know how much weight you can throw. Even the Graf wouldn't want to antagonize you. However, I've been working for Lothar Von Brandenburg for over twenty years. One of his scouts brought me off the streets when I was a kid. I've been with him ever since. He even sent me to school. Now I'm settled in the organization. The pay's good, more than I could ever have expected with my background. In short, Mr. Auburn, I owe the Graf. He's been more than a father to me.'
Jerry took another pull at the drink, without removing his eyes from the other. He said slowly, 'The Grafs a has-been. Mercenaries are rapidly becoming a thing of the past, and so is selling arms to would-be revolutionists. Already Latin America, once a lucrative field of operation for you, is now part of the United States and sealed off from your operations. And that's just the beginning. World government is on the way. When it comes, there will be little use, anywhere, for mercenaries and illicit arms sales. Hit men for the Death wish policies will be gone, since such policies will be illegal with a World State. There'll be a great fall-off in bodyguarding and assassinations, since most of them are international and there won't be any nations. The Graf is hedging his bets, trying to get into the upper hierarchy of the World Club so
Luca Cellini had not worked his way up to his present standing in the Graf's organization by being slow.
He said, 'Mind if I smoke?'
Jerry shook his head.
The New Yorker took out a gold cigar case and from it drew a panatela. The end had already been pierced. He brought forth a gold lighter and lit the long cigar carefully. He said, 'I couldn't sell out the Graf. He'd get me no matter where I tried to hide. Just as easily as he gets those Deathwish policy suckers. Few of them last a week.'
Jerry nodded, taking back more of the drink that he didn't need. His eyes were already shining in the characteristic way they did after a half-liter of spirits.
He said, 'Try this. We'd arrange a Shootout in which you were involved. You'd supposedly take a couple of hits and the ambulance would haul you off to a clinic owned by a doctor on my payroll. He'd operate on you, making a few impressive-looking scars and possibly taking a half inch or so out of one of your shin bones, so you'd be left with a noticeable limp. When you were released from the clinic, the doctor's report would read that you were ninety percent disabled, possibly one of your kidneys shot away, or something. My people know how to do it. You'd report to the Graf or Peter Windsor or whoever you report to, that you have to retire. So you go to some island paradise like Samoa, and settle down living the good life in retirement on whatever pension the Graf settles on you, and especially the sum I give you. You stay there at least until Mercenaries, Incorporated is gone from the scene— possibly Lothar von Brandenburg as well. Possibly you spend the rest of your life where you're not apt to run into any of your present associates. So, the question is still, what would you want to sell out the Graf?'
Luca Cellini was staring again and breathing deeper now. He said, 'Could I have a drink?'
His host motioned with his head toward the bar. Cellini went over to it and poured himself a triple from the same bottle his host had used, He swallowed part of it and returned to his chair.
He said, 'One million pseudo-dollars, tax-free and untrace-able.'
Jerry nodded in agreement. 'Very well. As you leave, Lester will make arrangements with you to deposit that amount to whatever account you prefer. I assume that you have at least one secret account in Nassau, Tangier, or wherever.'
Cellini nodded. 'I know you don't welch, Mr. Auburn. I trust you. What did you want from me?'
'What happened to Harold Dunninger?'
'He was kidnapped by the Nihilists. When his wife wouldn't pony up the ransom, they hit him.'
'I know what was in the news. How did you set it up?'
The other moistened his lips. 'I was supplying his bodyguards. There were twelve of them, four on a shift. I pulled four of them off at the crucial time, supposedly rotating them. The orders came from Windsor. The Nihilist who pulled off the kidnapping was one of ours. We've had him planted with them for years. He placed the ransom amount so high that there wasn't a chance Dunninger's wife would pay it. We'd checked her out to make sure.'
'What's the name of your mole in the Nihilists?'
'Nils Ostrander.'
'New subject: What happened to Pamela McGivern?'
Cellini shook his head. 'Never heard of her.'
Jerry thought about it for a moment, then accepted that and said, 'What else has been going on under your jurisdiction?'
'We've diverted all our best men to hitting the Deathwish Wobbly.'
'Who?' Jerry scowled.
'Roy Cos, a screwball radical who took out a Deathwish Policy. Instead of blowing the credits coming to him like all the rest, he's devoted it to buying prime time so he can sound off against the system. He's surrounded himself with a flock of guards, all devoted to him, and we haven't been able to get through. He's scheduled to show in a couple of days. All the screwball outfits are getting together in Chicago for what they call a synthesis meeting. He's supposed to represent the Wobblies.'
'I guess I have heard about him,' Jerry said, his voice deeper in its slur now, his eyes brighter. He was obviously at least half drenched in booze. 'What else?'
'Nothing much. They sent over a new man from the Wolfschloss.' Cellini looked up. 'That's the…'
'I know,' Jerry said. 'The Grafs fortress in Liechtenstein. Goon '
'Kid named Franklin Pinell,' Cellini growled. 'It's not the way the organization usually operates. Windsor said to cooperate with him one hundred percent. Handle him with kid gloves. Grafs orders.'
Jerry eyed him. 'What's he supposed to do?'
'Hit a spade named Horace Hampton, evidently. Never heard of Hampton.'
Jerry Auburn's face froze. All of a sudden, he didn't seem quite so influenced by the drink he'd been putting down. 'Why?' he got out.
'Damned if I know. There's a contract on him. Why we couldn't have handled it is a mystery to me. Routine stuff.'
After a moment, Jerry said, 'Anything else?'
'Can't think of anything.'
'Wizard. Go out to Lester. He'll cover you with all that we've agreed on.'
The executive came to his feet, looked at the man who had just bought him, then, without further words, turned and headed for the door.
Jerry finished his drink, went over to the living room's small desk, and sat down before the screen there. He flicked it on and said, 'Ted Meer.'
When the face of his aide appeared, he said, 'Check as deeply as you can on these men. First, a Franklin Pinell. All I know about him is that he's young, has recently been in Europe, including Liechtenstein, and is connected with Mercenaries, Incorporated, evidently on a high level. Second, Roy Cos, the so-called Deathwish Wobbly. Third, a Nils Ostrander of the Nihilists, evidently one of their more militant members; possibly connected with some of their more flagrant operations. And, oh yes, who are we currently using for our private investigations in Common Europe?'
His aide said, 'We're still using Pinkerton International, Mr. Auburn.'
'Very well. Get them to put all-out effort into checking a Pamela McGivern, an Irish girl, recently employed as a secretary by the World Club, at their headquarters in the Palazzo Colonna in Rome. She disappeared about a week or so ago. This is crash priority, Meer. I want results immediately.'
'Yes, sir.'
Jerry Auburn flicked the screen off, sighed, and went back to the bar.
In the morning, he had a raging hangover. He went into the bathroom and got a bottle of Sober-Ups from the medicine cabinet, shuddered, and took one. Still in pajamas, he went into the living room and stretched out on the couch, after touching a button set into its armrest.
Simmons entered, immaculately correct. He took one look at his employer and said sadly, 'Yes, sir.'
'Wipe that goddamned superior, long-suffering look off your face and bring me about a gallon of Italian
