Deathwish World

'Where are we going?' Frank said.

'To the donjon.'

'What's a donjon?'

'The keep.'

'That tells me a lot.'

'In the old days, it was the final defense. It was where

DEATHWISH WORLD igj everybody retreated when the walls were breached Now the Graf and his staff live there.''

Frank could see the keep, the highest and the largest of the towers. It was a castle within a castle and must have been one hell of a disappointment to come up against in the days when you had nothing more than a crossbow, sword, and battleaxe

He was apprehensive about what was to come in his confrontation with Peter Windsor, the Grafs front man One thing was certain: there was no line of retreat for him If something went wrong, there was no possible way for him to get out of the Wolfschloss, even if he had been armed

Chapter Fifteen: The Graf

As Frank and his guide drew nearer to the keep, its true size became ever more impressive. By the time they drew up to its sole entrance, he realized that it was as large as some apartment buildings.

Before the entry were stationed four uniformed guards and an officer. Gone was the easygoing air Frank had come to associate with the mercenaries of the Graf. These five were alert and efficient.

Colin came to attention and saluted the officer, who responded just as snappily and then eyed Frank.

'Franklin Pinell, sir,' Colin said crisply. 'On appointment to see Mr. Windsor.'

'Your identification, sir,' the officer said, holding out his hand.

Frank gave him his card. At this rate, the thing would be worn out before too long.

The other examined it carefully, returned it, saluted Frank with the same snappiness, and said, 'You're expected, sir.'

The ancient medieval door had long since been superseded by a massive steel one. Built into one side of it was a smaller door, just wide enough so that two persons could have walked in side by side. It now slid open. Colin said to Frank, 'This is as far as I go, Mr. Pinell. I'm not cleared for the donjon. Good luck.'

Frank went through the door and was again surprised, as he had been by the parklike effect of the enceinte. The basic medieval aspects of the keep had been retained. The stone walls and narrow apertures were still there. The floors were still flagstone. Otherwise, the ground floor of the keep seemed an ultramodern office building.

There were a score or so office workers in the lobby, walking briskly here or there, papers in hand. They ranged in age from Frank's early twenties to sixty or more but most, both men and women, were on the youthful side. Some were uniformed, some not. Frank approached the first of the desks, mildly surprised that it wasn't automated. Behind it sat a sharp-looking young blonde who would have done the reception room of the largest multinational corporation in Manhattan proud. She smiled encouragingly. Frank said, 'Franklin Pinell to see Mr. Peter Windsor.'

'Your identification, please?'

She took his card, put it into a desk slot, and scanned the screen before her. She returned it to him, and said perkily, 'You're expected, sir. Elevator one.'

The three elevators were numbered in gold. Number one seemed somewhat more ornate than the others. Frank stepped in. There was no order screen, nor any other manner that he could see of activating the compartment. He shrugged.

The door closed and started upward. And continued upward. It would seem that Mr. Peter Windsor was officed in the higher reaches of the keep. Eventually, it came to a halt, and he emerged into an office containing four desks and four very busy workers. It was quite the swankest office Frank had ever been in, including that of Ram Panikkar in Tangier. It was difficult to realize that he was in the nerve center of a castle going back to the days of Richard the Lion-Hearted.

One of the clerks got up from her swivel chair and came toward him briskly, smiling in the same pert manner as the receptionist below. She was dressed in what Frank thought must be the latest from Paris. She said brightly, 'Fraulein Krebs is expecting you, Mr. Pinell. If you'll just come this way.' He said, 'I was to see Peter Windsor.'

'Yes, sir,' she said, leading him across the room to a door which was lettered Margit Krebs in gold. Evidently, he was going to see Fraulein Krebs whether he liked it or not.

The identity screen picked them up and the door swung open. The girl said, 'Mr. Pinell,' and stepped back.

The office inside was luxurious to a point that Frank had never witnessed even in the most lavish Tri-Di shows. Withal, it managed to project a touch of femininity. It could never have been taken for a man's room. Above all, it radiated wealth. Frank was no art expert, but recognized Impressionist paintings when he saw them. There were two on the walls. He had no doubt whatever that they were originals.

Behind one desk sat a serious, studious-looking young man and a woman of, say, thirty-five behind the other. Her strikingly handsome face was difficult to estimate. She had beautifully dark hair, wore tweeds that couldn't disguise a very good figure, and her smile was efficient. But her eyes?

Those eyes had a predatory look as they ran up and down Frank, taking in his face, his frame. He had a feeling new to him. It was usually the man who looked at a woman in such a way as to mentally undress her, estimate her capabilities in bed. Now he felt as though positions were reversed. Did Fraulein Krebs do this to every man she met?

She said, 'Franklin Pinell,' even as she rounded her desk and came toward him with her hand outstretched. 'We've been looking forward to meeting you.'

He shook and murmured some amenity, wondering who in the hell we could be. Why in the world would a bigshot in Mercenaries, Incorporated want to see him? Surely there wouldn't be anyone in the organization lower on the totem pole than Frank Pinell. He had been astonished at the reception he had been getting all the way from Vaduz to here, the inner reaches of the keep.

Margit Krebs said crisply, 'That will be all, Kurt.'

The young man at the desk stood, clicked his heels, and said, 'Ja, Fraulein Krebs,' and left.

When he was gone, Margit said, leaning her buttocks back against her desk, 'And what do you think of the Wolfschloss?'

He managed a small grin and said, 'Flabbergasted. I had no idea of the size of these European castles, nor the excellent condition some of them are in.'

She nodded at that and smiled. 'They're not all so large, of course. And Lothar spent a considerable sum in renovating this one.'

'Like I said, I'm flabbergasted. How many people live here?'

'It varies from day to day, but right now there are 2,321, counting you. Six left yesterday on assignments, but four others returned.'

He blinked at her.

She laughed and said, 'I have total recall, which is one of the reasons I am Lothar's secretary. You see, some items involving Mercenaries, Incorporated can't be written down. With me on hand, Lothar doesn't need written records of such items. The records are in my head.'

'Lothar?'

She cocked her head a bit to one side. 'Lothar von Brandenburg… the Graf.'

'Oh.' He cleared his throat. 'Actually, Ms. Krebs, I was instructed to see Mr. Windsor. I'm not sure why.'

'Margit,' she told him. 'In the inner circles, we're informal. I'll take you to Peter right now. He's expecting you and is rather on the curious side.' She turned and headed for a door opposite the one by which he had entered.

For a moment, he looked at her blankly. Inner circles? Was the competent, efficient, handsome Fraulein Krebs suggesting that Frank Pinell belonged to the inner circles of Mercenaries, Incorporated? She obviously had made some mistake. But how could anybody as sharp as the secretary of the Graf be that far off? And why should the notorious Peter Windsor be curious about meeting Frank Pinell?

He shook his head and followed her. They went down a short corridor and, without knocking, she pushed open a door and strode in briskly. More hesitantly, Frank followed.

The office beyond was almost identical to that of Fraulein Krebs in size, but there was only one desk, and the