Games of The Hangman f-1

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  * * * * *

  The Bear was drinking coffee and eating gingerbread in the kitchen when Fitzduane entered, and the sweet, sharp aroma of baked ginger reminded the Irishman of Vreni. The Bear looked up. Fitzduane sat across from him at the kitchen table, lost in thought about a scared, lonely, vulnerable girl hiding in the mountains.

  "Thinking about the girl?" said the Bear. One piece of gingerbread remained. He offered it to Fitzduane, who shook his head. Instead, he spoke. "She was so bloody scared."

  "As we now know, with excellent reason," said the Bear. "But she won't talk, and there's not much else we can do now except see that she has security and try to find the Hangman."

  "Henssen was building in some slack when he spoke to the Chief. He now thinks he might be ready to do a final run in about four hours."

  "A name," said the Bear, "at last."

  "A short list anyway."

  "Any candidates?" The Bear was checking through various containers. A morsel of gingerbread couldn’t be termed a serious snack or even an adequate companion to a cup of coffee. His hunt was in vain, and he began to look depressed. "The people here eat too much," he said. "Kersdorf, for instance, has an appetite like a greyhound. The least he could do is bring in a cake now and then."

  "He does," said Fitzduane, "and you eat it." He wrote a name on a piece of paper. "Here's my nomination," he said, handing it to the Bear, who looked at it and whistled.

  "A hundred francs you're wrong."

  "Done," said Fitzduane. "But I've got a proposal. Let's have one last crack at Vreni. You can come along for the ride, and maybe we can find somewhere nice to eat on the way back."

  The Bear cheered up. "Why don't we eat on the way? Then we'll be fortified for some serious questioning."

  "We'll talk about it," said Fitzduane. He was suddenly anxious to be on his way. "Come on, let's move."

  "I'll check out a weapon for you."

  "There isn't time for that," said Fitzduane. "You're armed, and that'll have to do." His voice was sharp with anxiety.

  The bear looked up at the heavens, shook his head, and followed Fitzduane out the door.

  * * * * *

  Vreni summoned every last ounce of resolve.

  She fetched a duvet and cocooned it around her body as if it were a tepee. She was sitting cross-legged, and the phone was in front of her. Inside her tepee of warmth she felt more secure. She waited for the warmth to build up, and as she did, she imagined that she was safe, that the Irishman had come to rescue her, and that she was far away from anything He could do. He didn't exist anymore. Like a bad dream, His image faded, leaving an uncomfortable feeling but no more actual fear.

  She left her hand on the gray plastic of the phone until the handle was warm in her grasp. She imagined Fitzduane at the other end, waiting to respond, to take her to a place of safety. She lifted up the receiver and began to dial. She stopped halfway through the first digit and pressed the disconnect button furiously. It made no difference. The phone was quite dead.

  Her heart pounding, she flung open the door and ran to the back of the house, to where some of the animals were housed. She seized her pet lamb, warm and groggy with sleep, and with him clutched in her arms ran back into the house and locked and bolted the door. She crawled back under the duvet with her lamb and closed her eyes.

  * * * * *

  Sylvie flung open the door on the driver's side. Eyes open, face distorted, Sangster slid toward her, his face covered in secretions. Sylvie stepped back and let the head and torso fall into the snow. Sangster's feet remained tangled in the pedals.

  "Leave the door open," said Santine. He dragged Pierre's body out of the passenger seat and around to the rear of the car, then opened the trunk.

  "Well, fuck me," he said. "The bastard's still alive."

  He removed a sharpened ice pick from his belt and plunged it deep into Pierre's back. The body arched and was still. Santine levered it into the trunk. He closed and locked the lid He looked at Sylvie. "Obviously a nonsmoker."

  * * * * *

  They were using Fitzduane's car, but the Bear was driving. They turned off the highway to Interlaken and headed up toward Heiligenschwendi. The road was black under the glare of the headlights but piles of snow and ice still lingered by the roadside. As they climbed higher, the reflections of white became more frequent. They hadn't talked much since leaving Project K, though the Bear had had a brief conversation with police headquarters.

  "The Chief isn't too happy that we took off without saying goodbye," he had said when he finished.

  Fitzduane had just grunted. Only when they drove into the village did Fitzduane break the silence. "Who is running the security on Vreni?"

  "Beat von Graffenlaub arranged it," said the Bear. "It's not Vaybon Security, as you might expect, but a very exclusive personal protection service based on Jersey. They employ ex-military personnel by and large — ex-SAS, Foreign Legion, and so on."

  "ME Services," said Fitzduane. "I know them. ME stands for ‘Mallet 'Em’ — the founder wasn't renowned for a sophisticated sense of humor, but they’ve got a good reputation in their field. Who's in charge of Vreni's detail?"

  "Fellow by the name of Sangster," said the Bear. "Our people say he's sound, but he's fed up because he has to do this thing from outside the house. Vreni won't allow them within one hundred meters of the place."

  "Consorting with the enemy," said Fitzduane under his breath. "Poor frightened little sod." He pointed at a phone booth. "Stop here a sec. I'm going to ring ahead so she doesn't have a heart attack."

