Games of The Hangman f-1

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  "I remember the days when you talked like a cop," said the Chief. He looked down at his notes again. "How do we stand on the tattoo issue?"

  "Good and bad," said the Bear. "The good news is that we finally traced the artist — a guy in Zurich operating under the name of Siegfried. The bad news is that he'd disappeared when the local police went to pick him up for a second round of questioning. He reappeared in walking boots, full of holes."

  "The body found in the woods? I didn't know it had been identified yet."

  "An hour of so ago," said the Bear. "You were probably on your way here at the time."

  "Did Siegfried leave any records?"

  "He had a small apartment above his shop," said the Bear. "Both were destroyed in a fire shortly after he did his vanishing act. A thorough case of arson with no attempt to make it look accidental; whoever did it was more concerned about carrying out a total destruction job. They used gasoline and incendiary devices. On the basis of analysis of the chemicals used in the incendiaries, there is a direct link to the Hangman's group."

  The Chief frowned. "What about Ivo's package?"

  "That's still with forensics," said the Bear. "They hope to have something later on today, but it could be tomorrow. About eighty percent of it was destroyed by Fitzduane's shotgun blasts, and the rest of it was saturated in blood and bits of our unlamented killer. That shotgun load he's using is formidable."

  "Not exactly helpful in this situation," said the Chief.

  "I'm not used to shooting people wearing roller skates," said Fitzduane. "It confused my aim."

  "What you need is a dose of Swiss Army," said the Chief. "We'd teach you how to shoot."

  "We're particularly strong on dealing with terrorists wearing roller skates," said Charlie von Beck.

  "Which reminds me. I really would like my shotgun back," said Fitzduane. "Your people took it away after the Bärenplatz."

  "Evidence," said the Chief. "Democratic legal systems are crazy about evidence. Consider yourself lucky you weren't take away, too."

  The Bear looked at Fitzduane and stopped him as he was about to reply. "Be like a bamboo," he suggested, "and bend with the wind."

  "That's all I need," said Fitzduane, "a Swiss Chinese philosopher."

  * * * * *

  Sangster would have been flattered by the meticulous planning that went into his death. Sylvie had been assigned the task of tidying up Vreni von Graffenlaub. With her were a technician of Columbian origin known as Santine and two Austrian contract assassins, both blond and blue-eyed and baby-cheeked, whom she immediately dubbed Hansel and Gretel.

  She still felt sore about the Bärenplatz shootings. Certainly the target had been killed, and a policeman for good measure, and losing the Lebanese had been no loss — she had become extremely bored with his alligator shoes — but she wished she hadn't lent the incompetent idiot her Ingram. It was the weapon she was used to, and now here she was carrying out an assignment it would have been ideal for, and she was reduced to one of those dull little Czech Skorpions.

  They considered bypassing the bodyguards by approaching the farmhouse cross-country. That would have worked if Kadar had ordered just a quick kill, but he wanted something more elaborate, so it became clear they'd have to take out the bodyguards prior to the main event.

  The killings would have to be silent. Vreni's farmhouse was situated outside the village, but noise travels in the still air of the mountains, and although the immediate police presence might not be significant, this damned Swiss habit of every man's having an assault rifle in his home had to be considered.

  In the end it wasn't too difficult to come up with an effective plan. It hinged up Santine's technical capabilities and close observation of the bodyguards' routine. For at least twenty minutes out of every hour both bodyguards were out of the car patrolling, and for at least half that time they were out of sight of the car.

  The first move was to bug the bodyguards' car. The rented Mercedes was not difficult to unlock, and within seconds Santine, almost invisible in white camouflage against the snow, had concealed two audio transmitters and, under the driver's seat, a radio-activated cylinder of odorless, colorless carbon monoxide gas. Silently he relocked the car and slithered away into the tree line, cursing the cold and swearing that he would confine his talents in the future to warmer climes.

