"Indeed? Yes, now it comes back to me." He looked at Peter Windsor. "I assume that you have investigated. Have you come to any conclusion?"
"I checked this Roy Cos's Dossier Complete. He is a national organizer of the Wobblies."
The Graf turned his empty eyes to Margit.
She closed her eyes and began to recite in an inflectionless voice. "A revolutionary group founded in 1903 by American unionists, anarchists, and socialists, under the name Industrial Workers of the World, or I.W.W. Their program involved organizing workers into one Big Union which would take charge of the world's economy by legal means. For a time they grew rapidly but their anarchists began to advocate sabotage and violence around 1908, and the government was able to legally crush them. By the 1930s, they had all but disappeared.
"But not quite completely. Their goals and methods have changed until now they have few similarities to the old I.W.W. They contend that the means of production, distribution, and so forth, should be democratically owned and operated by the people as a whole rather than being private property or in the hands of the State. They believe that this would give rise to full employment and a new surge of progress."
Peter snorted. "Full employment? With all the automation available? They're heading for the bend, if they're not already around it.''
Margit opened her eyes. "They seem to believe that the present-day proles, now on GAS, should be put to work in the arts, cleaning up ecology problems, that sort of thing."
Von Brandenburg sighed. "Very well, the man is a revolutionist. Does this have any connection with his taking out a Deathwish Policy? It doesn't seem consistent."
The tall Englishman looked back at his notes. "He's beginning to get a bit of publicity, don't you know? The news media are making quite a story of it. Before, these Wobblies were seldom heard of."
His superior snapped to Margit, "Get through to Luca Cellini in New York and have him put his best people on this. Cos is to be hit absolutely soonest."
"Ja, Herr Graf."
They spoke alternately in English, German, and French. One might ask a question in any of these languages and be answered in another—even occasionally in Spanish, Italian, or Russian.
Von Brandenburg looked back at Peter Windsor. "How is that fracas in Somalia progressing?"
"Dormant. However, the Sheik has put in an order for two hundred infantrymen and six hover-tanks, the British Vickers model."
The Graf looked at his secretary. "Do we have them available?"
"At the Gao depot," Margit said. "They can be available for shipping within twenty-four hours, with crews."
Peter shook his head. "Where does the beggar get the funds for a contract of this size? One would think there would be Sweet Fanny Adams in his treasury."
"From the Arab Union," his chief told him. And then, "Speaking of Africa, what is the latest on Mahem Dhu? I had an indignant call from the Prophet's man last night. This fanatic's movement is spreading like wildfire. He wants the man to be taken care of immediately."
Peter nodded. "It's had its complications, you know. I put Spyros Kakia on it. He's our best cover-builder and analyzer. Spyros concluded that hitting the so-called Mahdi wouldn't be overly difficult; he's out in public constantly, for all practical purposes without guards, as befits a holy man. But Spyros sees no possibility of a successful hit. I fancied that our only possibility was to locate a gull—a patsy, as the Yanks call it. One's turned up from the States. Chap named Franklin Pinell, a deportee. Guilty of a homicide romp. He was duped into selecting Tangier for his refuge and that Aussie Nat Fraser took over. Pinell was stripped of everything and then convincingly taken under the wing of Ram Panikkar, with his usual efficiency. A bit of a swine, Ram, but unbeatable at this sort of thing. Pinell is grateful to Ram and agreed to take the Mahdi assignment. His cover will be as a media man, which will guarantee his access to Mahem Dhu. He'll perform the hit." Peter sighed. "Unfortunately, the fast chopper which is supposedly posted for his escape will never materialize."
The Graf nodded acceptance. "Those fanatical followers will tear him to pieces." He frowned. "What did you say his name was?"
Peter looked down at his clipboard. "Franklin Pinell."
Von Brandenburg thought about it, his smoky eyes nan-owing. He said finally, "What was the name of Buck Pinell's son? Remember? Buck was always proudly bringing forth his wallet and insisting we look at his snapshots."
His right-hand man thought back. "Frankie," he said.
"The name isn't that common." The Graf looked at Margit. "Buck Pinell was before your time, Fraulein, but get me his dossier and that of this Franklin Pinell." He looked back at Peter Windsor. "What was Buck's real first name?"
"Willard, wasn't it? He never used it. I didn't know him as well as you did, Lothar. What was it the news chaps used to call him? The Lee Christmas of the 21st century."
"Yes," the Graf murmured. "We were young men together in the early days of the organization. My best friend, I suppose you would say. Who was Lee Christmas, Fraulein?"
Margit Krebs had already activated the communications screen which sat next to her chair, to order the required dossiers. Now her eyes seemed to film and she recited, "Lee Christmas, most notable of the pre-World War One American mercenaries, operated in South and Central America. Almost singlehanded he was successful in several revolutions and military revolts, especially in Honduras. He would attain high rank in the new administration but inevitably step on the wrong toes and be dismissed, often to flee for his life. Later he might return and participate in the overthrow of the government he had brought to power. A lone soldier of fortune who owned a Maxim or Vickers machine gun, could gather a handful of followers and defeat a Central American army. He was considered unique among the other mercenaries because he refused to fight on the side he thought in the wrong.''
The Graf laughed softly, which brought Peter Windsor's eyebrows up. The other wasn't prone to displaying humor. "That sounds like Buck," he said. "It was his one shortcoming."
He came to his feet absently and went over to the huge window to stare out over the Furstensteig path along the high ridge dividing the Rhine and Samina valleys. The peaks reached six to seven thousand feet, the highest in the Leichtenstein Alps.
The dossiers, in printout, dropped from the slot in front of the secretary. Margit took them up and quickly scanned them. She said, "You were correct, Herr Graf. Franklin Pinell is the son of Willard Pinell. Their photos are even remarkably similar."
Lothar von Brandenburg said musingly, "And why was young Franklin deported?"
"He had four felonies on his record. The final one was decisive. He shot a man to death."
"Why?"
"He refused to reveal that. His victim was evidently unarmed, shot down in cold blood." The revelation didn't faze Margit Krebs.
The Graf turned and faced Peter Windsor, who was already eyeing his superior in concern. He said, "Find an alternative gobemouche to liquidate the Mahdi."
Peter stood, one hand out in protest. "Oh, look here, Lothar, this is a million-dollar contract! We can't afford to flub it, don't you know? The Prophet would be incensed. This Pinell chap seems to be a natural, and I daresay it might take donkey's years to find another dupe."
The older man's expressionless, smoky eyes took him in. "I will not condone the sacrifice of the son of Buck Pinell, Peter."
"I didn't expect sentiment from you, Chief."