Games of The Hangman f-1

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  As he left, Fitzduane laughed to himself. He heard the multiple electronic locks of Balac's studio click behind him. He could see television monitors watching the entrance. Twenty thousand dollars a picture, he thought. Van Gogh, when he was alive, didn't need that kind of protection.

  A little later as he window-shopped, the signs of Easter, from colored eggs to chocolate rabbits, everywhere, he thought about Etan, and he missed her.

  * * * * *

  Fitzduane watched the Learjet with Irish government markings glide to a halt.

  The Lear was the Irish government's one and only executive jet, and it was supposed to be reserved for ministers and those of similar ilk. But Kilmara, he knew, liked to work the system.

  "They wanted to send a reception committee," said Kilmara. "Good manners, the Swiss, but I said I'd prefer to use the time to talk to you first." He held his face up to the sky. "God, what beautiful weather," he said. "It was spitting cats and dogs when I left Baldonnel. I think I'll emigrate and become a banker."

  "I take it you haven't flown over to wish me a Happy Easter," said Fitzduane.

  Kilmara grinned. "An interesting Easter," he said. "Let's start with that."

  They left Belpmoos, Bern's little airport, and drove to the apartment. They were followed by two unmarked police cars, and a team carrying automatic weapons guarded the building as they talked. At Belpmoos the Lear was held under armed guard and searched for explosive devices. It would be searched again prior to takeoff.

  The Chief Kripo had enough embarrassing incidents piling up without adding the killing of Ireland's Commander of the Rangers to the pile.

  * * * * *

  "You've got to remember," said Kilmara, "that the Rangers are not mandated to be an investigation unit in Ireland." He grinned. "We're in the business of applying serious and deadly force when our nation-state requires it. We're considered a little uncouth to deal directly with the public. Detective work is the job of the police. Of course, we stretch things a bit, and we have our own contacts, but we're limited in what we can do directly." His mood changed. "It can be fucking frustrating."

  "What was the reaction to the video?" said Fitzduane. It had been described to him by Kilmara after the Ranger colonel had first viewed it, but sight of the real thing added an extra dimension. People in animal masks running around his island didn't please him. It reminded him of the bloody history of the place when the first Fitzduane had moved in. What had that cult been called? The Sacrificers. They had been wiped out in fierce fighting. Stories of the conquest of the Sacrificers in the twelfth century were part of the Fitzduane family folklore.

  Kilmara sighed. "I'm not too popular with our prime minister," he said, "which means his appointed flunkies, including our brain-damaged Minister for Justice, read the way the wind is blowing and think it good politics to fuck me around a little when the opportunity arises."

  "Meaning?" said Fitzduane.

  "Meaning that any further investigation of Draker is out," said Kilmara. "I did twist an arm or two earlier, and a couple of Special Branch friends spent a day there asking discreet questions, but to no avail — and then the minister received a phone call from the acting headmaster, and that was that. Besides, I have to say that I'm buggered if I know what we're supposed to be looking for. Sure, there have been three deaths, but there isn't a hint of foul play. Your intuition might have currency with me, but I can tell you it's a thin argument when dealing with the inertia of the average Irish politician. The parents of Draker kids are some very important people, and the school spends good money in the area. No one wants to upset a bunch of international movers and shakers and lose jobs into the bargain. It pains me to say it, but they have a point."

  Fitzduane shrugged. "Rudi and one of the terrorists you took out in Kinnegad had the same tattoo. It now looks as if Vreni's absent boyfriend, Peter Haag, is the late and unlamented Dieter Kretz. We are talking serious linkage here. Then there is the matter of a bunch of guys dressed up like a druidic sacrificial cult."

  "I've been through all this ad nauseum," said Kilmara. "We have to create a distinction between facts and the interpretation of those facts. At present the party line is that the Kinnegad business should be investigated with vigor but that it has nothing to do with Draker. Rudi's tattoo is only hearsay evidence since there is nothing actually on it in the file, and as for our animal-headed friends — so what? Dressing up in funny masks is part of every culture and certainly isn't ether a crime or even suspicious. Look at Halloween or the Wren boys at Christmas. The bottom line is that Draker is off limits, but other avenues we can pursue. And are."

