Seawitch

Chapter 2

Lord Worth was tall, lean and erect. His complexion was the mahogany hue of the playboy millionaire who spends his life in the sun: Lord Worth seldom worked less than sixteen hours a day. His abundant hair and mustache were snow-white. According to his mood and expression and to the eye of the beholder, he could have been a biblical patriarch, a better-class Roman senator, or a gentlemanly seventeenth-century pirate—except for the fact, of course, that none of those ever, far less habitually, wore lightweight Alpaca suits of the same color as Lord Worth's hair.

He looked and was every inch an aristocrat. Unlike the many Americans who bore the Christian names of Duke or Earl, Lord Worth really was a lord, the fifteenth in succession of a highly distinguished family of Scottish peers of the realm. The fact that their distinction had lain mainly in the fields of assassination, endless clan warfare, the stealing of women and cattle, and the selling of their fellow peers down the river was beside the point: the earlier Scottish peers didn't go in too much for the more cultural activities. The blue blood that had run in their veins ran in Lord Worth's. As ruthless, predatory, acquisitive and courageous as any of his ancestors, Lord Worth simply went about his business with a degree of refinement and sophistication that would have lain several light-years beyond their understanding.

He had reversed the trend of Canadians coming to Britain, making their fortunes and eventually being elevated to the peerage: he had already been a peer, and an extremely wealthy one, before emigrating to Canada. His emigration, which had been discreet and precipitous, had not been entirely voluntary. He had made a fortune hi real estate in London before the Internal Revenue had become embarrassingly interested in his activities. Fortunately for him, whatever charges might have been laid at his door were not extraditable.

He had spent several years in Canada, investing his millions in the North Hudson Oil Company and proving himself to be even more able-in the oil business than he had been in real estate. His tankers and refineries spanned the globe before he had decided that the climate was too cold for him and moved south to Florida. His splendid mansion was the envy of the many millionaires—of a lesser financial breed, admittedly—who almost literally jostled for elbow-room in the Fort Lauderdale area.

The dining room in that mansion was something to behold. Monks, by the very nature of their calling, are supposed to be devoid of all earthly lusts, but no monk, past or present, could ever have gazed on the gleaming magnificence of that splendid oaken refectory table without turning pale chartreuse with envy. The chairs, inevitably, were Louis XIV. The splendidly embroidered silken carpet, with a pile deep enough for a fair-sized mouse to take cover in, would have been judged by an expert to come from Damascus and to have cost a fortune: the expert would have been right on both counts. The heavy drapes and embroidered silken walls were of the same pale gray, the latter being enhanced by a series of original impressionist paintings, no less than three by Matisse and the same number by Renoir. Lord Worth was no dilettante and was clearly trying to make amends for his ancestors* shortcomings in cultural fields.

It was in those suitably princely surroundings that Lord Worth was at the moment taking -his ease, reveling in his second brandy and the two beings whom—after money—he loved most in the world: his two daughters, Marina and Melinda, who had been so named by their now divorced Spanish mother. Both were young, both were beautiful, and could have been mistaken for twins, which they weren't: they were easily distinguishable by the fact that while Marina's hair was black as a raven's, Melinda's was pure titian.

There were two other guests at the table. Many a local millionaire would have given a fair slice of his ill-gotten gains for the privilege and honor of sitting at Lord Worth's table. Few were invited, and then but seldom. Those two young men, comparatively as poor as church mice, had the unique privilege, without invitation, of coming and going as they pleased, which was pretty often.

They were Mitchell and Roomer, two pleasant men in their early thirties for whom Lord Worth had a strong, if concealed, admiration and whom he held in something close to awe—inasmuch as they were the only two completely honest men he had ever met. Not that Lord Worth had ever stepped on the wrong side of the law, although he frequently had a clear view of what happened on the other side: it was simply that he was not hi the habit of dealing with honest men. They had both been two highly efficient police sergeants, only they had been too efficient, much given to arresting the wrong people, such as crooked politicians and equally crooked wealthy businessmen who had previously labored under the misapprehension that they were above the law. They were fired, not to put too fine a point on it, for their total incorruptibility.

Of the two, Michael Mitchell was the taller, the broader and the less good-looking. With slightly craggy face, ruffled dark hair and blue chin, he could never have made it as a matinee idol. John Roomer, with his brown hair and trimmed brown mustache, was altogether better-looking. Both were shrewd, intelligent and highly experienced. Roomer was the intuitive one, Mitchell the one long on action. Apart from being charming, both men were astute and highly resourceful. And they were possessed of one other not inconsiderable quality: both were deadly marksmen.