  The audio surveillance was instructive. Sylvie was glad that she hadn't given in to her initial impulse to bypass the bodyguards. The farmhouse, it turned out, was bugged. Vreni von Graffenlaub might not have allowed her father's security people inside her house, but they still had the ability to monitor — if not actually see — her every movement. There were microphones, they learned, in all the main rooms.

  Further surveillance revealed that the bodyguards' reporting procedures, their code words, their routines, and the interesting gem that their vehicle was shortly to be replaced by an armor-plated van that was at this moment making its way to them from Milan. Sangster had learned something from the Moro experience. He had put in a requisition, and it had been approved. Beat von Graffenlaub had deep pockets, and his family was to receive the most effective protection the experts thought necessary.

  The armored van could make things difficult. It would be relatively immune to Skorpion fire. There was only one conclusion: the hit would have to be made before its arrival. Just to complicate things, Sangster and Pierre reported in every hour to their headquarters by radio and checked upon in turn on a random basis about once every three hours. The only good news about that was that radio transmission quality seemed to be poor. It should be possible for Sylvie's team, armed with knowledge of the codes and procedures, to fake it for a couple of hours.

  Sylvie ran through the plan with her small force. Santine offered a few suggestions that made sense. Hansel and Gretel held hands and just nodded. They had wanted to use crossbows on the two bodyguards and were not happy at the thought of an impersonal radio-activated kill. Sylvie reminded them that Vreni would be a different proposition and that Kadar had issued certain very explicit instructions. All this cheered up Hansel and Gretel, who began to look positively enthusiastic. Sylvie, who found them nauseating, almost missed the Lebanese. Santine, who looked as if he'd be quite happy to shoot his grandmother when he wasn't peddling cocaine to three-year-olds, was a breath of fresh air in comparison.

  * * * * *

  Vreni was alone in the farmhouse. She sat on the floor, her feet bare, her legs drawn up, her hands clasped around her knees. She had stopped crying. She was almost numb from fear and exhaustion. Sometimes she shook uncontrollably.

  She was clinging to the notion that if she didn't cooperate with the authorities — and she included her father's security guards in that group — then she would be safe. They would leave her alone. He — Kadar — would leave her alone. The presence of bodyguards in their car only a couple of hundred meters up the track increased her terror because it might be taken to suggest that she had revealed things she had sworn to keep secret. She knew there were other watchers, other forces more deadly than anything officialdom could conceive.

  She stared at the telephone. The Irishman represented her only hope. His visit had affected her deeply, and as the days passed, its impact in her mind grew ever greater. He was undaunted by this morass of corruption into which she had fallen. Perhaps she could, should talk to him. Her hand touched the gray plastic of the phone, then froze. What if they were listening and got to her first?

  She keeled over onto her side and moaned.

  * * * * *

  The façade of Erika von Graffenlaub's apartment suggested nothing more than a conventional wooden door equipped with a good-quality security lock. The locksmith had little trouble with it but immediately was faced with a significantly more formidable barrier: the second door was of steel set into a matching steel frame embedded in the structure of the building. The door was secured by a code-activated electronic lock.

  The locksmith looked at the discreetly engrav
ed manufacturer's logo and shook his head. "Too rich for my blood," he said. "The only people who can help you are the manufacturers, Vaybon Security, and they are not too forthcoming unless they know you."

  Beat von Graffenlaub smiled thinly. "You’ve done enough," he said to the locksmith, who had turned to admire the steel door.

  The man whistled in admiration. "Great bit of work this," he said, "rarely seen in a private home. It's the kind of thing normally only banks can afford." He stretched out his hand to touch the flawless satin steel finish. There was a loud crack and a flash and a smell of burning, and the locksmith was flung across the hallway to collapse on the floor in a motionless heap.

  Beat von Graffenlaub stared at the steel door. What terrible secrets was Erika concealing behind it? He knelt beside the fallen locksmith. His hand and arm were burned, but he was alive. Von Graffenlaub removed a mobile phone from his briefcase and phoned for medical assistance.