  "The idle thought occurs to me," said Fitzduane, "that your ongoing feud with the Taoiseach is becoming no small problem. I wonder why he does dislike you so. This thing has been going on since the Congo. Kind of makes you think, doesn't it?"

  "I took this job," said Kilmara, "because I hoped to find out who betrayed us back then. My friend the Taoiseach, Joseph Patrick Delaney, had the means, the motive, and the opportunity — but I have no proof. And meanwhile, I have to protect and work with the man."

  "He has a certain Teflonlike quality," said Fitzduane. "I guess you could try tact."

  "I do," said Kilmara. "I don't call him shithead to his face."

  Fitzduane laughed. "Politicians," he said, and he was quoting. "‘Fuck ‘em all — the long and the short and the tall.’"

  Kilmara smiled. "The Congo — the dear-old-now-called-Zaire fucked-up Congo. You bring back memories. But we were naïve then. You can't write off politicians that easily. Hell, everything's political. You're no mean politician yourself."

  Fitzduane grunted.

  Kilmara broke new ground. "Speaking of politics," he said, "remember Wiesbaden?"

  "The BKA and its giant computer, the Kommissar," said Fitzduane. "Sure."

  "Large organizations like the BKA are coalitions," said Kilmara, "lots of little factions pushing their own particular points of view, albeit within a common framework."

  "Uh-huh," said Fitzduane.

  "One of the factions within the BKA, a unit known as the Trogs — they work troglodyte fashion, underground in an air-conditioned basement — has been experimenting for some time with an expert system to work with the Kommissar. They call it the Kommissar's Nose." He smiled. "We have a special relationship with the Trogs."

  Fitzduane was beginning to see the light. "A back channel?" he said. "You're not just getting the routine reports from the BKA. The Trogs give you chapter and verse."

  "We trade," said Kilmara. "They wanted access to our files for a project they were working on, and then I was able to help them out through some contacts in other countries. It took off from there. We have most-favored-nation status with the Trogs."

  He looked at Fitzduane and took his time continuing. "They think we may be able to help each other," he said.

  "Who are they?"

  "The computer guru of the unit is a Joachim Henssen. He's one of these people who work twenty-four hours at a stretch on the keyboard, live on junk food, and shave but once a month. He's a fucking genius. Administration is handled by a seconded street cop of the old school, a Chief Inspector Otto Kersdorf. Surprisingly they get on."

  "An expert system," said Fitzduane, "If memory serves, is a kind of halfway house on the road to artificial intelligence — a computer thinking like a human."

  Kilmara nodded. "Artificial intelligence is an aspiration. Expert systems are reality right now. Basically you figure out how humans do things and then program their approach into the computer. Human experts tend to reach conclusions through a series of intelligent guesses called heuristics. An expert system is based on a series of heuristics."

  He grinned. "Here endeth the lesson — because here endeth my knowledge. I belong to a pre-Pac-Man generation."

  "So the Trogs," said Fitzduane, thinking it through, "have come up with a software package that can analyze the mass of data accumulated by the Kommissar in much the same way as a bunch o
f smart, experienced policemen — something no human could do because there is too much computerized data to crunch through."

  "With one qualification," said Kilmara. "It's not a proven system yet. That means the BKA top brass won't go public on it in case they end up with egg on their faces — which means what the Komissar's Nose is sniffing out isn't seeing the light of day. The Trogs are going nuts."

  "But they've told you?"

  "Unofficially," said Kilmara. "It could explain a lot if they are right — but there are many uncertainties involved."

  "But you want to take a flier of the whole thing?"

  Kilmara nodded. "They started off trawling through the Kommissar's data banks and noticed patterns," he said. "This led them to look at things on a more global basis — the U.S., the Middle East, and so on. Their findings have evolved into the hypothesis that one person has been behind a series of seemingly separate terrorist incidents over about a ten-year period. Common denominators include an excessive use of violence, a sick sense of humor, and a healthy respect for the bottom line. There is also a fondness for certain types of weaponry, including Skorpion machine pistols and Claymore directional mines.