Two years previously they had set up their own private investigative practice, and in that brief space of time had established such a reputation that people in real trouble now made a practice of going to them instead of to the police, a fact that hardly endeared them to the local law. They lived near Lord Worth's estate, where they were frequent and welcome visitors. That they did not come for the exclusive pleasure of his company Lord Worth was well aware. Nor, he knew, were they even in the slightest way interested in his money, a fact that Lord Worth

found astonishing, as he had never previously encountered anyone who wasn't thus interested. What they were interested in, and deeply so, were Marina and Melinda.

The door opened and Lord Worth's butler, Jenkins—English, of course, as were the two footmen—made his usual soundless entrance, approached the head of the table and murmured discreetly hi Lord Worth's ear. Lord Worth nodded and rose.

«Excuse me, girls, gentlemen. Visitors. Fra sure you can get along together quite well without me.» He made his way to his study, entered and closed the door behind him—a very special padded door that, when shut, rendered the room completely soundproof.

The study, in its own way—Lord Worth was no sybarite but he liked his creature comforts as well as the next man—was as sumptuous as the dining room: oak, leather, a wholly unnecessary log fire burning in one corner, all straight from the best English baronial mansions. The walls were lined with thousands of books, many of which Lord Worth had actually read, a fact that must have caused great distress to his illiterate ancestors, who had despised degeneracy above all else.

A tall bronzed man with aquiline features and gray hair rose to his feet. Both men smiled and shook hands warmly.

Lord Worth said; «Corral, my dear chap! How very nice to see you again. It's been quite some time.»

«My pleasure, Lord Worth.' Nothing recently that would have interested you.»

«But now?»

«Now is something else again.»

The Corral who stood before Lord Worth was indeed the Corral who, in his capacity as representative of the Florida offshore leases, had been present at the meeting of ten at Lake Tahoe. Some years had passed since he and Lord Worth had arrived at an amicable and mutually satisfactory agreement. Corral, widely regarded as Lord Worth's most avowedly determined enemy and certainly the most vociferous of his critics, reported regularly to Lord Worth on the current activities and, more importantly, the projected plans of the major companies, which didn't hurt Lord Worth at all. Corral, in return, received an annual tax-free retainer of $200,000, which didn't hurt him very much either.

Lord Worth pressed a bell and within seconds Jenkins entered bearing a silver tray with two large brandies. There was no telepathy involved, just years of experience and a long-established foreknowledge of Lord Worth's desires. When he left, both men sat.

Lord Worth said: «Well, what news from the West?»

«The Cherokee, I regret to say, are after you.»

Lord Worth sighed and said: «It had to come sometime. Tell me all.»

Corral told him all. He had a near-photographic memory and a gift for concise and accurate reportage. Within five minutes Lord Worth knew all that was worth knowing about the Lake Tahoe meeting.

Lord Worth who, because of the unfortunate misunderstanding that had arisen between himself and Cronkite, knew the latter as well as any and better than most, said at the end of Corral's report: «Did Cronkite subscribe to the ten's agreement to abjure any form of violence?»

«No.»

«Not that it would have mattered if he had. Man's a total stranger to the truth. And ten million dollars' expenses, you tell me?»

«It did seem a bit excessive.»

«Can you see a massive outlay like that being concomitant with anything except violence?»

«No.»

«Do you think the others believed that there was no connection between them?»

«Let me put it this way, sir. Any group of people who can convince themselves, or appear to convince themselves, that any proposed action against you is for the betterment of mankind is also prepared to convince themselves, or appear to convince themselves, that the word 'Cronkite' is synonymous with peace on earth.»

«So their consciences are clear. If Cronkite goes to any excessive lengths in death and destruction to achieve their ends, they can always throw up their hands in horror and say, 'Good God, we never thought the man would go that far.' Not that any connection between them and Cronkite would ever have to be established. What a bunch of devious, mealymouthed hypocrites!»

He paused for a moment.

«I suppose Cronkite refused to divulge his plans?»

«Absolutely. But there is one odd circumstance: just as we were leaving, Cronkite drew two of the ten to one side and spoke to them privately. It would be interesting to know why.»

«Any chance of finding out?»

«A fair chance. Nothing guaranteed. But I'm sure Benson could find out—after all, it was Benson who invited us all to Lake Tahoe.»