  His second call was to the managing director of the Vaybon Corporation. His manner was peremptory; his instructions were specific. Yes, such a door could be opened by a special team. There were plans in the Vaybon Security plant in a suburb of Bern. Action would be taken immediately. Herr von Graffenlaub could expect the door to be opened within two hours. This would be exceptional service, of course, but in view of Herr von Graffenlaub's special position on the board of Vaybon...

  "Quite so," said von Graffenlaub dryly. He terminated the call, made the locksmith comfortable, and sat down to wait. The elusive Erika might return first. He took the unconscious locksmith's pulse. It was strong. He, at least, would live to see the summer.

  * * * * *

  The Chief Kripo had been playing devil's advocate for more than five hours, and he wasn't scoring many points. The project team's approach was different in many ways from conventional police work, but to someone not used to working in an integrated way with an expert system, it was impressively comprehensive. Once instructed, the computer didn't forget things. It was hard to find a facet the team hadn't covered or at least considered. But there were some potential flaws.

  "How do you people deal with data that aren't already computerized?" he asked. "How do you handle good old-fashioned typed or handwritten data?"

  Faces turned to Henssen. He shrugged. "It's a problem. We can input some data by hand if only a few hundred records or so are involved, and in Wiesbaden we have scanning equipment that can covert typed records directly to computer format. But for all that, if data aren't computerized, we can only nibble at them."

  "So how much of the data isn't computerized?" asked the Chief.

  Henssen brightened. "Not a lot. Orwell's 1984 wasn't so far out."

  "What about Babel?" said the Chief.

  Henssen looked confused. He looked at the Bear, who shrugged.

  "The Tower of Babel," explained the Chief. "How do you cope with records in different languages — English, French, German, Italian, whatever?"

  "Ah," said Henssen. "Actually the Babel factor — as such — is not as much of a problem as you'd think. We do have computerized translation facilities that are over ninety percent accurate. On the other hand, that ten percent error factor leaves room for some elegant confusion that can be compounded by multiple meanings within any one language. Consider the word screw for example. That can mean ‘to rotate,’ as in inserting a wood screw; it can mean ‘to cheat or swindle,’ as in I was screwed on the deal’; it can mean the act of sex as in..." He went silent, embarrassed.

  "Go on," said Kersdorf irritably. "We can perhaps work out some of the details ourselves."

  "Well," continued Henssen, "fortunately most police information is held in a structured way, and so is the majority of commercial data. For example, an airline passenger list doesn’t take much translation, nor do airline schedules, or subscription lists, or lists of phone calls, and so on."

  "Okay," said the Chief, "structured data are held on the computer version of what we old-fashioned bureaucrats would call a form — so translate the headings and the meaning of the contents is clear."

  "Much simplified, that's about it," said Henssen. "And unstructured data, to give an example, might be a statement by a witness consisting of several pages of free-form text."

  "And it's with the unstructured data that you have most of the problems," said the Chief.

  "Precisely. But with some human involvement linked to our expert system there is nothing we can't resolve."

  "But it takes time," said the Chief, "and that's my problem."

  There was silence in the room. Henssen shrugged.

  * * * * *

  "I'm surprised people don't use carbon monoxide more often," said Santine. "It's a beautifully lethal substance. It works through inhalation. It's not quite as exciting as some of the nerve gases that can be absorbed through the skin. Carbon monoxide is breathed in as normal, is absorbed by the blood to form carboxyhemoglobin, and all of a sudden you haven’t got enough oxygenated blood — oxyhemoglobin — and you're history. There is no smell and no color, and a couple of lungfuls will do you in. Most city dwellers have some carbon monoxide in the blood from exhaust fumes — say, one to three percent — and smokers build up to around five percent. These levels don't produce any noticeable symptoms in the short term, but at around thirty percent you start to feel drowsy, at fifty percent you're coordination goes, and by between sixty and seventy percent, you're talking to Saint Peter."

