Curious bonds had been formed. Dr Abnekov's antipathy to American capitalism had been overcome by Professor Botwyk's observation to the Saudi delegate that any man who couldn't hold his liquor ought to stop spouting about the power of petroleum products, and Pastor Laudenbach had brought them even closer together by supporting the refusal of Muslims to touch alcohol. Even Professor Manake and Sir Arnold had found a common interest in big-game hunting. Only Dr Zukacs remained obstinately doctrinaire, explaining to no one in particular that the only way the under-developed countries could free themselves from imperialism was by developing heavy industry and collectivizing farms. Since he was sitting next to the Polish delegate, who was under orders to keep his mouth shut and who knew what collective farming had done to his own country, and who resented the imputation that Poland was under-developed anyway, only Dr Abnekov's threat to beat their collective heads together unless they shut up prevented a fight. Pastor Laudenbach's appeal for peace brought Botwyk to his feet.
'Listen, you dirty kraut,' he shouted, 'Don't you start yammering about peace. Two world wars your lousy country's started this century and don't think we've forgotten it. Six million died in the gas chambers and it wouldn't surprise me to learn you were the camp doctor at Auschwitz.'
'That's a lie,' snarled the Pastor inadvisedly, 'I spent four years on the Eastern Front in Panzers. I was at the Battle of the Kursk while you were bombing innocent civilians to death by the hundred thousand. I know about war. At Kursk I learnt and '
It was too much for Dr Abnekov. 'You murdering Hitlerite,' he yelled, 'just let me get my hands on you and I'll show you what we did to butchers like you. At Kursk were you? By God '
'Gentlemen,' appealed Dr Grenoy, 'let us try to forget the past and '
'Shut up, you damned Frog,' shouted Botwyk. 'Without the boys who died on Omaha beach you'd be still doing what Heinie here told you even if you weren't a goddam collaborator which is open to question.'
'I was five at the time ' began Dr Grenoy, but neither Botwyk nor Abnekov were to be silenced. As Abnekov hurled himself drunkenly at the Pastor, Botwyk cursed Dr Grenoy for getting out of Vietnam and NATO, not to mention teaming up with a load of Huns in the Common Market. And what about Marshall Aid?'
'Amazing,' Professor Manake observed to Sir Arnold. 'You Europeans never seem to realize how extraordinarily barbaric you are.'
'I wouldn't call myself a European, you know,' said Sir Arnold. 'We're an island race with a seafaring tradition '
But as he spoke, Peregrine, following another English tradition, acted. Firing with all the deadlines Major Fetherington had taught him he put his first bullet through Professor Botwyk's forehead, then shot the lights out and with two more bullets plunged the courtyard into darkness as well. As the screams and shouts of the delegates echoed through the Château he dashed for the cover of the gateway tower. There was a little office there and from it he could command a view of the entire terrace and the stableyard where the cars were parked at the back. In short, no one could move out of the buildings without being shot. Best of all, he had the swine trapped in the Château and until they released Glodstone he didn't intend to budge.
Three floors above, the Countess felt the same way about budging. From the sound of the shots, the screams and the confusion below, she realized she had been wrong. Dr Grenoy had known what he was talking about. Some hit-man had come looking for her last night and she should have left while the going was good. Right now it was bad. Whipping to the door, she locked it and switched the light out. 'If anyone comes don't utter,' she told Glodstone. 'And wedge that bed against the door.'
For some time they sat on the floor in silence listening for more sounds of trouble and separately wondering how the hell they were going to get out of the mess. 'Must have shot one of the guests,' whispered the Countess finally.
'Guests?' said Glodstone.
'Either them or the think-tank merchants.'
'Think-tank merchants?'
'The futurologists. Though what they know about the future beats me. Still, they pay well. Or did. I can't see this being the world's favourite venue for conferences after tonight.'
Glodstone tended to agree, though he wasn't at all clear what futurologists were. Certainly international gangsters would be inclined to avoid the place.
'What beats me,' continued the Countess, 'is why that goon last night was looking for me and now he's shooting those poor eggheads down there. Unless it's the gendarmes doing the shooting.'
'The gendarmes?' said Glodstone. 'You mean they've had the nerve to call the police in?'
'You don't seriously imagine an international gathering of some of the world's most eminent intellectuals are going to sit on their fannies when there's a contract killer on the loose? It's a miracle we haven't got the United States Marines on call, the way that Professor Botwyk was carrying on this morning. Wanted to phone the Embassy.'
'The Embassy?'
In the darkness the Countess looked at him suspiciously. 'Do you always repeat everything anyone says to you?' she asked.
'No, but...Well, you wouldn't think men like that would have the nerve to ask for government protection.'
'I can't think why not.'
Glodstone could, but in the present circumstances it didn't seem advisable to say so. On the other hand he had the increasing feeling that there had been some terrible mistake and for a moment he began to wonder if they'd come to the wrong Château, before remembering that this woman had claimed to be Wanderby's mother. Perhaps all this talk about international scholars and the police was subtle means of getting him to talk. 'It all seems very odd,' he muttered.
'You can say that again,' said the Countess as another shot rang out below. Peregrine had just winged Dr Abnekov who had made the mistake of urinating out of one of the windows and had learnt what it felt like to be circumcised by a revolver bullet. As his yells receded the Countess got to her feet. 'Where's your car?' she asked.
Glodstone hesitated. He still couldn't make head or tail of the woman but there was nothing to be gained from lying. 'I left it hidden in an old sawmill. I didn't want anyone to steal it.'
'Yeah, well I'd say you showed good sense,' said the Countess. 'We'll just have to chance it. This place is beginning to feel like the condemned cell and I don't fancy sitting here waiting. Help me move the bed. But quietly.'
Glodstone got to his feet and clutched the sheet to him. It was beginning to feel like a premature shroud. 'Is that wise?' he asked as another shot rang out, 'I mean it sounds like a battle out there.'
'Which is why we're moving now. So long as they're occupied we've got a chance.'
They moved the bed and the Countess unlocked the door and went out into the passage. Glodstone followed her unwillingly and stopped.
'So what's holding you?' demanded the Countess. 'Got cold feet or something?'
'It's just that I've got no clothes and...well...I wouldn't want to compromise you,' he murmured.
'Jesus, at a time like this he talks about compromising. If we don't hurry I'm going to get compromised by a bullet.'
Glodstone gave in and traipsed nervously down the steps after her. 'In here,' whispered the Countess when they reached a large open landing directly above the gateway. Opening a door she pushed him inside. 'You'll find some of my husband's clothes in the bedroom. He was twice your size but you'll look better in something dark. That sheet goes with your complexion.'
Glodstone shuffled across the carpet into the next room and found some suits in a wardrobe. Whoever the woman's husband might be she hadn't been lying about his build. The brute must have stood six foot in his socks and his waistband was in the upper fifties. Still, anything was preferable to that sheet. Glodstone put on a shirt while the Countess busied herself in the other room. By the time he was dressed and could move about without tripping (he'd had to roll the bottom of the trousers up eight inches to achieve this feat) she had finished packing a suitcase.