«And you think you could persuade Benson to tell you?»

«A fair chance. Nothing more.»

Lord Worth put on his resigned expression. «All right, how much?»

«Nothing. Money won't buy Benson.» Corral shook his head hi disbelief. «Extraordinary, in this day and age, but Benson is not a mercenary man. But he does owe me some favors, one of them being that, without me, he wouldn't be the president of the oil company that he is now.» Corral paused. «I'm surprised you haven't asked me the identities of the two men Cronkite took aside.»

«So am I.»

«Borosoff of the Soviet Union and Patinos of Venezuela.» Lord Worth appeared to lapse into a trance. «That mean anything to you?»

Lord Worth bestirred himself. «Yes. Units of the Russian Navy are making a so-called 'goodwill tour' of the Caribbean. They are, inevitably, based in Cuba. Of the ten, those are the only two that could bring swift—ah—naval intervention to bear against the Seawitch.» He shook his head. «Diabolical. Utterly diabolical.»

«My way of thinking too, sir. There's no knowing. But I'll check as soon as possible and hope to get results,»

«And I shall take immediate precautions.» Both men rose. «Corral, we shall have to give serious consideration to the question of increasing this paltry retainer of yours.»

«We try to be of service, Lord Worth.»

Lord Worth's private radio room bore more than a passing resemblance to the flight deck of his private 707. The variety of knobs, switches, buttons and dials was bewildering. Lord Worth seemed perfectly at home with them all, and proceeded to make a number of calls.

The first were to his four helicopter pilots, instructing them to have his two largest helicopters—never a man to do things by halves, Lord Worth owned no fewer than six of these machines—ready at his own private airfield shortly before dawn. The next four were to people of whose existence his fellow directors were totally unaware. The first of these calls was to Cuba, the second to Venezuela. Lord Worth's worldwide range of contacts—employees, rather—was vast. The instructions to both were simple and explicit. A constant monitoring watch was to be kept on the naval bases in both countries, and any sudden departures of any naval vessels, and their type, was to be reported to him immediately.

The third, to a person who lived not too many miles away, was addressed to a certain Giuseppe Palermo, whose name sounded as if he might be a member of the Mafia, but who definitely wasn't: the Mafia Palermo despised as a mollycoddling organization which had become so ludicrously gentle in its methods of persuasion as to be in imminent danger of becoming respectable. The next call was to Baton Rouge in Louisiana, where lived a person who called himself only «Conde» and whose main claim to fame lay in the fact that he was the highest-ranking naval officer to have been court-martialed and dishonorably discharged since World War . He, like the others, received very explicit instructions. Not only was Lord Worth a master organizer, but the efficiency he displayed was matched only by his speed in operation.

The noble Lord, who would have stoutly maintained—if anyone had the temerity to accuse him, which no one ever had—that he was no criminal, was about to become just that. Even this he would have strongly denied, and that on three grounds. The Constitution upheld the right of every citizen to bear arms; every man had the right to defend himself and his property against criminal attack by whatever means lay to hand; and the only way to fight fire was with fire.

The final call Lord Worth put through, and this time with total confidence, was to his tried and trusted lieutenant, Commander Larsen.

Commander Larsen was the captain of the Seawitch.

Larsen—no one knew why he called himself «Commander,» and he wasn't the kind of person you asked—was a rather different breed of man from his employer. Except in a public court or in the presence of a law officer, he would cheerfully admit to anyone that he was both a non-gentleman and a criminal. And he certainly bore no resemblance to any aristocrat, alive or dead. But there did exist a genuine rapport and mutual respect between Lord Worth and himself. In all likelihood they were simply brothers under the skin.

As a criminal and non-aristocrat—and casting no aspersions on honest unfortunates who may resemble him—he certainly looked the part. He had the general build and appearance of the more viciously daunting heavyweight wrestler, deep-set black eyes that peered out under the overhanging foliage of hugely bushy eyebrows, an equally bushy black beard, a hooked nose, and a face that looked as if it had been in regular contact with a series of heavy objects. No one, with the possible exception of Lord Worth, knew who he was, what he had been, or from where he had come. His voice, when he spoke, came as a positive shock: beneath that Neanderthalic facade was the voice and the mind of an educated man. It really ought not to have come as such a shock: beneath the facade of many an exquisite fop lies the mind of a retarded fourth-grader.

