The Dogs Of War Part 14

Last, he gave each 50 in cash to cover the forty-eight-hour stay in London and told them to meet him outside the door of his London bank at eleven the following morning.

When they had gone, he sat down and wrote a long letter to a man in Africa. He rang the writer, who, having checked by phone that it was in order to do so, gave him the African's mailing address. That evening Shannon mailed his letter, express rate, and dined alone.

Martin Thorpe got his interview with Dr. Steinhofer at the Zwingli Bank just before lunch. Having been pre- viously announced by Sir James Manson, Thorpe received the same red-carpet treatment.

He presented the banker with the six application forms for numbered accounts. Each had been filled out in the required manner and signed. Separate cards carried the required two specimen signatures of the men seeking to open the accounts. They were in the names of Messrs. Adams, Ball, Carter, Davies, Edwards, and Frost.

Attached to each form were two other letters. One was a signed power of attorney, in which Messrs. Adams, Ball, Carter, Davies, Edwards, and Frost separately gave power of attorney to Mr. Martin Thorpe to operate the accounts in their names. The other was a letter signed by Sir James Manson, requesting Dr. Stein-hofer to transfer to the accounts of each of his a.s.sociates the sum of 50,000 from Sir James's account.

Dr. Steinhofer was neither so gullible nor so new to the business of banking as not to suspect that the fact the names of the six "business a.s.sociates" began with the first six letters of the alphabet was a remarkable coincidence. But he was quite able to believe that the possible nonexistence of the six nominees was not his business. If a wealthy British businessman chose to get around the tiresome rules of his own Companies Act, that was his own business. Besides, Dr. Steinhofer knew certain things about quite a number of City businessmen that would have created enough Department of Trade inquiries to keep that London ministry occupied for the rest of the century.

There was another good reason why he should stretch out his hand and take the application forms from Thorpe. If the shares of the company Sir James was going to try to buy secretly shot up from their present level to astronomic heights-and Dr. Steinhofer could see no other reason for the operation-there was nothing to prevent the Swiss banker from buying a few of those shares for himself.

"The company we have our eye on is called Bormac Trading Company," Thorpe told him quietly. He out- lined the position of the company, and the fact that old Lady Macallister held 300,000 shares, or 30 per cent of the company.

"We have reason to believe attempts may already have been made to persuade this old lady to sell her holding," he went on. "They appear to have been unsuccessful. We are going to have another try. Even should we fail, we will still go ahead and choose another sh.e.l.l company."

Dr. Steinhofer listened quietly as he smoked his cigar.

"As you know, Dr. Steinhofer, it would not be possible for one purchaser to buy these shares without declaring his ident.i.ty. Therefore the four buyers will be Mr. Adams, Mr. Ball, Mr. Carter, and Mr. Davies, who will each acquire seven and a half per cent of the company. We would wish you to act on behalf of all four of them."

Dr. Steinhofer nodded. It was standard practice. "Of course, Mr. Thorpe."

"I shall attempt to persuade the old lady to sign the share-transfer certificates with the name of the buyer left out. This is simply because some people in England, especially old ladies, find Swiss banks rather-how shall I say?-secretive organizations."

"I am sure you mean sinister," said Dr. Steinhofer smoothly. "I completely understand. Let us leave it like this, then. When you have had an interview with this lady, we will see how best it can be arranged. But tell Sir James to have no fear. The purchase will be by four separate buyers, and the rules of the Companies Act will not be affronted."

As Sir James Manson had predicted, Thorpe was back in London by nightfall to begin his weekend.

The four mercenaries were waiting on the pavement when Shannon came out of his bank just before twelve. He had in his hand four brown envelopes.

"Marc, here's yours. There's five hundred pounds in it. Since you'll be living at home, your expenses will be the smallest. So within that five hundred you have to buy a truck and rent a lock-up garage. There are other items to be bought. You'll find the list inside the envelope. Trace the man who has the Schmeissers for sale and set up a meeting between me and him. I'll be in touch with you by phone at your bar in about ten days."

