The Dogs of War

He crossed the square and ducked up another side street toward his hotel, which had few advantages but a fine view from its top floors, since it was close to the summit of Montmartre. He was thinking about Dr. Dunois, whom he had visited for a general checkup a week earlier. A former paratrooper and army doctor, Dunois had become a mountaineer and gone on two French expeditions to the Himalayas and the Andes as the team medico.

He had later volunteered for several tough medical missions in Africa, on a temporary basis and for the duration of the emergency, working for the French Red Cross. There he had met the mercenaries and had patched up several of them after combat. He had become known as the mercenaries’ doctor, even in Paris, and had sewn up a lot of bullet holes, removed many splinters of mortar casing from their bodies. If they had a medical problem or needed a checkup, they usually went to him at his Paris surgery. If they were well off, flush with money, they paid on the nail in dollars. If not, he forgot to send his bill, which is unusual in French doctors.

Shannon turned into the door of his hotel and crossed to the desk for his key. The old man was on duty behind the desk.

“Ah, monsieur, one has been calling you from London. All day. He left a message.”

The old man handed Shannon the slip of paper in the key aperture. It was written in the old man’s scrawl, evidently dictated letter by letter. It said simply “Careful Harris,” and was signed with the name of a freelance writer he knew from his African wars and who he knew lived in London.

“There is another, m’sieur. He is waiting in the salon.”

The old man gestured toward the small room set aside from the lobby, and through the archway Shannon could see a man about his own age, dressed in the sober gray of a London businessman, watching him as he stood by the desk. There was little of the London businessman in the ease with which the visitor came to his feet as Shannon entered the salon, or about the build of the shoulders. Shannon had seen men like him before. They always represented older, richer men.

“Mr. Shannon?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Harris, Walter Harris.”

“You wanted to see me?”

“I’ve been waiting a couple of hours for just that. Can we talk here, or in your room?”

“Here will do. The old man understands no English.”

The two men seated themselves facing each other. Harris relaxed and crossed his legs. He reached for a pack of cigarettes and gestured to Shannon with the pack. Shannon shook his head and reached for his own brand in his jacket pocket.

“I understand you are a mercenary, Mr. Shannon?”

“Yes.”

“In fact you have been recommended to me. I represent a group of London businessmen. We need a job done. A sort of mission. It needs a man who has some knowledge of military matters, and who can travel to a foreign country without exciting any suspicions. Also a man who can make an intelligent report on what he saw there, analyze a military situation, and then keep his mouth shut.”

“I don’t kill on contract,” said Shannon briefly.

“We don’t want you to,” said Harris.

“All right, what’s the mission? And what’s the fee?” asked Shannon. He saw no sense in wasting words. The man in front of him was unlikely to be shocked by a spade being called a spade.

Harris smiled briefly. “First, you would have to come to London for briefing. We would pay for your trip and expenses, even if you decided not to accept.”

“Why London? Why not here?” asked Shannon.

Harris exhaled a long stream of smoke. “There are some maps and other papers involved,” he said. “I didn’t want to bring them with me. Also, I have to consult my partners, report to them that you have accepted or not, as the case may be.”

There was silence as Harris drew a wad of French 100-franc notes from his pocket.

“Fifteen hundred francs,” he said. “About a hundred and twenty pounds. That’s for your air ticket to London, single or return, whichever you wish to buy. And your overnight stay. If you decline the proposition after hearing it, you get another hundred for your trouble in coming. If you accept, we discuss the further salary.”

Shannon nodded. “All right. I’ll listen—in London. When?”

“Tomorrow,” said Harris and rose to leave. “Arrive anytime during the course of the day, and stay at the Post House Hotel on Haverstock Hill. I’ll book your room when I get back tonight. At nine the day after tomorrow I’ll phone you in your room and make a rendezvous for later that morning. Clear?”

Shannon nodded and picked up the francs. “Book the room in the name of Brown, Keith Brown,” he said.

The man who called himself Harris left the hotel and headed downhill, looking for a taxi. He had not seen any reason to mention to Shannon that he had spent three hours earlier that afternoon talking with another mercenary, a man by the name of Charles Roux. Nor did he mention that he had decided, despite the Frenchman’s evident eagerness, that Roux was not the man for the job; he had left the man’s flat with a vague promise to get in touch again, with his decision.

Twenty-four hours later Shannon stood at his bedroom window in the Post House Hotel and stared out at the rain and the commuter traffic swishing up Haverstock Hill from Camden Town toward Hampstead and the commuter suburbs.