Larsen was in the radio room at that moment, listening attentively, nodding from tune to time; then he flicked a switch that put the incoming call on the loudspeaker.

He said: «All clear, sir. Everything understood. We'll make the preparations. But haven't you overlooked something, sir?»

«Overlooked what?» Lord Worth's voice over the telephone carried the overtones of a man who couldn't possibly have overlooked anything.

«You've suggested that armed surface vessels may be used against us. If they're prepared to go to such lengths, isn't it feasible that they'll go to any lengths?»

«Get to the point, man.»

«The point is that it's easy enough to keep an eye on a couple of naval bases. But I suggest it's a bit more difficult to keep an eye on a dozen, maybe two dozen, airfields.»

«Good God!» There was a long pause during which the rattle of cogs and the meshing of gear wheels in Lord Worth's brain couldn't be heard. «Do you really think—»

«If I were the Seawitch, Lord Worth, it would be six and half-a-dozen to me whether I was clobbered by shells or bombs. And planes could get away from the scene of the crime a damn sight faster than ships. They could get clean away, whereas the U. S. Navy or land-based bombers would have a good chance of intercepting surface vessels. And another thing, Lord Worth—a ship could stop at a distance of a hundred miles. No distance at all for the guided missile: I believe they have a range of four thousand miles these days. When the missile was, say, twenty miles from us, they could switch on its heat-source tracking device. God knows, we're the only heat source for a hundred miles around.»

Another lengthy pause, then: «Any more encouraging thoughts occur to you, Commander Larsen?»

«Yes, sir. Just one. If I were the enemy—I may call them the enemy—»

«Call the devils what you want.»

«'If I were the enemy Fd use a submarine. They don't even have to break the surface to loose off a missile. Poof! No Seawitch. No signs of any attacker. Could well be put down to a massive explosion aboard the Seawitch. Far from impossible, sir.»

«You'll be telling me next that they'll be atomic-headed missiles.»

'To be picked up by a dozen seismological stations? I should think it hardly likely, sir. But that may just be wishful thinking. I, personally, have no wish to be vaporized.»

«I'll see you hi the morning.» The speaker went dead.

Larsen hung up his phone and smiled widely. One might have expected this action to reveal a set of yellowed fangs: instead, it revealed a perfect set of gleamingjy white teeth. He turned to look at Scoffield, his head driller and right-hand man.

Scoffield was a large, rubicund, smiling man, apparently the easygoing essence of good nature. To the fact that this was not precisely the case, any member of his drilling crews would have eagerly and blasphemously testified. Scoffield was a very tough citizen indeed, and one could assume that it was not innate modesty that made him conceal the fact: much more probably it was a permanent stricture of the facial muscles caused by the four long vertical scars on his cheeks, two on either side. Clearly he, like Larsen, was no great advocate of plastic surgery. He looked at Larsen with understandable «curiosity.

«What was all that about?»

«The day of reckoning is at hand. Prepare to meet thy doom. More specifically, his lordship is beset by enemies.» Larsen outlined Lord Worth's plight. «He's sending what sounds like a battalion of hard men out here in the early morning, accompanied by suitable weaponry. Then in the afternoon we are to expect a boat of some sort, loaded with even heavier weaponry.»

«I wonder where he's getting all those hard men and weaponry from.'*

«One wonders. One does not ask.»

«All this talk—your talk—about bombers and submarines and missiles. Do you believe that?»

«No. It's just that it's hard to pass up the opportunity to ruffle the aristocratic plumage.» He paused, then said thoughtfully: «At least I hope I don't believe it. Come on, let us examine our defenses.»

«You've got a pistol. I've got a pistol. That's defenses?»

«Well, where we'll mount the defenses when they arrive. Fixed large-bore guns, I should imagine.»

«If they arrive.»

«Give the devil his due. Lord Worth delivers.»

«From his own private armory, I suppose.»

«It wouldn't surprise me.»

«What do you really think, Commander?»

«I don't know. All I know is that if Lord

AHstair

Worth is even halfway right, life aboard may become slightly less monotonous in the next few days.»

The two men moved out into the gathering dusk on the platform. The Seawitch was moored in a hundred and fifty fathoms of water-—nine hundred feet, which was well within the tension-ing cables* capacities—safely south of the U.S. mineral leasing blocks and the great east-west fairway, right on top of the biggest oil reservoir yet discovered around the shores of the Gulf of Mexico. The two men paused at the drilling derrick where a drill, at its maximum angled capacity, was trying to determine the extent of the oilfield. The crew looked at them without any particular affection but not with hostility. There was reason for the lack of warmth.

