Kadar drained the brandy glass. He refilled it from a cut-glass decanter that rested nearby on a low glass-topped table. There was a small stainless steel basin containing a folded cloth beside the decanter.
"But I was explaining what happened after our shared soupçon of sex. Actually there is not much to tell. You fell asleep; I dozed a bit; then, gently, I struck you on a certain special spot on the back of your head to render you unconscious — it's an Indian technique, if you're interested, from a style of fighting known as kalaripayit — and then I arranged you as you now find yourself, drank a little brandy, read a Shakespeare sonnet or two, and waited for you to recover. It took longer than expected, and in the absence of the smelling salts so beloved by ladies of fashion in more civilized times, I had to make do with soothing your fevered brow with a damp cloth. That seemed to do the trick.
"You might well ask why I have gone to so much trouble — and I see from your expression that that very question has crossed your mind. Well, my dear, it's all about discipline. You did something you shouldn't have done — doubtless for the best of motives, but I really don't care — and now you have to be punished.
"You have to see it from my point of view. You may think my main preoccupation is our little band here in Switzerland. You don't realize that I have a number of such interests scattered across Europe, the Middle East, the Americas, and elsewhere, and the only way I can keep them under control — given that I must be away so much — is, in the final analysis, through absolute discipline. Discipline is the key to my running a multinational operation, and discipline has to be enforced.
"You see, I worked out my particular multinational management style, my objectives, and my strategy when I was at Harvard. It was while studying the activities of the big soap companies like Procter & Gamble and Unilever that I got the idea. They have different brands of soap and cleaning powder, all competing to some extent for different segments of the market. I decided there was a major commercial opportunity to exploit in the rapidly developing phenomenon of terrorism — all that hate, frustration, idealism, and sheer raw energy waiting to be tapped and manipulated — so I decided to do much the same thing as the soap companies, except with terrorist groups instead of detergent. Each little band had its own rules and rituals and tokens to give it a sense of esprit de corps and identity, but each little band has only one purpose, just like all the others: to make me a profit.
"I'm very profit-oriented. I don't give a fuck about the rights of the Palestinians, the ambitions of the Basques, the overthrow of the Swiss establishment, or whatever. I care a great deal about cash flow, return on investment, and meeting financial targets. It's all about the bottom line in the end."
He paused for a moment and held his cut-glass brandy snifter up to the light. He swirled the amber liquid and watched the changing sparkle of golden light with concentration; then he turned his gaze back to the naked girl.
"Initially you were instructed to follow the Irishman and to report his movements, preferably without being detected. Later on, when it seemed that he might be becoming aware of your interest, you were ordered to keep a discreet eye on him from a distance and even then only intermittently so there would be no risk of your being discovered. You were ordered to do nothing more than that — nothing more!" His voice had risen, and he was almost shouting. He calmed himself and continued speaking. "My dear, I'm forgetting myself and what time it is. I certainly don't want to upset all those sleeping burghers of Bern, and as for raising my voice in a lady's presence, I do apologize.
"The truth is I can't abide indiscipline. I expect that's why I made my base in Switzerland; despite its many peculiarities, it's such a disciplined society. Lack of discipline shocks me, this casual disregard of precise instructions. In your case it was particularly shocking. I thought you understood. Then I come back from an important business trip to find that — on your own initiative — you and that fool Pierre have decided to exceed instructions and kill the Irishman merely because he looked alone and vulnerable on the Kirchenfeld Bridge; and you didn't even succeed, two of you, with surprise on your side."
He shook his head sadly. "This is not proper behavior for members of my organization. It is just as well that Pierre was killed before I could lay my hands on him. Have you not learned already what happens to those who disobey orders? Have you forgotten so soon the lesson of Klaus Minder? An overtalkative boy. I would have thought the manner of his dying would have made you painfully aware of that I expect my orders to be adhered to." A thought occurred to him. "Perhaps you thought the elimination of the Irishman would please me."
She met his gaze for a moment; then her eyes dropped away. A feeling of helplessness swept over her. They had indeed thought he would be pleased if this unexpected threat to his plans were eliminated. In fact, it was the horrific example of Minder's ritual killing by Kadar that had persuaded them to act. Now it had all backfired; it was hopeless. She tried not to think of the import of what he was saying to her. She looked down at the ground in front of her and tried to let his words wash over her. She began to writhe and struggle in a futile attempt to get free; then she saw that the carpet under and immediately around her chair was covered with a clear plastic sheet. Horror overwhelmed her when the significance of this typical example of Kadar's attention to detail sank in. Her body sagged in despair. She knew she was going to die and within minutes. How remained the only question.
"The snag is, my dear," said Kadar, "you cannot see the bigger picture. Fitzduane doesn't even know what he is looking for. He is working out some male menopausal hunch based upon his accidental finding of young von Graffenlaub. He won't discover anything significant before we are ready to strike, and then it will be too late. There isn't time for him to get into the game. He doesn't have the knowledge to make the connections. He's a watcher, not a player, unless through stupidity we make him into one.
