Deathwish World

'You ought to know; you must get a wide variety of them. The United Church will take anything into its ranks, down to and including animists.'

The Archbishop was sadly forgiving. He said softly, 'In my Father's house there are many mansions. We are all one in the loving eyes of God, be he called Jehovah, Allah, Brahma, Maya, or The Great Spirit.'

Jerry said, taking another healthy pull at his drink, 'Or Artemis and Pan, for the sake of the various witch cults. You'll adapt to anything to suck another faith into the United Church. If the Aztec religion was still in existence, you'd allow them to cut out the hearts of a few thousand victims each year. If the Canaanites were still with us, they could throw their firstborn into the flaming bronze maw of Ba'al.'

'Surely, my son, this is not a subject upon which to jest.' There was sorrow in the voice of the Prophet's right-hand man, but his eyes were narrow and cold.

'I wasn't kidding,' Jerry said. 'The archives don't record what long-dead con man first dreamed up religion and put nine-tenths of the human race on the sucker list, but he must have been a genius.'

The Archbishop said, his long face expressionless, 'I am neglecting my duties as the representative of a candidate member of the Central Committee. I must pay my respects to Harrington Chase. His devotion to the United Church is well known; only last week he contributed a million pseudo-dollars. If you'll forgive me.'

When he was gone, Jerry said to Peter Windsor, 'I hate to see you two getting together.'

Peter said, 'Oh, Willy's all right. I assume that most of us in the World Club are either agnostics or atheists, but we'll always have religion with us, and I'd rather see the United Church on our side than have it oppose us.'

'Sometimes I wonder what our side is,' Jerry said. He fixed his eyes on the tall Britisher. 'Have you heard about the attack on me yesterday?'

The other looked worried. 'Yes, I did, Jerry. Jolly good that you were able to thwart the beggar.'

'Yeah, wasn't it? What I've been wondering about was who fingered me.'

'What do you mean, dear boy?'

'I mean that it seems unlikely that cloddy went to all the trouble to get a job at the Hostaria dell'Orso just to take a crack at the first wealthy customer to come along. If he had, he would have polished someone else off long before I arrived on the scene. It's the most expensive restaurant in town and there's a fistful of millionaires and top politicians there every day. No, he was waiting for me. Somebody had tipped the Nihilists off that it was my favorite eating spot. I'd just got in to Rome the same day. And he was waiting.'

Peter looked distressed. 'What's your point, old chap?'

'All of a sudden, the Nihilists seem to be taking an extraordinary interest in members and candidate members of the Central Committee. It was only a few days ago that Harry Dunninger was knocked off by them, back in the States. If he hadn't been, sure as hell the Central Committee would have nominated him to full membership. With him eliminated, it looks as though either the Graf or the Prophet has a much better chance. If I'd been knocked off, both of them would have the chance.'

'I don't follow you.'

'I think you'd better try.' Jerry Auburn's eyes had lost their alcohol sheen and were now very level.

The Englishman shook his head. 'Really, old boy, I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Your people had the contract to guard Dunninger. When the Nihilists raided his estate, four of the guards had been pulled off, weakening resistance so that overwhelming the defense was a cinch. Now, what I want to know is what contracts you people have with the Neo-Nihilists.'

Peter Windsor flushed in indignation. He said strongly, 'Really, Auburn, your suggestion is inadmissible.'

Jerry's voice was winter cold. 'I'm asking you if you have contacts with the Nihilists. If you tell me no, and through my people I later find out that you have, your organization is mud in the World Club, chum-pal. Remember that I'm a member of the Central Committee. All by myself I can blackball the Graf from ever becoming a full member. I think I could throw enough weight to have him tossed out of the World Club entirely. And that would hardly fit in with your plans, would it, Windsor?'

'Now, see here, Jerry,' Peter Windsor said hurriedly. 'You're getting off onto the wrong foot. Of course, the Graf has infiltrated the Nihilists, along with all other subversive organizations. A great deal of our work is espionage. We infiltrate everywhere, especially into organizations having any sort of political connotations.'

'So, who's your head mole in the Nihilists?'

The other stared at him. 'We haven't one. We have several plants among them but they're not of enough importance for us to go to any great extent to infiltrate them. It's just a matter of keeping the sods under observation. Had we gotten news that poor Harold Dunninger was to be kidnapped, we would have immediately informed him. The Graf, after all, is a loyal candidate member of the Central Committee.'

Jerry Auburn took him in for a long, cold moment. 'We'll see about that,' he said. He finished his drink with the stiff-wristed motion of the practiced drinker, turned on his heel, and headed for the bar, leaving the Englishman staring after him, boiling anger in his pale killer eyes.

Lee Garrett gave up at about one o'clock in the morning. She had done her best to make acquaintances, as ordered by Shelia Duff-Roberts, and had met perhaps a dozen of the members and candidates. She had spent the last half hour in the'company of Nils Norden. From what she had gathered, the Scandinavian tycoon was on the fence so far as the divisions within the organization were concerned. If Chase and his colleagues were the right wing of the Committee, and Jerry Auburn was on the left wing, then Nils Norden must be thought of as the center. Not that she'd discussed the World

Club with him to any extent. Largely, he seemed interested in conducting her back to her suite—and to bed.

By this time, she had learned the layout of this part of the Palazzo well enough that she had no trouble finding her way to her quarters. She sighed her weariness, kicked off her shoes, picked them up, and headed for the suite's interior, her bedroom in mind. To get to it, she had to pass through the living room. She was surprised to find the lights were on.

Then she spotted Jerry Auburn sprawled on the fifteenth-century couch, his feet, shoes and all, up on one arm of the priceless antique. His inevitable glass was on a low table, within easy reach. He looked up at her.

'What is the meaning of this, Mr. Auburn?'

'Jerry,' he said. 'If we're to become lovers we must forget formalities.'

'Lovers!' She dropped her shoes onto the floor and slipped her feet into them. 'If you came here to…'

He held up a weary hand. 'Please. No indignation. I never rape girls. I've never had to. In fact, sometimes they rape me.'

She snorted and ran her eyes over his sturdy athlete's body. 'It'd take quite a mopsy to rape you, my friend.'

'I rape easily—a flaw in my character,' he explained, swinging his feet around and to the floor. 'Sit down, Lee. I have something to ask you.'

'I'm tired,' she said. 'I want to go to bed.' But she sat, taking one of the antique chairs, which was more comfortable than it looked. It would have to be.

'So do I,' he told her earnestly. 'But we'll get to do that later.' He pointed at the phone, the one she knew was bugged. Her eyes widened when she saw, sitting next to it, a muffler similar to the one she had utilized.

'Nobody's listening in,' he said, reaching over and picking up his glass.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' she got out.

He took back some of his drink. 'You know, everybody's been telling me that this evening,' he told her. 'Peter Windsor, for instance. However, you're reporting to someone. Whom? Don't bother to deny it, honey. We often monitor the quarters of new employees, on the off chance that they're an attempt to infiltrate the World Club. You'd be surprised how many elements would like to know its inner workings. By chance, the monitor in this case is an old family friend, indebted to my late father. He reports to me first—and sometimes I'm the only one he reports to. At any rate, honey, he tells me that your bug was muffled for a time. Obviously he couldn't tell me whom you called, nor what you said, but he was aware of the muffler. So what is a nice girl like you doing with a sophisticated piece of electronic equipment and who were you calling, to report what?'

She glared at him angrily, even while her mind raced. 'My mother!' she got out finally.

He closed his eyes in pain and pushed his left hand over his mouth. 'Oh, come on now, honey.'

She said challengingly, 'My mother is Rosamond Brice.'