The giant Belgian nodded and hailed a taxi at the curb to take him to Victoria Station and the boat train back to the Ostend ferry.

"Kurt, this is your envelope. There's a thousand inside it, because you'll have to do much more traveling. Find that ship, and inside forty days. Keep in touch by phone and cable, but be very discreet and brief when using either. You can be frank in written letters to my flat. If my mail is on intercept we're finished anyway.

"Jean-Baptiste, here's five hundred for you. It has to keep you for forty days. Stay out of trouble and avoid your old haunts. Find the boats and engines and let me know by letter. Open a bank account and tell me where it is. When I approve the type and price of the stuff, I'll transmit you the money. And don't forget the shipping agent. Keep it nice and legal all down the line."

The Frenchman and the German took their money and instructions and looked for a second taxi to get them to London airport, Semmler bound for Naples and Langarotti for Ma.r.s.eilles.

Shannon took Dupree's arm, and they strolled down Piccadilly together. Shannon pa.s.sed Dupree his envelope.

"I've put fifteen hundred in there for you, Janni. A thousand should cover all the purchases and the storage, crating, and shipping costs to Ma.r.s.eilles, with something to spare. The five hundred should keep you easily for the next month to six weeks. I want you to get straight into the buying first thing Monday morning. Make your list of shops and warehouses with the Yellow Pages and a map over the weekend. You have to finish the buying in thirty days, because I want the stuff in Ma.r.s.eilles in forty-five."

He stopped and bought the Evening Standard, opened it at the "Properties to Let" page, and showed Dupree the columns of advertis.e.m.e.nts for flats and flatlets for rent, furnished and unfurnished. There were, as usual, about 300 flats to rent, ranging from 6 a week to 200.

"Find yourself a small flat by tonight and let me know the address tomorrow."

They parted just short of Hyde Park Corner.

Shannon spent the evening writing out a complete statement of accounts for Endean. He pointed out that the total had eaten up the bulk of the 5000 transferred from Brugge and that he would leave the few hundreds left over from that sum in the London account as a reserve.

Last, he pointed out that he had not taken any part of his own 10,000 fee for the job and proposed either that Endean transfer it straight from Endean's Swiss account into Shannon's Swiss account, or remit the money to the Belgian bank for credit to Keith Brown.

He mailed his letter that Friday evening.

The weekend was free, so he called Julie Manson and suggested taking her out to dinner. She had been about to set off for a weekend at her parents' country house, but called and told them she was not coming. As it was late by the time she was ready, she came to collect Shannon, looking pert and spoiled at the wheel of her red MGB.

"Have you booked anywhere?" she asked.

"Yes. Why?"

"Let's go and eat at one of my places," she suggested. "Then I can introduce you to some of my friends."

Shannon shook his head. "Forget it," he said. "That's happened to me before. I am not spending the whole evening being stared at like a zoo animal and asked d.a.m.nfool questions about killing people. It's sick."

She pouted. "Please, Cat darling."

"Nope."

"Look, I won't say what you are and what you do.

I'll just keep it secret. Come on. No one will know you by your face."

Shannon weakened. "One condition," he said. "My name is Keith Brown. Got it? Keith Brown. That's all. Nothing else do you say about me or where I come from. Nor about what I do. Understood?"

She giggled. "Great," she said. "Great idea. Mystery Man himself. Come on, then, Mr. Keith Brown."

She took him to Tramps, where she was evidently well known. Johnny Gold rose from his doorside table as they entered and greeted her effusively with kisses on both cheeks. He shook hands with Shannon as she introduced him. "Nice to see you, Keith. Have a good time."

They dined at the long row of tables running parallel to the bar, and started by ordering the house lobster c.o.c.ktail in a hollowed-out pineapple. Seated facing the room, Shannon glanced around at the diners; most, from their long hair and casual dress, could be placed in show business or on its fringes. Others were evidently young-generation businessmen trying to be trendy or make a model or an actress. Among the latter he spotted a face he knew across the room, with a group, out of Julie's vision.