Before any laws were passed making such drilling illegal, Lord Worth wanted to scrape the bottom of this gigantic barrel of oil. Not that he was particularly worried, for government agencies are notoriously slow to act: but there was always the possibility that they might bestir themselves this time and that, horror of horrors, the bonanza might turn out to be vastly larger than estimated.

Hence the present attempt to discover the limits of the strike and hence the lack of warmth. Hence the reason why Larsen and Scoffield, both highly gifted slave drivers, born centuries out of their time, drove their men day and night. The men disliked it, but not to the point of rebellion. They were highly paid, well-housed and well-fed. True, there was little enough in the way of wine, women and song, but then, after an exhausting twelve-hour shift, those frivolities couldn't hope to compete with the attractions of a massive meal, then a long, deep sleep. More importantly and most unusually, the men were paid a bonus on every thousand barrels of oil.

Larsen and Scoffield made their way to the western apex of the platform and gazed out at the massive bulk of the storage tank, its topsides festooned with warning lights. They gazed at this for some tune, then turned and walked back toward the accommodation quarters.

Scoffield said: «Decided on your gun emplacements yet, Commander—if there are any guns?»

«There'll be guns.» Larsen was confident. «But we won't need any in this quarter.»

«Why?»

«Work it out for yourself. As for the rest, Fm not too sure. It'll come to me in my sleep. My turn for an early night. See you at four.»

The oil was not stored aboard the rig—it is forbidden by a law based strictly on common sense to store hydrocarbons at or near the working platform of an oil rig. Instead, Lord Worth, on Larsen's instructions—which had prudently come in the form of suggestions—had had built a huge floating tank which was anchored, on a basis precisely similar to that of the Seawitch herself, at a distance of about three hundred yards. Cleaned oil was pumped into this after it came up from the ocean floor, or, more precisely, from a massive limestone reef deep down below the ocean floor, a reef caused by tiny marine creatures of a now long-covered shallow sea of some half a billion years ago.

Once, sometimes twice, a day a 50,000-ton-capacity tanker would stop by and empty the huge tank. There were three of those tankers employed on the crisscross run to the southern United States. The North Hudson Oil Company did, in fact, have supertankers, but the use of them in this case did not serve Lord Worth's purpose. Even the entire contents of the Sea-witch's tank would not have filled a quarter of the supertanker's carrying capacity, and the possibility of a supertanker running at a loss, however small, would have been the source of waking nightmares for the North Hudson: equally importantly, the more isolated ports which Lord Worth favored for the delivery of his oil were unable to offer deep-water berthside facilities for anything in excess of fifty thousand tons.

It might be explained, in passing, that Lord Worth's choice of those obscure ports was not entirely fortuitous. Among the parties to the gentlemen's agreement against offshore drilling, some of the most vociferous of those who roundly condemned North Hudson's nefarious practices were, regrettably, North Hudson's best customers. They were the smaller companies who operated on marginal profits and lacked the resources to engage in research and exploration, which the larger companies did, investing allegedly vast sums in those projects and then, to the continuous fury of the Internal Revenue Service and the anger of numerous Congressional investigation committees, claiming even vaster tax exemptions. But to the smaller companies the lure of cheaper oil was irresistible. The Seawitch, which probably produced as much oil as all the government official leasing areas combined, seemed a sure and perpetual source of cheap oil—at least until the government stepped in, which might or might not happen in the next decade: the big companies had already demonstrated their capacity to deal with inept Congressional inquiries, and as long as the energy crisis continued nobody was going to worry very much about where oil came from, as long as it came. In addition, the smaller companies felt, if the OPEC—the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries— could play ducks and drakes with oil prices whenever they fe}t like it, why couldn't they?

Less than two miles from Lord Worth's estate were the adjacent homes and combined office of Michael Mitchell and John Roomer. It was Mitchell who answered the doorbell. '

The visitor was of medium height, slightly tubby, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and alopecia had hit him hard. He said: «May I come in?» in a clipped but courteous enough voice.

«Sure.» Michael Mitchell let him in to their apartment. «We don't usually see people this late.»

«Thank you. I come on unusual business. James Bentley.» A little sleight of hand and a card appeared. «FBI.»

Mitchell didn't even look at it. «You can have those things made at any joke shop. Where you from?»

