“Well,” he hedged, “let’s just say I came prepared.”
Achermann, though, was not about to be satisfied with such temporization. “American currency?” he demanded, prodding the briefcase with his cane.
In the face of such obduracy, Hamilton was unable to rally his pretense of disdainful superiority. He was barely able even to reply.
“May I see the cars first, Mr. Achermann?”
Achermann grinned mechanically. “Of course. Of course. As you will see, they are perfect. They have won many concourses, many races. You will find no fault with them.”
He made this last sound like a command, and Achermann was obviously accustomed to being obeyed.
“Perfection, Herr Hamilton, is everything to me,” he went on in tones worthy of a drill sergeant.
“It is not my way to be content with mere excellence. Only perfection is good enough for me.” He paused, noticing Hamilton’s gaze upon the blackthorn cane.
“Ah, yes. You make note of my cane. As well you may. A racing accident. Not my fault. Another driver collided with me as I was overtaking him in a tight turn. He was killed, and rightly so, the fool. Unfortunately, my leg was permanently damaged. And so I must contend with an imperfect body. You will agree, this is a great joke, yes?”
Achermann barked mirthless laughter. It was not a pleasant sound, rather like that of a butcher splitting chops with a cleaver.
Hamilton began to perspire, remembering the isolation of this estate and the fact that his presence here was unknown to anyone. Desperately, he sorted through his store of excuses for backing out of purchases. None were anywhere near suitable for such a forceful man as this. Indeed, most were calculated to deliver a thinly veiled insult to the would-be seller. He didn’t dare insult this man. In fact, he didn’t see how he could decline without admitting his imposture. And even this alternative was frightening. There was no telling what a man like Achermann might do if angered.
The limo was easing down a gentle slope which overlooked an oval track. Alongside the track stood a low metal building with many large doors, all of them closed.
“My test track and garage,” Achermann was saying. But Hamilton’s eyes were drawn to movement from one end of the structure. Bounding toward the limousine were three more rottweilers. His throat contracted in an involuntary effort to swallow, but the dryness of his mouth permitted no more than a dull clicking sound.
“As you can see,” Achermann continued, “my cars are well guarded.” He rolled an eye toward Hamilton and his teeth showed behind a twisted smile. “You know, these animals are remarkably efficient feeders. Not unlike a school of sharks, they can dispose of large quantities of raw meat and bone in very short time.”
Hamilton’s tongue felt like hot sandpaper as he unconsciously licked his lips. There was little doubt as to just what raw meat Achermann was referring to. By now, the huge dogs were alongside the limo, effortlessly keeping pace as the driver wheeled onto the concrete apron in front of the garage. He stopped before a door marked with the stallion rampant arms of Porsche. Achermann opened a panel in the walnut liquor cabinet. Inside were a dozen or so numbered buttons. He pressed one and the sectional steel garage door began to rise. Lights came on inside the bay, and Hamilton’s eyes were suddenly filled with the glossy black 904’s. The lines of their radical design bespoke the same aggressiveness as did Achermann himself. They were pure racing machines, with no concession to such banalities as fashion or ornament. Every curve, every line and contour of them was optimally functional; and the obvious function of the sum of their parts was speed. Yet, in an almost unearthly way, they were beautiful. Incredibly so. The photographs he’d seen in the magazine, impressive as they were, had in no way captured the true spirit of these magnificent machines. They seemed almost to breathe with a life of their own.
Heinrich appeared, opening the limo door for Hamilton and drawing his attention away from the sleek pair of racers. The dogs were waiting. Achermann spoke, obviously pleased with the dread they inspired in his guest.
“You have met Loki and Fenris. These are Fafnir, Nidhoggr, and Jorm.” Each of the dogs responded to the mention of its name with an eager glance at their master.
“Jorm?” Hamilton muttered, hardly realizing he’d spoken.
“Brief for ‘Jormungandr,’ ” Achermann explained. “The names are all from the Norse Mythos. Jormungandr is the giant snake which encircles the base of the Tree of Life, and Nidhoggr, the great dragon who gnaws endlessly at its roots.” He seemed to find considerable amusement in this, his wolfish grin widening as he prodded Hamilton from the safety of the limousine.
For the second time in fifteen minutes, Hamilton found himself surrounded by huge, suspicious dogs and struggled to contain his panic. He was certain they could smell his fear. Hell, he could smell it himself; pungent and unmistakable in the warm sunshine. The dogs prodded rudely at him and brushed their massive shoulders against his trembling knees, threatening to knock him off his feet altogether. He threw a desperate look at Achermann and saw the light of sadistic pleasure in his arctic eyes. The dogs began growling as they buffeted him between their bodies, and he could actually feel the thunder of their voices as they pressed ever closer against his legs. He tried to protect himself with the briefcase, only to have it savagely nudged away by one of the snarling brutes. He was nearly weeping with terror when Achermann at last rapped out a series of commands.
“Runter! Setz dich! Bleiben!” Instantly, the animals stopped their ferocious snarling and snapped into sitting position. Hamilton was on the verge of collapse, his clothing soaked with sweat. He was also furiously angry, but dared not show it. Several tense moments passed before Achermann spoke.
“You need have no fear of these animals, Herr Hamilton,” he said in conversational tones. “They are highly trained and perfectly obedient, as you can see.”
Hamilton strove to master his voice. “To be truthful, Mr. Achermann, I came here to see these cars, not a demonstration of your dogs’ proficiency at guarding them. It is unfair of you to take advantage of me this way.” This was as firm a protest as he dared essay. Achermann was playing him as if he were a trout on light tackle, and with each passing moment, his situation seemed more hopeless.
Achermann regarded him with unconcealed amusement. “I apologize,” he said, his voice utterly devoid of sincerity. “By all means, let us examine the cars.”
Hamilton could feel the dogs’ eyes on him as he followed Achermann past them into the bay. It was perfectly clear that this madman had no intention of accepting anything less than a quarter of a million dollars. Now. Here. Today. And no excuse Hamilton could come up with was going to be good enough — even though his life depended on it. Achermann was opening the door of one of the low-slung racers.
“You can see that they have been taken care of by expert mechanics. Factory trained. You will not find a wrench mark anywhere on them.” He gestured. “Come. See for yourself. They are perfect.”
They were indeed, as Hamilton had known they would be. There was no fault he could point to as an excuse for backing out. He cursed himself silently. Achermann was sliding behind the wheel, his eyes occupied with the controls. A rash impulse flared in Hamilton’s mind, and he looked wildly about for a wrench or hammer. Instead, he found the dogs. They were watching his every move. He heard the high-pitched whine of the starter and the Porsche snarled to life, its unmuffled engine deafening in the confined space of the metal-walled bay. Achermann nodded toward the door and eased the clutch in, rolling the glossy black machine smoothly out onto the apron. Hamilton followed, making a wide circle around the dogs. What else could he do?