After the lobster Shannon ordered "bangers and mash" and, excusing himself, got up. He strolled slowly out of the door and into the center lobby as if on his way to the men's room. Within seconds a hand fell on his shoulder, and he turned to face Simon Endean.

"Are you out of your mind?" grated the City hard boy.

Shannon looked at him in mock surprise, a wide-eyed innocent. "No. I don't think so. Why?" he asked.

Endean was about to tell him, but checked himself in time. His face was white with anger. He knew his boss well enough to know how Manson doted on his supposedly innocent little girl, and knew roughly what his reaction would be should he ever hear about Shannon taking her out, let alone climbing into bed with her.

But he was checkmated. He a.s.sumed Shannon was still unaware of his own real name, and certainly of Manson's existence. To bawl him out for dining with a girl called Julie Manson would blow both his own concern and Manson's name, together with both their roles as Shannon's employer. Nor could he tell Shannon to leave her alone, for fear Shannon would consult the girl and she would tell him who Endean was. He choked back his anger.

"What are you doing here?" he asked lamely.

"Having dinner," said Shannon, appearing puzzled. "Look, Harris, if I want to go out and have dinner, that's my affair. There's nothing to be done over the weekend. I have to wait till Monday to fly to Luxembourg."

Endean was even angrier. He could not explain that Shannon's slacking on the job was not what concerned him. "Who's the girl?" he asked.

Shannon shrugged. "Name's Julie. Met her in a caf6 two days ago."

"Picked her up?" asked Endean in horror.

"Yes, you might say that. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. But be careful about girls, all girls. It would be better if you left them alone for a while, that's all."

"Harris, don't worry about my security. There won't be any indiscretions, in bed or out. Besides, I told her my name was Keith Brown; I'm on leave in London and I'm in the oil business."

For answer Endean spun round, snapped at Paolo to tell the group he was with that he had been called away, and headed for the stairs to the street before Julie Manson could recognize him.

Shannon watched him leave. "Up yours," he said quietly, "with Sir b.l.o.o.d.y James Manson's biggest drill."

On the pavement outside, Endean swore quietly. Apart from that, he could only pray that Shannon had been telling the truth about the Keith Brown business and that Julie Manson would not tell her father about her new boyfriend.

Shannon and his girl danced until shortly before three and had their first quarrel on the way back to Shannon's flat. He had told her it would be better if she did not tell her father she was going out with a mercenary, or even mention his name. "From what you have already told me about him, he seems to dote on you. He'd probably send you away somewhere, or have you made a ward of court."

Her response had been to start teasing, keeping a straight face and saying she would be able to handle her father, as she always had, and in any case being made a ward of court would be fun and would get her name in all the papers. Besides, she argued, Shannon could always come and get her, fight his way out, and elope with her.

Shannon was not sure how serious she was and thought he might have gone too far in provoking En-dean that evening, although he had not planned on meeting him, anyway. They were still arguing when they reached the living room of his flat.

"Anyway, I'm not being told what I'll do and what I won't do," said the girl as she dropped her coat over the armchair.

"You will be by me," growled Shannon. "You'll just keep d.a.m.n silent about me when you're with your father. And that's flat."

For answer the girl stuck her tongue out at him. "I'll do what I d.a.m.n well like," she insisted and, to emphasize her words, stamped her foot. Shannon got angry. He picked her up, spun her around, marched her to the armchair, sat down, and pulled her over his knee. For five minutes there were two conflicting sounds in the sitting room, the girl's protesting squeals and the crack of Shannon's hand. When he let her up she scuttled into the bedroom, sobbing loudly, and slammed the door.

Shannon shrugged. The die was cast one way or the other, and there was nothing he could do about it. He went into the kitchen, made coffee, and drank it slowly by the window, looking out at the backs of the houses across the gardens, almost all dark as the respectable folk of St. John's Wood slept.

When he entered the bedroom it was in darkness. In the far corner of the double bed was a small hump, but no sound, as if she were holding her breath. Halfway across the floor his foot scuffed her fallen dress, and two paces farther he kicked one of her discarded shoes. He sat on the edge of the bed and as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he made out her face on the pillow, eyes watching him.