"I wanted to keep a loose check on what Fitzduane was up to through my various sources, but certainly not to draw his attention to the fact that he might be on to something. Now, by trying to kill him, you've begun to give him credibility. If you had succeeded, the situation would have been even worse. You would have focused attention on matters we want left well alone for the next few weeks."
Kadar lit a thin cigar and blew six perfect smoke rings. He did many such things well; he was blessed with excellent physical coordination.
"Darling Esther," he said, "it is good to be able to talk things over with you. Command is a lonely business; it's rare that I get the chance to explain things to someone who will understand. You do understand, don't you?"
He didn't bother to wait for a nod of agreement but instead checked his watch. He looked up at her. "Well, it's time for the main event," he said. "I'd better explain the program; as a tribute to our past intimacy, it's only fair that you know the details. I wouldn't want you to miss something. It's all rather interesting, with plenty of historical precedent as a method of execution.
"My dear darling Esther," he said, "you are going to be garroted. It's a technique that was rather popular with the Spanish, I'm told. I think I've got the machinery right, though one cannot be sure without field testing, and, as you may imagine, that is not the easiest thing to arrange. So you are the first with this particular device; I do hope it all goes well.
"It works like this: At the back of the metal collar around your neck is a simple screw mechanism connected to a semicircle of metal that sits just inside the collar. Turning the screw clockwise, with a lever to make it easier to handle, forces the inner semicircle of metal to tighten against the back of the neck and, correspondingly, the front of the collar to constrict and then crush the throat. This can be done almost instantaneously or quite slowly; it's a matter of personal preference.
"They tell me that the physical result is similar to strangulation: Your eyes will bulge, your face will turn blue, your tongue will stick out, and you will suffocate. Eventually, as the mechanism tightens further, the force exert
ed by the screw on the back of your neck will break it. By then, I expect, you will be unconscious and either dead or close to it, so you'll miss the final action. It's a pity, but that's just the way it is."
Kadar hauled himself out of his chair, stretched, and yawned. He patted her on the head, then walked around behind her. "It's all about discipline, my dear," he said. "And the bottom line."
He began to tighten the screw.
17
Colonel Ulrich Hoden (retired) had risen early. He had a problem. Major Tranino (retired), his old wartime companion, and over the intervening decades his chess partner — normally by post but twice a year in person — was on a winning streak. He had beaten the colonel twice in a row. Something had to be done if a hat trick was to be staved off.
Over a game of jass, the Swiss national card game, he had posed the problem to his companions. After much deliberation and several liters of Gurten beer, they had suggested that what the colonel needed was perspective: to study the chess problem from a new angle. One of his companions suggested that he work it out on one of the giant open-air chessboards scattered around Bern. He particularly recommended the board next to the Rosengarten. It was only twenty minutes from where the colonel was staying with his grandchildren in the Obstberg district, and apart from the pleasures of the garden itself, the view of Bern from the low hill on which the garden was located was spectacular.
The colonel took the steep path up to the Rosengarten instead of the longer but gentler route. At the top there was a glass-fronted café, still closed at this hour, with an outside eating area bordered by a low wall. He rested there for a few minutes, catching his breath after the steep climb and taking in the sight of old Bern laid out below. He could see the course of the River Aare, the red-tiled roofs of the old buildings, the spire of the Münster against the distant skyline of snowcapped mountains, and all around him trees and flowers were coming into full bloom as if in special haste to make up for their long sleep under the snows of winter. A robin landed on the wall beside him, peered up inquisitively, hopped around a couple of times, then flew away about its business.
The colonel decided that he had better follow the robin's example. Major Tranino's problem was a tricky one. The sooner he laid it out on the giant chessboard, the sooner inspiration might strike.
As he neared the chessboard, he was surprised to see the pieces all laid out ready to play. They were normally stacked away at night, and it now looked as if someone might have beaten him to it despite the early hour. Ah, well, he had enjoyed the walk, and there might be the chance of a game. Perhaps two heads could solve the colonel's little difficulty. But would that be ethical? Probably not. It was supposed to be strictly mano a mano when the colonel and the major were playing, notwithstanding the geographical separation.
Something about the chessboard looked odd, and he could see no other players. He came closer. The blue and white chess pieces were nearer to him, the tallest of them the size of a small child, reaching halfway up his thigh. He put on his glasses; there was nothing wrong with the blue and white pieces. He turned his gaze to the red and black pieces and walked forward onto the board itself to study the pieces one by one.
The pawns gleamed in their new paint, and the contrasting slashes of color reminded him of nothing so much as a file of Swiss Guards on parade in the Vatican. He knew that there was something wrong and that he should have seen what it was by now, and he admitted to himself that even with his glasses his eyes were not what they had been. He really should get a stronger pair; vanity be damned.
He stepped forward again to study the back row. The rook seemed fine; the knight and the bishop were normal; nest came the queen — and it was the queen that killed him.
There was no queen. In her place, propped upright, was the upper half of the body of a young woman. She seemed to be smiling at him, then he realized that her lips had been cut away to expose her teeth.
The pain was immediate and massive. He swayed briefly and then fell back on the hard slabs of the chessboard. His last thought before the heart attack killed him was that Major Tranino (retired) looked as if he would win three times in a row, if only by default in the case of the third game — and that was a pity because Colonel Hoden (retired) thought he just might have found the answer.
