Deathwish World

suspect that the Graf is part of the complication.'

'If Lothar von Brandenburg could get his hands on that money, he would. The sonofabitch is just about bankrupt now. His overhead is astronomical. With your father's money he could retire, or do just about anything else he wanted to do.'

'That's what I've suspected, damn it. I think there must be some kind of requirement that both of us must appear, or sign something, before either can get his hands on the amount.'

'So what the hell are you doing tailing me around? By the way, didn't Windsor tell you I'm supposed to be a little on the dangerous side? You're a bit inexperienced when it comes to taking me on.'

'I don't think Peter Windsor is in on it. I don't think the Graf has told anybody about it, not even Margit Krebs, his secretarial thinking machine.' Frank finished his beer and put the glass down. 'The Graf put on a big show of friendship. Welcomed me with open arms as the son of his best friend. The implication is that I'm now one of the inner circle and they're breaking me in to the workings of the organization.'

'And this is your first, uh, assignment, eh?'

'Not exactly. They sent me along with one of their top operatives to see a competitor named Rivas in Paris. He was invited to join up, or else. He turned down the offer, mentioning in passing that he thought the Graf was responsible for my father's death.'

'What happened?'

'It would seem that Windsor, or somebody, had bribed all of Rivas's people out from under him. His bodyguard knifed him to death.'

Hamp looked at him in surprise. 'And you participated in a thing like that?' His tone turned sardonic. 'A nice clean-cut boy like you?'

Frank flushed. 'Listen,' he said. 'I'm not as much of a milksop as you seem to think. As far as I'm concerned, Rivas was no better than Nat Fraser, the hit man who arranged his death. Nor Peter Windsor, the Graf, nor any of the others. I didn't mind seeing him killed at all. Not at all! He was a professional dealer in death. He was the type of man that I

would have no moral reserves about seeing killed—or given the circumstances, doing it myself.'

Hamp pursed his lips and chuckled before getting up and heading for the bar again. 'Another beer?' he said.

'No thanks,' Frank said nastily. 'And you act as though you're half drenched already.'

'The complaint has been made before,' Hamp told him, dialing another double brandy. 'But I can still operate.'

'And I've heard that story before,' the younger man told him in sarcasm. 'Sometimes from drivers who explain that they can drive better when they have a couple of drinks in them. Famous last words before they plow into a tree. You're on the death list of the most dangerous people in the world and here you are getting drenched. Hell, even I could take you and, as you so nicely explained, I'm inexperienced.'

'Don't try it,' Hamp said mildly, taking a pull at the double brandy. 'But now we get to the nitty-gritty. What were you doing at the Synthesis meeting if you're not really interested in doing chores for the Graf?'

'I had to go through the motions,' Frank said, all fed up with the conversation. 'I had to look as though I was trying to get to you. For all I know, some of Peter Windsor's other people were there.'

'They were,' Hamp told him. 'What the hell did you mink you were going to do to put over your act?''

'I don't know,' the other said. 'I was trying to play it by ear, hoping something would come up that would enable me to report back, admitting failure but for some good reason. I have to stay in the game, supposedly in the Graf's good graces, until I can find out what's going on. I haven't the vaguest idea, so far, what kind of hold he has on my father's fortune.'

Hamp thought about it some more. He said finally, 'The reason the Graf was willing to send you after me was that he wanted to get something to hold over you. Some lever that would help him persuade you to do whatever has to be done to get his hands on your father's fortune. If you'd killed me, as ordered, then he'd have had his lever.' He knocked back the remaining brandy in one gulp and added, 'I just dropped in to let you know I was onto you and to warn you to stay off my back. So now I'll… what the hell was that?'

'What was what?'

'That news commentator. What did he say?'

'I haven't been listening.'

'Play it back. The last couple of minutes.'

'All right.' Frank shrugged, pressed the replay buttons, and turned up the volume.

He missed the first sentence or so. The commentator was saying, '… the famous rocket-set leader, of recent years turned recluse. Indications are, his sports car left the road, either forced off as suggested by the French authorities, or out of control as a result of overindulgence in alcohol or narcotics at a party he had just left. Executives of the far-flung Auburn empire have thus far issued no statement. Wall Street in the City, London, and the Common Europe Bourse are expected to react heavily in the morning.'

Horace Hampton, staring unseeingly, staggered to his feet and headed for the autobar. He demanded of the other, 'Play that back again, from the beginning.'

Frank Pinell, his expression denoting complete lack of comprehension, obeyed.

The commentator said, 'Flash from the French Riviera. The multibillionaire playboy of this century, Jeremiah Auburn, died today in a car accident near Nice when…'

'Switch it off,' Hamp yelled.

Frank obeyed, staring blankly.

The black sank back into his chair. He swallowed the drink in one gulp. 'Jim,' he said, meaninglessly, so far as the other was concerned.

'What the hell's the matter?' Frank said.

'Shut up.' The black sat there, staring unseeingly. 'Jim,' he muttered. 'Oh, hell, Jim. Why was I such an asshole? I laid you wide open to that murderous bastard Windsor.'

'What the devil are you talking about?' Frank said.

'Shut up.'

Frank Pinell twisted his mouth in resignation and got up to get himself another beer. He hadn't the vaguest idea what had floored his visitor. Evidently, some bigshot playboy had a traffic accident in southern France. So what? He didn't follow the social news by any means but he had vaguely heard of Jeremiah Auburn, one of those upper-class characters who would spend five thousand on a bottle of wine laid down during the time of DeGaulle. Frank had never paid more than five dollars in his life for a bottle of wine, and then he was splurging.

At long last Hamp shook his head, as though in despair, and got up and went over to the room's small desk. He sat down in front of the phone screen and deactivated the video before dialing.

The face that faded in on the screen looked as though it had recently received a great shock.

Hamp said, 'Barry, this is Auburn.'

The eyes widened in absolute disbelief. 'But… but… on the news I just…'

'I know, I know. So did I. A case of mistaken identity, undoubtedly. Now, this is what I want you to do: refuse any comment to the news media whatsoever. For the time being, above all, don't let it get out that I am still alive. To nobody, understand?'

'Well, yes sir.' And then, a touch of suspicion there. 'How do I know this is really you?'

'Damn it, you know my voice. Besides, who else has access to this phone number?'

'I… yes, sir.' There was relief in the tone now.

'Wizard. Now, I want you to send Captain Wayland and the plane to pick up two men here at the Chicago North Side Airport. He is to fly them to Europe and the crew is to take their orders as though they were my own. The men's names are Horace Hampton and Franklin Pinell. They will make only one stop, in New York. Mr. Hampton will leave the aircraft just long enough to go into the city and acquire some, uh, equipment at my headquarters there. Have a limousine waiting for him at the airport. Is that clear?'

'Yes, sir. A Mr. Hampton and a Mr. Pinell.'

'That's all, Barry. I'll get in touch with you shortly. Meanwhile, mum's the word.' He flicked off the phone and turned back to Frank. 'Pack your luggage,' he said.