Nat Fraser grinned at him. "The Graf wouldn't spend his bloody time on a cheeky zany like you, Rivas. Peter Windsor sent us, strewth. The mucking message is simple enough for a dingo to get it through his block. The mercenary business is too bloody small for any competition. So Windsor says this is your last mucking chance. You and your whole bloody outfit are invited to join up with Mercenaries, Incorporated."
Boris Rivas's dark face went darker still. He made little attempt to conceal his rage. "Or else?"
"Windsor thought you'd know," Nat said easily.
"Fraser, you can take this message to that pig Windsor. I am in control of all contracts in this part of Common Europe. I shall continue to be. I am not afraid of the Graf. His organization hasn't handled a sizeable mercenary operation for years. His contracts these days are almost all individual hit jobs which, of course, are more in keeping with his talents. Sergeant, see the gentlemen to the door!" Boris Rivas pushed out of his chair and made his way over to his improvised bar where he sloshed a sizeable drink into a highball glass, adding no mixer to it before knocking it back.
Without speaking further to the French mercenary, Nat Fraser came to his feet and made a gesture with his head to Frank. "Let's do a bunk, cobber. This bloody arse is asking for it, strike me blind if he isn't."
The sergeant, his face still empty of expression, opened the door for them.
When they were gone, the colonel, still in a rage, snarled to his guard, "We'll see about Nat Fraser, the lickspittle. That Windsor scum has his gall sending two of his gunmen to try and intimidate me. Me! Why, I've seen more combat than Brandenburg and Windsor put together."
He sat down again at his desk and angrily dialed on his TV phone.
When the face appeared, he snapped, in French now, "Captain Bois, get over here with as many of your lads as you can assemble within a few minutes, to man my hotel. The Graf has thrown down the gauntlet. We'll have to confer. I'm getting in touch with Major Dupres and Captain Flaubert as well. There's a possibility that we might have some trouble with that Australian swine, Fraser."
The face on the screen was that of a thin man, somewhat bucktoothed and now looking cautiously unhappy. "What did Fraser have to say? Dupres informed me that you were to meet with him."
"Peter Windsor demands that we ally with the Graf. In a subservient position, without doubt."
Captain Bois said, still cautiously, "And what did you tell him?"
"I threw him out, of course—Fraser, that is. But now I'm alone here with Sergeant Sengor. I think we'd better move some of the lads into the hotel, just to be sure. One doesn't know what that murderous Fraser's orders might be."
The thin man shook his head. "Sorry, Boris. You're not big enough to go up against the Graf. He tolerated small organizations such as ours in the past, while recruiting our best men. But now contracts are too few and far between for him to allow competition. He's amalgamating every mercenary group still outside the ranks of Mercenaries, Incorporated."
"Traitor!"
The other shook his head again and his tone was apologetic. "I talked it over with Flaubert. We've both had offers from Windsor to go on the Graf's full-time retainer, with promotions. I'm afraid we're taking the offers, Boris. I suggest that you make your own peace with him. He'd probably promote you to brigadier."
"Brigadier, you ass! He hasn't had a brigade-sized contract since '80."
The other's face was rueful, even as it faded from the screen.
Boris Rivas was livid. He came to his feet again, went back to the liquor, and repeated his performance of a few minutes before. He said to the impassive black, "Get a drink, Sergeant," and returned to the desk.
Sengbr went over to the bottles, poured himself a small gin, and returned with it to his place against the wall, near the door.
Rivas flicked on the phone screen again and dialed. When the face appeared, it was that of a coarse, middle-aged man who looked as though he was half drunk. In fact, even as he sat there before the screen, he lifted a glass to his lips.
Rivas snapped, "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing."
"Well, confound it, get over here with any of the men you have in mat bistro with you. We're having a fracas with the Graf and his pigs."
"I know. The word is all about town."
The colonel stared at him. "Spread by whom?"
"By Bois and Flaubert, among others. They said that you're washed up, Boris. They're signing with Brandenburg."
"And what do you think, Henri?" the colonel snarled in a high rage.
The other took another drink. "I've stopped thinking. I can't afford it. Peter Windsor hasn't approached me. If he doesn't by the weekend, I'll offer him my services. If he doesn't want them, it looks as though I'm retired."
The face faded and Rivas slumped back in his chair for a long moment. Finally, he got up and poured himself another drink, a smaller one this time. Carrying the glass with him, he went over to one of the curtained windows. He said to the black, "Turn off those lights."
The sergeant brushed his hand over the switch at the side of the door. Rivas stood to one side of the window and pushed back the curtain a few inches. Across the street, he could make out a figure standing in a doorway. He let the curtain back and for a moment leaned against the wall, breathing deeply. He knocked the drink back and threw the glass across the room, shattering it against the far wall. His hand went beneath his coat to emerge with a small Gyrojet, a silencer attachment on its muzzle.
"Come on, Sergeant," he muttered. "It's you and me now. We'll go to ground and start recruiting for our counterattack. That scum Brandenburg doesn't know what fighting men are. He hires lads to do his dirty work; hasn't been in action himself for decades. I just wonder how impregnable that Wolfschloss of his really is."
The sergeant opened the door, peered up and down the dark corridor, then let the colonel precede him. They hurried down the stairway, the colonel pressing the light button, as had Nat Fraser, at each landing. And at each landing they shot glances up and down the hotel corridor. The lobby was empty.
"This way," Rivas snapped. "Out the back. To the alley."
They went behind the desk and utilized the same door that the concierge had disappeared through on Nat Fraser's orders. They went down a dark, narrow corridor to the portal leading out into the alley. The colonel, gun in right hand, cautiously opened it and peered through.
The alley was dark, very black, and led to the left. It had no lights at all. One end led out onto the street; the other was a cul-de-sac blocked by a high brick wall. On each side, the walls were blank and tall. The only light came from the street, fifty feet away. The door through which they emerged was at pavement level. The alley was cobblestoned, going back to the days of Napoleon the Little. As they emerged into it, two figures entered from the street, cautiously, half crouched.
"Damn!" the colonel snarled. "We can't afford a shoot-out here. The flics would lay it at my door. Back, back the other way!"
But then he slowly, as though with great care, leaned forward and went down onto his knees. He coughed softly, then leaned forward again and put his hands on the cobblestones in front of him. The Gyrojet pistol clanged to the paving. He slowly bowed his head, as though staring in fascination at the cobbles before him. There was a splashing sound. His arms and legs seemed to give way at the same time and he fell forward into the puddle of his own aortic blood.
Nat Fraser and Frank Pinell came up, tucking their guns back into holsters beneath their coats. They stared down at the body. A four-inch combat knife handle protruded upward from the body of Boris Rivas. The Australian looked up at the sergeant and nodded. "Be with you in a meejum minute, Sengor."