  Fitzduane was in the phone booth five minutes. He emerged and beckoned the Bear over. "Her phone's dead," he said. "I've checked with the operator, and there is no reported fault on the line."

  They looked at each other. "I have a number for ME control," the Bear said. "The security detail checks in regularly, and there are spot checks as well. They should know if everything is okay."

  "Be quick," said Fitzduane. He paced up and down in the freezing air while the Bear made the call. The detective looked happier when he had finished.

  "Sangster reported in on schedule about fifteen minutes ago, and there was a spot check less than ten minutes ago. All is in order."

  Fitzduane didn't look convinced. "Do you have a backup weapon for me?"

  "Sure." The Bear opened the trunk and handed Fitzduane a tire iron.

  "Why do I suddenly feel so much safer?" said Fitzduane.

  * * * * *

  The room was in almost total darkness, the light from the dim streetlamps of Junkerngasse excluded by thick purple hangings. Beat von Graffenlaub could hear nothing. The security windows and door combined with the thick walls to produce a soundproofed otherworld. He felt disoriented. He knew he should switch on the lights and try to get a grip on himself, but then he would have to look at the photographs again and face the sickness and the perversion and the graphic images of death.

  He tired to imagine the mentality of someone who would torture and kill for what appeared to be not other reason than sexual gratification. It was incomprehensible. It was evil of a kind beyond his ability to grasp, let alone understand. Erika — his beautiful, sultry, sensuous Erika — a perverted, sick, sadistic killer. He retched, and his mouth filled with an unpleasant taste. He wiped his lips and clammy face with a handkerchief.

  A well-shaded light clicked on, apparently activated from the outside. The steel door opened. Von Graffenlaub sat in the darkness of his corner of the room and silently watched Erika enter.

  She removed her evening coat of dark green silk and tossed it over a chair. Its lining was a vivid scarlet red that reminded von Graffenlaub sickeningly of the blood of her victims. Her shoulders were bare, and her skin was golden. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror strategically positioned at the entrance to the living room and with a practiced movement slipped out of her dress and threw it after the coat. She stared at the image of her body and caressed her breasts, bringing her fingers down s
lowly over her rib cage and taut stomach to the black bikini panties that were the only clothing she still wore.

  Von Graffenlaub tried to speak. His throat was dry. Only a strangled sound emerged.

  Erika tossed her head in acknowledgment but didn't turn. She continued to examine her reflection. "Whitney," she said. "Darling, dangerous, delicious Whitney. I hoped you wouldn't be late." She eased her panties down her thighs. Her fingers worked between her legs.

  "Why?" repeated von Graffenlaub hoarsely. This time the word came out. She started violently at the sound of his voice but didn't turn for perhaps half a minute. Then, with a quick, animal gesture, she slipped her panties off her thighs and kicked them into a corner.

  "And who is this Whitney?" said von Graffenlaub, gesturing at the pile of photographs beside him. "Who is this partner in murder?"

  Erika faced him naked. She had regained some of her composure, but her face was strained under the tan. She laughed harshly before she spoke. "Whitney likes games, my darling hypocrite," she said. "And not all the players are volunteers. Look very closely at those photos. Don't you recognize the pristine body? Aren't those long, elegant fingers familiar? Beat, my darling, aren't Vaybon drugs wonderful? My companion in murder — well, in some of the photographs anyway — was you, my sweet. You must admit that does somewhat limit your options."

  A dreadful cry came from von Graffenlaub. He brought the Walther up in a gesture of ultimate denial and fired until the magazine was empty. The gun dropped to the carpet. Erika lay where she had been flung, looking not unlike the blood-spattered images I her photographs.

  * * * * *

  They left the car in the village and walked along the track toward Vreni's farmhouse. The Bear carried a flashlight. When he was about thirty meters away from the Mercedes, he focused it on the windows and flashed it half a dozen times. The front door opened on the passenger side, and a figure got out. He was carrying some kind of automatic weapon.

  The flashed the light again. "I don't want to scare them to death," he said in a low voice to Fitzduane. He stopped and shouted to the figure by the Mercedes. "Police," he said. "Routine check. Mind if I approach?"

  "You're welcome," said the figure by the Mercedes. "Dig your ID out and come forward with your hands in the air."

  "Understood," said the Bear. He moved ahead, hands in the air, the flashlight in one of them. Fitzduane walked beside him about ten meters to the right. His hands were extended also. When they were close, the Bear spoke again. "Here's my ID," he said, shining his light on it and handing it to the bodyguard. Fitzduane moved forward a shade after the detective offered him his ID as well. The bodyguard looked briefly at the Bear's papers and then pitched into the snow as Fitzduane smashed the tire iron against his head.

  "No countersign, no partner backing him up from a safe fire position, and a Skorpion as a personal weapon," said the Bear. "Good reasons to take him out, but I hope we're not dealing with an absentminded security man."

  "So do I," said Fitzduane. He felt the fallen man's body. "Because he's dead."

  "Jesus!" exclaimed the Bear. "I thought I was keeping you out of trouble by not giving you a firearm."