«Miami.»

«Phone number?»

Bentley reversed the card, which Mitchell handed to Roomer. «My memory man. Saves me from having to have a memory of my own.»

Roomer didn't glance at the card either. «It's okay, Mike. I have him. You're the boss man up there, aren't you?» A nod. «Please sit down, Mr. Bentley.»

«One thing clear, first,» Mitchell said. «Are we under investigation?»

«On the contrary. The State Department has asked us to ask you to help them.»

«Status at last,» Mitchell said. «We've got it made, John—except for one thing: the State Department doesn't know who the hell we are.»

«I do.» Discussion closed. «I understand you gentlemen are friendly with Lord Worth.»

Seawiteh

Roomer was careful. «We know him slightly, socially—just as you seem to know a little about us.»

«I know a lot about you, including the fact that you are a couple of ex-cops who never learned to look the right way at the right time and the wrong way at the wrong time. Bars the ladder to promotion. I want you to carry out a little investigation of Lord Worth.»

«No deal,» Mitchell said. «We know him slightly better than slightly.»

«Hear him out, Mike.» But Roomer's face, too, had lost whatever little friendliness it may have held.

«Lord Worth has been making loud noises— over the phone—to the State Department. He seems to be suffering from a persecution complex. This interests the State Department, because they see him more in the role of the persecutor than persecuted.»

«You mean the FBI does,» Roomer said. «You've had him in your files for years. Lord Worth always gives the impression of being very capable of looking out for himself.»

«Thaf s precisely what intrigues the State Department.»

Mitchell said: «What kind of noises?»

«Nonsense noises. You know he has an oil rig out in the Gulf of Mexico?»

«The Seawitch? Yes.»

«He appears to be under the impression that the Seawitch is in mortal danger. He wants protection. Very modest in his demands, as becomes a multimillionaire—a missile frigate or two, some missile fighters standing by, just in case.»

«In case of what?»

«That's the question. He refused to say. Just said he had secret information—which, in fact, wouldn't surprise me. The Lord Worths of this world have their secret agents everywhere.»

«You'd better level with us,» Mitchell said.

«I've told you all I know. The rest is surmise. Calling the State Department means that there are foreign countries involved. There are Soviet naval vessels in the Caribbean at present. The State Department smells an international incident or worse.»

«What do you want us to do?»

«Not much. Just to find out Lord Worth's intended movements for the next day or two:»

Mitchell said: «And if we refuse? We have our licenses rescinded?»

«I am not a corrupt police chief. If you refuse, you can just forget that you ever saw me. But I thought you might care enough about Lord Worth to help protect him against himself or the consequences of any rash action he might take. I thought you might care even more about the reactions of his two daughters if anything were to happen to their father.»

Mitchell stood up, jerked a thumb, «The door. You know too damn much.»

«Sit down.» A sudden-chill asperity. «Don't be foolish: it's my job to know too damn much. But apart from Lord Worth and his family, I thought you might have some little concern for your country's welfare.»

Roomer said: «Isn't that pitching it a little high?»

“Very possibly. But it is the policy of the State Department, the Justice Department and the FBI not to take any chances.»

Roomer said: «You're putting us in a damned awkward situation.»

«Don't think I don't appreciate that. I know Tve put you on a spot and I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you'll have to resolve that particular dilemma yourselves.»

Mitchell said: «Thanks for dropping this little problem in our laps. What do you expect us to do? Go to Lord Worth, ask him why he's been hollering to the State Department, ask him what he's up to and what his immediate plans are?»

Bentley smiled. «Nothing so crude. You have a reputation—except, of course, in the police department—of being, in the street phrase, a couple of slick operators. The approach is up to you.» He stood. «Keep that card and let me know when you find out anything. How long would that take, do you think?»

Roomer said: «A couple of hours.»

«A couple of hours?» Even Bentley seemed momentarily taken aback. «You don't, then, require an invitation to visit the baronial mansion?»

«No.»

«Millionaires do.»

«We aren't even thousandaires.»

«It makes a difference. Well, thank you very much, gentlemen. Goodnight.»

After Bentley's departure the two men sat for a couple of minutes in silence, then Mitchell said: «We play it both ways?»

«We play it every way.» Roomer reached for a phone, dialed a number and asked for Lord Worth. He had to identify himself before he was put through—Lord Worth was a man who respected his privacy.