"You're rotten," she whispered.

He leaned forward and slipped a hand into the angle of her neck and jaw, stroking slowly and firmly.

"No one's ever hit me before."

"That's why you've turned out the way you have," he murmured.

"How is that?"

"A spoiled little girl."

"I'm not." There was a pause. "Yes, I am."

He continued caressing her.

"Cat."

"Yes."

"Did you really think Daddy might take me away from you if I told him?"

"Yes. I still do."

"And do you think I'd really tell him?"

"I thought you might."

"Is that why you got angry?"

"Yes."

"Then you only smacked me because you love me?"

"I suppose so."

She turned her head, and he felt her tongue busily licking the inside of his palm.

"Get into bed, Cat, darling. I'm so randy I can't wait any more."

He was only half out of his clothes when she threw the bedsheets back and knelt on the mattress, running her hands over his chest and muttering, "Hurry, hurry," between kisses.

"You're a lying b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Shannon," he thought as he lay on his back, feeling this avid and infatuated young girl go to work on him.

There was a light gray glow in the east over Camden Town when they lay still two hours later. Julie was curled up in the crook of his arm, her varied appet.i.tes for the moment satisfied.

"Tell me something," she said.

"What?"

"Why do you live the way you do? Why be a mercenary and go around making wars on people?"

"I don't make wars. The world we live in makes wars, led and governed by men who pretend they are creatures of morality and integrity, whereas most of them are self-seeking b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They make the wars, for increased profits or increased power. I just fight the wars because it's the way I like to live."

"Buy why for money? Mercenaries fight for money, don't they?"

"Not only the money. The b.u.ms do, but when it comes to a crunch the b.u.ms who style themselves mercenaries usually don't fight. They run away. Most of the best ones fight for the same reason I do; they enjoy the life, the hard living, the combat."

"But why do there have to be wars? Why can't they all live in peace?"

He stirred and in the darkness scowled at the ceiling. "Because there are only two kinds of people in this world: the predators and the grazers. And the predators always get to the top, because they're prepared to fight to get there and consume people and things that get in their way. The others haven't the nerve, or the courage, or the hunger or the ruthlessness. So the world is governed by the predators, who become the potentates. And the potentates are never satisfied. They must go on and on seeking more of the currency they worship.

"In the Communist world-and don't ever kid yourself into thinking the Communist leaders are peace-loving-the currency is power. Power, power, and more power, no matter how many people have to die so they can get it. In the capitalist world the currency is money. More and more money. Oil, gold, stocks and shares, more and more, are the goals, even if they have to lie, steal, bribe, and cheat to get it. These make the money, and the money buys the power. So really it all comes back to the l.u.s.t for power. If they think there's enough of it to be taken, and it needs a war to grab it, you get a war. The rest, the so-called idealism, is a load of c.o.c.k."

"Some people fight for idealism. The Vietcong do. I've read it in the papers."

"Yeah, some people fight for idealism, and ninety-nine out of a hundred of them are being conned. So are the ones back home who cheer for war. We're always right, and they're always wrong. In Washington and Peking, London and Moscow. And you know what? They're being conned. Those GIs in Vietnam, do you think they die for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? They die for the Dow Jones Index in Wall Street, and always have. And the British soldiers who died in Kenya, Cyprus, Aden. You really think they rushed into battle shouting for G.o.d, king, and country? They were in those lands because their colonel ordered them there, and he was ordered by the War Office, and that was ordered by the Cabinet, to keep British control over the economies. So what? They went back to the people who owned them in the first place, and who cared about the bodies the British army left behind? It's a big con, Julie Manson, a big con. The difference with me is that no one tells me to go and fight, or where to fight, or which side to fight on. That's why the politicians, the Establishments, hate mercenaries. It's not that we are more lethal than they are; in fact we're a d.a.m.n sight less so. It's because they can't control us; we don't take their orders. We don't shoot the ones they tell us to shoot, and we don't start when they say, 'Start,' or stop when they say, 'Stop.' That's why we're outlaws; we fight on contract and we pick our own contracts."