  "The Trogs call the mastermind a terrorist multinational. They say — and maybe they're not joking — that he thinks, operates, and organizes like a Harvard M.B.A. and probably has a gold American Express Card and his accounts audited by one of the Big Eight. They claim his pattern is to work globally through a variety of different subsidiary organizations."

  He grinned. "Cynics in the BKA call this hypothetical master terrorist the Abominable No-Man. They say it's a wild theory and that Henssen is spaced. The Trogs reckon the only way to vindicate themselves is to track down this mythical being, and to do that, they need to bypass the bureaucracy and be closer to the action. They think there's a chance he may be based in Bern. It's a place to start, and there are quite a few pointers in this direction, including the gentleman you threw off the KirchenfeldBridge and his girlfriend, the chessboard girl.

  "Anyway, the Trogs have proposed setting up a small unit here. All they want is a couple of rooms, good communications, and a computer terminal or two. They'll supply the secure modems to link with the Kommissar and the rest of the gear."

  He looked around Fitzduane's borrowed apartment and smiled.

  "You devious son of a bitch," said Fitzduane. "Where do the Bernese cops come into all this?"

  "It's an unofficial operation with unofficial blessing," said Kilmara. "Chief Max Buissard is skeptical. Examining Magistrate von Beck is enthusiastic. The deal is that von Beck heads it up with your friend the Bear. The one proviso is that we row in with an official representative. That way, if anything goes wrong, the forces of law and order of three countries — Switzerland, Germany, and Ireland — will be in the shit together and the fallout will be better dissipated. It's an old bureaucratic trick."

  "So who are you assigning? Günther? He likes computers."

  "A newcomer would take time to get acclimatized," said Kilmara.

  "Anyway, von Beck and the Bear want you in on this thing. The Chief Kripo says you've brought a crime wave with you and is muttering about your screwing up his statistics but will support your involvement if you have official status. The Federal Police are kind of morbidly curious to find out what you're going to come up with next. A bit of terrorism does wonders for their funding, and the Feds think they're deprived if they don't' have Porsches and this year's chopper to run around in.

  "I want you in — officially now — because I think we're all holding on to different bits of the dragon without knowing quite what we've found. I want a man on the spot who already knows his way around and whom I can trust. Besides, I don't have anyone else who isn't gainfully employed. So what do you say? You'll have official status, which may prove handy the way the bodies are piling up."

  Fitzduane sighed and spread his hands in resignation. There was a glint in his eyes.

  "This all started with a morning constitutional," he said. "It's turning out like Vietnam."

  "Don't complain," said Kilmara. "Vietnam was a photographer's war. Now, will you do it?"

  "Why not?" said Fitzduane. "I've never worked with a Bear and an intelligent computer before."

  "We'll call the operation Project K," said Kilmara, "on account of your upmarket location."

  He tossed Fitzduane a bulky package.

  "An Easter present," he said.

  The package contained a bottle of Irish whiskey, fifty rounds of custom-loaded shotgun ammunition, and a lightweight Kevlar bulletproof vest.

  "It's our standard How-to-get-on-in-Switzerland kit," said Kilmara.

  Fitzduane looked up at him. "How did you know about the shotgun?"

  "Von Beck told me you were lugging one around in your tripod bag," said Kilmara. "Besides, I remember your taste in weapons from the Congo."

  "I gather you think I'll need this stuff."

  "Haven't a clue, but it's no use running out with your Visa card when the shooting starts."

  Fitzduane picked up one of the shotgun rounds. It was stenciled with the marking “XR-18.”

  "What's this?"

