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 Expresso."
"Yes, sir." The butler left.
Jerry Auburn went through the agony of the stepped-up recuperation from overindulgence. When he at last felt semi-healthy, he groaned, took himself over to the desk, and flicked on the screen.
Ted Meer appeared, looking weary as though he hadn't been to bed the night before.
Jerry said nastily, "Why in the hell don't you take pep pills when you've got a siege before you?" He knew that his aide had an aversion to stimulants but was in no mood to sympathize.
"Yes, sir," the other said.
"Well, what have you found out?"
"We have the Dossier Complete of Roy Cos, as well as his activities of the last weeks since he has broken into the news. The material is on your desk. We have drawn a blank on Nils Ostrander. It is obviously an assumed name. The IABI is on the verge of arresting him in connection with the kidnapping and death of Harold Ounninger but thus far has insufficient evidence with which to operate. There is a vague hint that higher ups are protecting him, though that would seem impossible."
"Shit it is," Jerry muttered. "Go on."
"Franklin Pinell was recently deported from the United States after four felony sentences, the last of which was a homicide, He was sent to Tangier but he never reported to the Moroccan police. He is the son of the late Willard Pinell, known in mercenary circles as Buck Pinell. The elder Pinell, in partnership with Lothar von Brandenburg, founded Mercenaries, Incorporated over twenty years ago. Present location of Franklin Pinell is unknown."
Jerry said, "He's here in the States. If he's a deportee, undoubtedly under an alias and with false papers. Put the Pinkertons on his trail. What about Pamela McGivern?"
"There hasn't been sufficient time for much of a report, save that she has not returned to Ireland. Her family lives in Dublin. They haven't heard from her for a month."
Jerry thought over what he had been told for a few mo-ments, then said, "Keep at it. If anything important breaks, get in touch with me immediately. Keep digging on this Franklin Pinell and get some background on his father, Buck. Find out everything you can about him, especially his relationship with Lothar von Brandenburg." He hesitated, then went on. "I also want to check out a Lee Garrett, including all the dope you can get on her father and mother, who evidently weren't married. She's currently in residence at the Palazzo Colonna in Rome and has the job formerly held by Pamela McGivern. Check for any hanky-panky there might have been in her being selected by the computers for her job there. I don't want a cursory report on this. I want deep digging. It's extremely difficult, but not impossible, to jimmy the computers or the data banks."
"Yes, sir," Ted Meer said. "Anything else, Mr. Auburn?"
"No. I'll get in touch, Ted." Jerry turned off the screen and ran his hand over his facial stubble.
He thought some more, then reached for the screen again, touching the stud that would deactivate the video. He dialed slowly, remembering the digits. Max Finklestein's face appeared, frowning at the fact that his own screen was blank.
"Who is it?" he said, rubbing the end of his Armenian nose in irritation.
"Hamp," Jerry said. "Horace Hampton."
"How the hell do I know it's Hamp?" Max said irritably.
"The last time I saw you we had our faces buried in the leaves behind the We Shall Overcome Motel, with Tom Horse and Joe Zavalla. Something's wrong with my damn transceiver."
"All right," the other said. "What spins, Hamp?"
"I'm tired of being on leave. What do you want me to do?"
"You'll have to check with National Headquarters, Hamp. I'm not running you anymore. I've been promoted to the National Executive Committee. I'm being sent up to Chicago to represent the Anti-Racist League at the Synthesis meeting."