* * * * *
Fitzduane supposed that his ideas of what an Autonomous Youth House should look like were conditioned by his recollection of the one in Zurich. He remembered a battered and litter-strewn industrial building covered with graffiti and still freshly scarred from recent riots, and everywhere around it broken glass and empty tear gas canisters and twitchy policemen. He was almost disappointed by what he found in Bern.
Taubenstrasse 12 was a large, solid three-story construction with a distinctly nineteenth-century feel about it. Its style positively radiated probity, bourgeois values, and the merits of the Bernese establishment. In contrast with the sober image projected by the building, half a dozen spray can-inscribed sheets fluttered their calls for freedom, anarchy, and pot for all from the front of the house. In counterpoint, less than a hundred meters away was the gray, multistory, modernistic box that housed the Federal Police administration.
As Fitzduane approached, a young couple rushed from the building. The man's face was red and swollen, as if he had been on the losing side of a fight, and blood was gushing from his nose. The girl with him was crying. They pushed past Fitzduane and ran out into the small park that bordered the other side of Taubenstrasse.
The front door was open. Fitzduane called out, then knocked. No one answered. Balancing caution and curiosity, he went in. The hall was dark and cool in contrast with the glare of the sunlight. He paused while his eyes adjusted.
A hand grabbed his arm. "Polizei?" a voice asked nervously.
Fitzduane removed the hand. It was dirty, as was the person it belonged to. The person also smelled.
"No, " said Fitzduane.
"You are English?" The voice belonged to a small, scruffy youth of about twenty. He seemed agitated.
"Irish," said Fitzduane. "I'm looking for someone called Klaus Minder. A friend told me he sometimes lives here."
The youth gave a start. He moved away from Fitzduane and examined him carefully. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he was shaking. He removed a hand-rolled cigarette from his pocket and tried to light it but was unable to hold the match steady. Fitzduane moved forward gently and held his wrist while flame and marijuana made contact. The wrist was frail and thin. The youth inhaled deeply several times, and some of the tension went from his face. He looked at Fitzduane.
"You must help us," he said. "First you must help us."
Fitzduane smiled. "If it's legal and quick, or at least quick. What's the problem?"
The youth leaned forward. He smelled terrible and looked worse, but there was something, some quality, curiously appealing about him. "There is a man upstairs, a Dutchman — his name is Jan van der Grijn — and he is creating trouble. If you go up, because you are an outsider, he will stop."
"Why's he doing this?"
The youth shrugged. He looked at the ground. "He stayed here a little while ago," he said, "and after he left he was missing some stuff. He has come back to find it. He says one of us robbed him, and he's threatening everyone who was there that night."
"Why don't you go to the police?"
The youth shook his head. "We don't want the police in here," he said. "We have enough trouble with them."
The marijuana smoke diffused through the corridor. "I can't imagine why," said Fitzduane dryly. He was thinking it might be an excellent idea to leave.
The youth tugged him by the arm. "Come on," he insisted. "Afterward I will tell you about Klaus."
Reluctantly Fitzduane followed the youth up the stairs. "What's your name?" he called up after him.
"Ivo," answered the youth. He opened a door off the second-floor landing and stood aside. Muffled shouts came from inside, but Fitzduane went in anyway. An extremely bad
decision. The door slammed shut behind him.
He could smell Ivo by his side. "The Dutchman has two friends with him," Ivo said. "They are the ones in the leather jackets."
"Good information," said Fitzduane, "but lousy timing." Before he knew what was happening, he felt an armlock around his neck and something sharp being pressed against his kidneys. Someone with foul breath spoke into his right ear. He didn't understand a word.
A big man in a leather jacket stopped punching a blond youth, who was held by an equally large companion, and came forward. He hit Fitzduane once very hard in the stomach. Fitzduane sagged to his knees. He felt sick, and he was getting quite angry.
* * * * *
Detective Kurt Siemann of the Bern Kriminalpolizei, not one of the Chief Kripo's favorites, hence his rank — or rather lack of it at the mature age of forty-seven — was of two minds about whether to follow Fitzduane into the Youth House.
His brief was terse: "Keep an eye on him, note his movements, keep him out of trouble, but don't hassle him," which seemed to Siemann to incorporate certain self-canceling elements. Following Fitzduane into the Youth House could well be construed as ‘hassling.’ On the other hand, since the Bern police were not yet equipped to see through stone walls, the instruction ‘keep an eye on him’ was currently being obeyed only in the figurative sense at best. Another complication was that it was current police policy to steer clear of the Youth House as much as possible. It was a policy with which Detective Siemann did not agree; he was all in favor of donning riot gear and cracking a few heads.
Detective Siemann decided that on balance he was probably better off staying outside, staring at the tulips and counting the flies. He thought it wouldn't do any harm if he sat down on the grass and rested for a few minutes. He lay down and put his hands behind his head — it wasn't all bad being a policeman in the spring. It might not be fair to say that he fell fast asleep, but even Detective Siemann himself would admit that he dozed.
Games of The Hangman f-1 Page 25
