to one side of the window and pushed back the curtain a few inches. Across the street, he could make out a figure standing in a doorway. He let the curtain back and for a moment leaned against the wall, breathing deeply. He knocked the drink back and threw the glass across the room, shattering it against the far wall. His hand went beneath his coat to emerge with