  "So if you're a heavy smoker and someone used carbon monoxide on you, you'll die faster," said Sylvie.

  "Absolutely," said Santine, "especially if you’ve been smoking in a confined space."

  "Interesting," said Sylvie. "But all it has to do is buy us a little time if a casual visitor comes along, thought I doubt a security check would be fooled."

  Santine grimaced. "Come on, Sylvie, I'm not an amateur. Why do you think I suggested monoxide? The corpses will stand up to cursory examination. There will be no blood. Nothing's perfect, but with a little sponge work, they won't look too bad — and it'll be dark. You’ve got to remember that monoxide poisoning is a kind of internal strangulation, so you get some of the same symptoms. The face gets suffused, you get froth in the air passages, and the general effect isn't exactly pretty."

  "I take it you brought along a sponge."

  Santine puffed out his chest. He tapped the bulky black attaché case in front of him. "Madame, I am fully equipped."

  Pompous prick, thought Sylvie. She looked at the sky and then at her watch. They'd do it in about an hour, just after Sangster had checked in and when it was completely dark.

  * * * * *

  The team from Vaybon Security wore white coats and the blank expressions of people who are paid well not to care about reasons. One of their board of directors opening his wife's apartment without her knowledge or permission wasn't the most unusual assignment they'd had, and besides, Beat von Graffenlaub's signature was on the check that had paid for the original installation — even if he hadn't known exactly what he was buying. But then, thought the technician in charge, who knows what a wife is really up to?

  "Can you open it without leaving any sign?"

  The senior technician consulted the blueprint he was carrying and had a brief, whispered conversation with his colleagues. He turned back to von Graffenlaub. "There will be minute marks, Herr Direktor, but they would not be noticed unless the door was being examined by an expert."

  Equipment was wheeled into the foyer outside the door. Von Graffenlaub had the feeling the technicians were going to scrub up before commencing. "Will it take long?"

  "Fifteen minutes, no longer," said the senior technician.

  "You are aware that the door is electrified," said von Graffenlaub.

  The senior technician shot him what started off as a pitying glance but changed in mid-expression to obsequiousness when he remembered to whom he was speaking. "Thank you, Herr Direktor," he said.

  He withdrew a sealed security envelope and opened it with scissors. Von Gra
ffenlaub noticed that the other instruments were laid out on a tiered cart close at hand. The senior technician removed a sheet of heavy paper from the envelope, read it, and punched a ten-digit number into a keyboard. He hit the return key. A junior technician checked the door with a long-handled instrument.

  "Phase one completed," said the senior technician. From his bearing one could believe that he had just successfully completed a series of complex open-heart procedures. "The electrical power source attached to the door can be deactivated by radio if the correct code is used. Your wife provided us with such a code, which was kept in this envelope in a safe until required. The same system can also be used for the lock, but in this case, unfortunately, she has not deposited the necessary information. We shall have to activate the manufacturer's override. That requires drilling a minute hole in a specific location and connecting an optical fiber link thought which a special code can be transmitted to override the locking mechanism. The optical fiber link is used to avoid the possibility of the door's being opened by anyone other than the manufacturer. The location of the link is different with each installation and—"

  "Get on with it," said von Graffenlaub impatiently.

  Eleven minutes later the door swung open. He waited until the Vaybon team had departed before he walked into the apartment and shut the door behind him. He found the electrification controls and reactivated the system, following the instructions given to him by the technician. Reassured by the sophisticated perimeter security of electrification, steel door, and hermetically sealed armor-plated windows — installed originally with the excuse that the construction of Erika's little apartment was an ideal opportunity to put in some really good security — Erika had made little serious attempt to conceal things inside the apartment.

  Twenty minutes later Beat von Graffenlaub had completed a thorough search of the apartment. What he had found, detailed in photographs but with other quite specific evidence, was worse than anything he had — or could have — imagined. Nauseated, white-faced, and almost numb with shock, he waited for Erika to return. He was unaware of time. He was conscious only that his life, as he had known it, was over.