Deathwish World

a small Gyrojet, a silencer attachment on its muzzle.

'Come on, Sergeant,' he muttered. 'It's you and me now. We'll go to ground and start recruiting for our counterattack. That scum Brandenburg doesn't know what fighting men are. He hires lads to do his dirty work; hasn't been in action himself for decades. I just wonder how impregnable that Wolfschloss of his really is.'

The sergeant opened the door, peered up and down the dark corridor, then let the colonel precede him. They hurried down the stairway, the colonel pressing the light button, as had Nat Fraser, at each landing. And at each landing they shot glances up and down the hotel corridor. The lobby was empty.

'This way,' Rivas snapped. 'Out the back. To the alley.'

They went behind the desk and utilized the same door that the concierge had disappeared through on Nat Fraser's orders. They went down a dark, narrow corridor to the portal leading out into the alley. The colonel, gun in right hand, cautiously opened it and peered through.

The alley was dark, very black, and led to the left. It had no lights at all. One end led out onto the street; the other was a cul-de-sac blocked by a high brick wall. On each side, the walls were blank and tall. The only light came from the street, fifty feet away. The door through which they emerged was at pavement level. The alley was cobblestoned, going back to the days of Napoleon the Little. As they emerged into it, two figures entered from the street, cautiously, half crouched.

'Damn!' the colonel snarled. 'We can't afford a shoot-out here. The flics would lay it at my door. Back, back the other way!'

But then he slowly, as though with great care, leaned forward and went down onto his knees. He coughed softly, then leaned forward again and put his hands on the cobblestones in front of him. The Gyrojet pistol clanged to the paving. He slowly bowed his head, as though staring in fascination at the cobbles before him. There was a splashing sound. His arms and legs seemed to give way at the same time and he fell forward into the puddle of his own aortic blood.

Nat Fraser and Frank Pinell came up, tucking their guns back into holsters beneath their coats. They stared down at the body. A four-inch combat knife handle protruded upward from the body of Boris Rivas. The Australian looked up at the sergeant and nodded. 'Be with you in a meejum minute, Sengor.'

He turned and led Frank, who had been staring at the fallen man in dread fascination, twenty feet down the alley.

Nat said, his voice unruffled and unhurried, 'You do a bunk back to the hotel and get your things. I'll stay here with the wog and do the necessary. Your orders are to go to Vaduz, in Liechtenstein, and to the Wolfschloss—that's the Graf's stronghold. You're to contact Peter Windsor there. I won't be seeing you again, cobber, not this time.' He stuck his right hand out. 'It was bonzer getting to know you, Frank.'

Frank Pinell ignored the hand and looked into the other's face coldly. He said, his voice even, 'I won't shake hands with you, Fraser. You're no friend of mine. You and Panikkar had it all worked out to set me up for that Mahdi job. Anybody with a brain in his head could see that it was a one-way trip. I don't know what happened, or why, but at the last minute this Peter Windsor, or somebody else on the Graf's staff, diverted me to this instead. I played along with you for a while, Fraser, just to see what the hell was going on, but I never would have taken that Mahdi job. It was suicide.'

The big Australian nodded. He took off the bush hat, reset the brim, then returned it to his head. 'What you say's the dinkum oil, cobber. Sorry. It was out of my mucking hands. I have to take whatever orders they give me. You see, they've got a lock on me.'

He turned and went back in the direction of the sergeant, who had the body of Boris Rivas under the arms and was hauling it back into the dark hallway of the hotel.

Frank took the rocket shuttle from Paris to Zurich, then a vacuum tube to Buchs, on the Liechtenstein border. The vacuum tube line crossed the tiny principality on its way to Vienna but didn't stop in Liechtenstein. There was evidently no shuttleport, nor even an airport. Frank began to get the idea of just how small and remote this country was when he had to take a surface bus to complete his journey.

There had been no customs inspection at the border; that was taken care of in Vaduz itself. He didn't spot any police but the bus station had an official look about it and there were several men lounging about clad like those stationed at Colonel Ram Panikkar's fortress-like estate in Tangier—berets, commando-type uniforms, and paratrooper boots. They carried Gyrojet carbines as naturally as though they had been bora with them in hand. None of them paid any particular attention to Frank, who was the sole passenger debarking at Vaduz.

There was a desk with a sign reading Customs and Immigration and, carrying his own two bags, he made his way to it. The young man there, dressed in civilian garb rather than a uniform, looked up at Frank's approach.

He frowned slightly and said in English, after taking in the newcomer's appearance, 'I'm afraid you have made a mistake, sir. Liechtenstein is not a tourist country. There is nothing particular here to attract visitors. If you hurry, you can return to the bus, which makes its next stop in Feldkirch, in Austria. You can take the vacuum tube from there to Innsbruck or…'

Frank said, 'Thanks for the wholehearted welcome, but I'm here to see Mr. Peter Windsor at the, uh, Wolfschloss, whatever that is.'

The other's voice became more brisk. 'I see. May I see your identification?'

Frank brought forth his International Credit Card, which had been given him by Colonel Panikkar in Tangier. He had wondered at the time if it was a forgery, but evidently not. He had drawn on it for credit when traveling without any difficulty. He wondered how many pseudo-dollar credits he had to his account.

An International Credit Card, as always, doubled as a passport. The customs man glanced at it and then put it in a slot. In moments, a voice from the desk screen spoke in German. The official nodded and handed it back to Frank. He must have pressed a button with either hand or foot, since one of the uniformed men came up.

The customs man said, 'Escort Mr. Pinell to the Wolfschloss. He is to see Mr. Windsor at the donjon.'

'Right,' the other said, and took Frank in. He lifted one of the two pieces of luggage and said, 'This way.'

Frank followed him out to a small parking area and to one of the several jeeps there. They put the bags in the back and climbed into the front.

The other looked as though he was probably American and spoke like it as well. He must have been roughly Frank's own age but had a toughness about him somewhat reminiscent of Nat Fraser.

As he started up, he said, 'First trip here?'

'That's right,' Frank said.

'Bore you shitless unless you're quartered up in the schloss. Not bad up there.'

'What's a schloss?'

'Castle.'

Frank said, 'American?'

His guide hesitated momentarily before saying, 'Canadian.'

'I guess that makes you an American these days. Been here long?'

The other looked over at him briefly, then turned his attention back to the road without answering. It would seem that questions weren't good form locally, though the Canadian had asked the first one.

It was an excellent road. They had passed out of Vaduz in moments. Frank said, 'I work for the Graf, too. At least, I think I do.'

That didn't seem to lower any barriers. They went on.

Frank look up shortly and said, 'For Christ's sake.'

The driver grinned. 'Looks like something out of a fairy story the first time you see it, eh?'

Frank had never seen a castle before, save in historical Tri-Di shows. He had no idea that they could be this large. The Wolfschloss was built atop a small mountain. Even the lower foundations were a thousand feet above the valley floor. It brought to mind an action-filled movie revival of the last century, depicting the good guys storming the Alcazar in Segovia. They had used catapults, small primitive cannon, battering rams, and finally, scaling ladders. It had been on the gruesome side, with the defenders pouring melted lead and boiling oil down on the attacking forces. The good guys had finally taken the castle by storm, but Frank had wondered ever since what sort of soldier would be idiot enough to be first man up one of those scaling ladders.

He had never expected a castle to be as large as the looming Wolfschloss. He wondered if it had ever been captured in the old days. He didn't see how it could have been, before the advent of heavy artillery.