Roomer said: «Lord Worth? Roomer. Mitchell and I have something to discuss with you, sir, which may or may not be of urgency and importance. We would prefer not to discuss it over the phone.» He paused, listened for a few moments, murmured a thank you and hung up.

«He'll see us right away. Says to park the car in the lane. Side door. Study. Says the girls have gone upstairs.»

«Think our friend Bentley already has our phone tapped?»

«Not worth his FBI salt if he hasn't.»

Five minutes later, car parked in the lane, they were making their way through the trees to

Sea witch

the side door. Their progress was observed with interest by Marina, standing by the window in .her upstairs bedroom. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then turned and unhurriedly left the room.

Lord Worth welcomed the two men in his study and securely closed the padded door behind them. He swung open the doors of a concealed bar and poured three brandies. There were times when one rang for Jenkins and there were times when one didn't. He lifted his glass.

«Health. An unexpected pleasure.»

«It's no pleasure for us,» Roomer said gloom-ay.

«Then you haven't come to ask me for my daughters' hands in marriage?»

«No, sir,» Mitchell said. «No such luck. John here is better at explaining these things.»

«What things?»

«We've just had a visit from a senior FBI agent.» Roomer handed over Bentley's card. «There's a number on the back that we're to ring when we've extracted some information from you.»

«How very interesting.» There was a long pause, then Lord Worth looked at each man in turn. «What kind of information?»

«In Bentley's words, you have been making 'loud noises' to the State Department. According to them, you seem to think that the is under threat. They want to know where you got this secret information, and what your proposed movements are.»

«Why didn't the FBI come directly to me?'*

«Because you wouldn't have told them any more than you told the State Department. If, that is to say, you'd even let them over the threshold of your house. But they know—Bentley told us this—that we come across here now and again, so I suppose they figured you'd be less off your guard with us.»

«So Bentley figures that you'd craftily wring some careless talk from me without my being aware that I was talking carelessly.»

«Something like that.»

«But doesn't this put you in a somewhat invidious position?»

«Not really.»

«But you're supposed to uphold the law, no?»

«Yes.» Mitchell spoke with some feeling. «But not organized law. Or have you forgotten, Lord Worth, that we're a couple of ex-cops because we wouldn't go along with your so-called organized law? Our only responsibility is to our clients.»

Tm not your client.»

«No.»

«Would you like me to be your client?»

Roomer said: «What on earth for?»

«It's never something for nothing in this world, John. Services have to be rewarded.»

«Failure of a mission.» Mitchell was on his feet. «Nice of you to see us, Lord Worth.»

«I apologize.» Lord Worth sounded genuinely contrite. 'Tm afraid I rather stepped out of line there.» He paused ruminatively, then smiled. «Just trying to recall when last I apologized to anybody. I seem to have a short memory. BJess my lovely daughters. Information for our friends of the FBI? First, I received my information in context of several anonymous threats—telephone calls—on the lives of my daughters. A double-barreled threat, if you will, against the girls if I didn't stop the flow of oil. As they pointed out, I can't hide them forever and there's nothing one can do against a sniper's bullet—and if I were too difficult they'd have the Seawitch blown out of the water. As for my future movements, I'm going out to the Seawitch tomorrow afternoon and will remain there for twenty-four hours, perhaps forty-eight.»

Roomer said: «Any truth in either of those two statements?»

«Don't be preposterous., Of course not. I am going out to the rig—but before dawn. I don't want those beady-eyed bandits watching me from the undergrowth at my heliport as I take off.»

«You are referring to the FBI, sir?»

«Who else? Will that do for the moment?»

«Splendidly.»

They walked back to the lane in silence.

Roomer got in behind the wheel of the car, Mitchell beside him.

Roomer said: «Well, well, well.»

«Well, as you say, well, well, well. Crafty old devil.»

Marina's voice came from the back. «Crafty he may be, but—»

She broke off in a gasp as Mitchell whirled hi his seat and Roomer switched on his interior lights. The barrel of MitchelFs .38 was lined up between her eyes, eyes at the moment wide with shock and fear.

Mitchell said in a soft voice: «Don't ever do that to me again. Next time it may be too late.»

She licked her lips. She was normally as high-spirited and independent as she was beautiful, but it is a rather disconcerting thing to look down the muzzle of a pistol for the first time in your life. «I was just going to say that he may be crafty but he's neither old nor a devil. Will you please put that gun away? You don't point guns at people you love.»

MitchelTs gun disappeared. He said: «You shouldn't fall in love with crazy young fools.»