  "It's an experimental round," said Kilmara, "that we've cooked up ourselves. As you know, a shotgun pattern is useless against a man above fifty yards — and if you've any sense, you'll fire at less that half that distance. A solid slug has more range but poor accuracy. Well, we ran across a new discarding-sabot slug that will enable you to hit a torso-size target at up to two hundred yards. We combined it with some of the characteristics of the Glaser slug by filling it with liquid Teflon and other material. It works" — he paused — "rather well."

  "Any good against dragons?" said Fitzduane.

  * * * * *

  Kadar held a flower in his hands. He plucked the petals one by one and watched them flutter to the ground. Already they have begun to decompose, he thought. Soon they will be part of the earth once more, and they will feed other flowers. More likely some developer will grab the location and stop the cycle with a few tons of concrete. Even beautifully preserved Bern was being nibbled at around the edges. But the old town, he was delighted to say, maintained it charmed life.

  He decided he would make a donation to ProBern. Just because he was a terrorist didn't mean he couldn’t be concerned about the environment. Good grief, Europe was in danger of becoming an ecological desert — everything from mercury in the water to acid rain killing the trees. Half the men in the RuhrValley area were said to be sterile. There were too many people wanting too much in too small a space. Really, killing a few people was for the long-term good. Mother Earth needed some supporting firepower. He decided to send some money to Greenpeace, too. He had no desire to spend his retirement building up his radioactivity level so that he could read at night by the glow. Besides, he liked whales.

  "It's tidying-up time," he said. "You know I like neat projects. Well, I want Geranium to be especially neat."

  "How long do we have?" asked one of the five people sitting in a semicircle before him. He was a Lebanese who had freelanced for the PLO until the Mossad blew up his contact and two bodyguards and their armor-plated, totally untamperable-with Mercedes in Spain. He knew Bern well — they all did — and he traveled on a false Turkish passport. He had developed a strong bias against German cars and flinched inwardly every time a Mercedes taxi went by. He liked Bern because you could walk to most places or take a tram if time was pressing. You could kill to a schedule. Working for Kadar you soon learned to meet your deadlines.

  "You each have your own timetable," said Kadar, "but the whole operation must be completed inside two weeks. Then we will rendezvous in Libya and finalize preparations for Geranium. By the end of May you will all be quite rich."

  Kadar opened his rucksack and a large carryall and removed five packages. He gave one to each of the terrorists. "Each package contains your weapon, a and the envelope contains details of your targets, travel arrangements, tickets, and so on. I suggest
that you read these details here so that I can answer any questions."

  There was the rustle of paper as the envelopes were opened. One of the two women present used a switchblade that she wore strapped in a quick-release mechanism on the inside of her left forearm. Her name was Sylvie, and she had trained with Action Directe in France. Sylvie read her operations order and looked up at Kadar. His face was expressionless. He looked at the group.

  "Perhaps you would like to examine your weapons," he said.

  Each terrorist bent forward and began to open the package. Inside the external wrapping was a layer of polyethylene followed by waxed paper. Sachets of silica gel had been added to absorb any surplus moisture. The weapons were free of protective grease and, though unloaded, were otherwise ready for use. Soon one Czech-made VZ-61 Skorpion lay exposed, then two more. Sylvie had a 9 mm Ingram fitted with a silencer. She clipped a magazine into place and cocked the weapon.

  The remaining terrorist — a Swiss who operated under the name of Siegfried — sat looking at the jagged half-meter splinter of polished stone he had unwrapped. Letters had been cut into it. His face was ashen. He looked up at Kadar. "You're playing a joke with me?"

  "Well, yes — and then again, no," said Kadar. "It's not just any piece of stone, though I admit it's not the size it should be. I couldn’t carry the whole thing. Still, I'm sure you can work out the point."

  Siegfried felt a fear he had never thought possible. It penetrated every fiber of his being. He knew he was shaking, but he was no longer able to control his body. His vision blurred; his mouth went dry. He thought of the people he had killed. He had always wondered what it felt like to be a victim. What did they think and feel when they looked down the barrel of his gun and knew that there was no way out, that nothing they could do or say would make any difference? Then he thought of all the work he had done for Kadar, and a wave of anger restored in him some slight ability to act.