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
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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
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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.”
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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.”
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“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
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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,
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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.