«Or spies.» Roomer was looking at Melinda. «What are you two doing here?»

Melinda was more composed than her sister. After all, she hadn't had to look down the barrel of a pistol. She said: «And you, John Roomer, are a crafty young devil. You're just stalling for time.» Which was quite true.

«What's that supposed to mean?”

«It means you're thinking furiously of the answer to the same question we're about to ask you. What are you two doing here?»

«That's none of your business.» Roomer's normally soft-spoken voice was unaccustomedly and deliberately harsh.

There was a silence from the back seat, both girls realizing that there was more to the men than they had thought, and the gap between their social and professional lives wider than they had thought.

Mitchell sighed. «Let's cool it, John. An ungrateful child is sharper than a serpent's tooth.»

«Jesus!» Roomer shook his head. «You can say that again.» He hadn't the faintest idea what Mitchell was talking about.

Mitchell said: «Why don't you go to your father and ask him? I'm sure he'll tell you— along with the roughest chewing-out you've ever had for interfering in his private business.» He got out, opened the rear door, waited until the sisters got out, closed the rear door, said 'Goodnight' and returned to his seat, leaving the girls standing uncertainly at the side of the road.

Roomer drove off. He said: «Very masterful, though I didn't like our doing it. God knows, they meant no harm. In any case, it may stand us in good stead in the future.»

«It'll stand us in even better stead if we get to the phone booth right around the corner as soon as we can.»

They reached the booth in fifteen seconds, and one minute later Mitchell emerged from it. As he took his seat Roomer said: «What was all that about?»

«Sorry, private matter.» Mitchell handed Roomer a piece of paper. Roomer switched on the overhead light. On the paper Mitchell had scrawled: «This car bugged?»

Roomer said: «Okay by me.» They drove home in silence. Standing in his carport Roomer said: «What makes you think my car's bugged?»

«Nothing. How far do you trust Bentley?»

«You know how far. But he—or one of his men—wouldn't have had time.»

«Five seconds isn't a long time. That's all the tune it takes to attach a magnetic clamp.»

They searched the car, then Mitchelts. Both were clean. In Mitchell's kitchen Roomer said: «Your phone call?»

'The old boy, of course. I got to him before the girls did. Told him what had happened and that he was to tell them he'd received threats against their lives, that he knew the source, that he didn't trust the local law and so had sent for us to deal with the matter. Caught on at once. Also to give them hell for interfering.»

Roomer said: «He'll convince them.»

«More importantly, did he convince you?”

«No. He thinks fast on his feet and lies even faster. He wanted to find out how seriously he would be taken in the case of a real emergency. He now has the preliminary evidence that he is being taken seriously. You have to hand it to him—as devious as they come. I suppose we tell Bentley exactly what he told us to tell him?»

«What else?»

«Do you believe what he told us?»

«That he has his own private intelligence corps? I wouldn't question it for a moment. That he's going out to the Seawitch? I believe that, too. I'm not so sure about his timing, though. We're to tell Bentley that he's leaving in the afternoon. He told us he's leaving about dawn. If he can lie to Bentley he can lie to us. I don't know why he should think it necessary to lie to us, probably just his second nature. I think he's going to leave much sooner than that.»

Roomer said: «Me, too, I'm afraid. If I intended to be up at dawn's early light I'd be in bed by now or heading that way. He showed no sign of going to bed, so I conclude he has no intention of going to bed, because it wouldn't be worth his while.» He paused. «So. A double stake-out?»

«I thought so. Up by Lord Worth's house and down by his heliport. You for the heliport, me for the tail job?»

«What else?» Mitchell was possessed of phenomenal night-sight. Except on the very blackest of nights he could drive without any lights at all.

'Til hole up behind the west spinney. You know it?»

«I know it. How about you feeding the story to Bentley while I make a couple of thermoses of coffee and some sandwiches?»

«Fine.» Roomer reached for the phone, then paused. «Listen, why are we doing all this? We don't owe the FBI anything. We have no authority from anyone to do anything. You said it yourself: we and organized law walk in different directions. I don't feel I'm under any obligation to save my country from a nonexistent threat. We've got no client, no commission, no prospect of fees. Why should we care if Lord Worth sticks his head into a noose?»

Mitchell paused in slicing bread. «As far as your last question is concerned, why don't you call up Melinda and ask her?»

Roomer gave him a long, quizzical look, sighed and reached for the telephone.