(eng) Mack Reynolds & Dean Ing by Deathwish World

Author:Deathwish World [World, Deathwish]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen: Frank Pinell

Frank and Nat Fraser got off the metro at the Odeon Station and started up the street. As in practically all large cities these days, vehicular traffic in Paris was at a minimum though pedestrians and bicycles occupied the streets even at this time of night in Left Bank, still the home of artists and Sorbonne students.

Nat Fraser looked over at his younger companion approvingly. He said, “Cobber, you look like a regular toff in those new duds. A little on the Frenchy side, gawdstrewth.”

Frank snorted at the tall, gawky Australian. “They ought to look good, you ponied up enough credits to outfit me.”

“Nothing’s too good for a cove working for the bloody Graf.” Nat looked up at a street sign. “Rue Monsieur Le Prince,” he read. “That’s it.”

Frank said, “Who’s this Colonel Boris Rivas?”

“Old-time mercenary. Mostly Africa and Near East. Last time I saw him was in Yemen. He had a contract there with some fifty commandos and a few hundred ragheads. Too bloody-minded by far for my liking, cobber. I was done on the bone but I did a bunk instead of joining up.”

Frank frowned. “Now I really need a translation.”

“I don’t go for finishing off women, kids, and old folks. Fair dinkum, I don’t. Rape, killing civilians, looting—old Boris gets his lollies out of it. Bad business. If the situation pickles, you might have to depend on those women and old coves. Hide you, feed you, if they’re lucky enough as to have anything to eat. Maybe nurse you, if you’ve copped one.” He looked up at a sign over the doorway of a dilapidated building that looked a good two centuries or more in age. Hotel Balcon.

“This is it, cobber. Just follow me bloody lead. Rivas is competition to the Graf. This is his last bloody chance. He comes in with the mucking organization, or the barstid’s had it, and that’s the dinkum oil.”

“You mean we, uh, shoot him?”

The other grinned cheerfully. “More likely he’d shoot us first, cobber. But we’re here under a bloody flag of bloody truce. Let’s go.”

The hotel lobby was no more impressive than the outside of the building. It had the odor of long decay. Its lone occupant was a bent old man behind the desk, obviously the concierge.

“What room’s Rivas in, cobber?” the Aussie said.

To Frank’s surprise, the old man spoke English. “Top floor. Room 505.”

“Too right,” Nat said, and made a gesture with his head. “Get your arse out of here.” The old-timer studied the set of Nat’s jaw, then scooted out a door behind his desk.

Frank looked at him in surprise.

“He’s been paid,” Nat said, heading for the stairway. There was no elevator.

The building was five stories high and Nat Fraser had obviously been in third-class French hotels before. At each landing he pushed a button in the wall which turned on a low wattage bulb just long enough for them to reach the next landing. The management of the Hotel Balcon did not waste electrical power.

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