  Fitzduane grunted. Keeping the flashlight well shaded and with the automatically activated interior light switched off, he examined the person who was apparently asleep in the passenger seat. Almost immediately it was clear that the sleep was permanent. He went through the pockets of the corpse and compared the ID he found there with the bloated face.

  "It's Sangster," he said grimly. "No obvious signs of injury, but I doubt he died of boredom; most likely either asphyxiation or poisoning, to judge by his face."

  "There were supposed to be two guards on duty," said the Bear. He opened the trunk and looked at the crumpled figure inside. "There were," he said quietly. He looked at Fitzduane. "You and your damn intuition. This means the Hangman or his drones are inside the farmhouse. You'll need something a little heavier than a tire iron."

  Fitzduane searched quickly through the car. He found two Browning automatic pistols and an automatic shotgun — but no ammunition. He guessed the attackers must have tossed it into the snow, but there was no time to look. He picked up the fallen terrorist's Skorpion and a spare clip of ammunition. He felt as if he were reliving a nightmare. It wasn't rational, but he blamed himself for not having saved Rudi. Now his twin sister was in mortal danger, possibly because of his actions in involving her in the investigation, and he was going to be too late again. "Let's move it," he said, a break in his voice. His body vibrated with tension. He felt a hand on his arm.

  "Easy, Hugo," said the Bear. "Take it very easy. It won't do the girl any good if you get yourself killed."

  The Bear's words had the desired effect. Fitzduane felt the guilt and blind rage subside. He looked at the Bear. "This is how we'll do it," he said, and he explained.

  "Just so," said the Bear.

  They split up and moved toward the farmhouse.

  * * * * *

  Sylvie had endured the most brutal training, designed in part specifically to cauterize her feelings, and she had been through Kadar's initiation ceremonies, which were many times worse. She prided herself on being quite ruthless when carrying out an assignment — ruthless in the full sense of the word, without pity — and yet the execution of Vreni von Graffenlaub made her stomach churn.

  Kadar had seemed amused when he gave the orders, as if he were enjoying some private joke. "I want you to hang the girl," he had said. "Let her die in the same way as her twin brother. Very neat, very Swiss. Perhaps we'll be establishing a new von Graffenlaub family tradition, thought rather hard to perpetuate from generation to generation under the circumstances. Oh, well. Her father should appreciate the symmetry."

  The locks on the farmhouse door had given them little trouble; they were inside in less than a minute. They had found Vreni cowering under a duvet in the living room that led off the small kitchen. She had a lamb clutched in her arms, and her eyes were tightly closed. She wanted to believe that it was all a horrible dream, that the sound of the door opening and the footsteps were all her imagination, that the telephone still worked, that if she opened her eyes, everything would be cozy and normal in the farmhouse.

  Gretel had torn the lamb away and slapped the cowering figure until she had been forced to look at him. Then, with one vicious slash, he had cut the throat of the bleating animal, the blood gushing over the petrified girl, her fear so great that they could smell it, the screams stillborn in her paralyzed throat.

  The living room ceiling was too low for their purposes. Instead Gretel prepared for the hanging. He could watch the track leading from the village through the kitchen window, and he could just see the shadow where Santine was standing in for the security guards in the distance. There was some visibility thanks to a weak moon reflecting off the snow, but patches of cloud were frequent. At those times it was hard to see anything with certainty, and imagination made shadows move. Fortunately he knew he would get early warning from Santine in the Mercedes, so he gave in to the more compelling distraction of the preparations for the hanging.

  The Bear's luck gave out when he tried to close in from the woodshed, which was located only about twenty meters from the farmhouse. The detective's movements, slowed by the snow that had banked up around the shed, around the distracted Hansel, whose first action was to snatch up his walkie-talkie and swear at Santine. He knew the gesture would be fruitless even before his reflex movement was completed, so he dropped the silent radio, shouted a warning to Sylvie and Gretel, and fired at the shadowy figure moving toward him.

  Unhit but shaken by the blast of fire, the Bear rolled back into the cover of the woodshed and sank into a snowdrift. Emerging covered in snow but still crouched low, he was greeted by a second burst of fire. Rounds plowed into the snow about him and thudded into the wood. He couldn't see his attacker, but the window frame gave him a point of reference. He would be in one or the other of the two lower corners unless he was an
idiot or wearing stilts. At this stage of the game the Bear wouldn't have been surprised by either possibility. Further muzzle flashes located the sniper in the left lower corner. Looking like a giant snowman, the Bear moved into firing position. He fired the .44 Magnum four times.

  The heavy hand-loaded slugs smashed through the wooden walls of the old farmhouse. Two rounds missed and shattered a jar of mung beans and a container of pickled cabbage. The remaining two slugs hit Hansel in the neck and the lower jaw. The first round smashed his spinal column, killing him instantly. The second round nearly decapitated him.

  Hearing Hansel's warning shout, followed shortly by automatic weapons fire, Gretel, who had been holding the petrified Vreni at the edge of the choust while Sylvie adjusted the rope, immediately let go of his victim and jumped through the hose onto the stove and into the living room below. He ran into the kitchen toward Hansel, arriving just in time to see his friend's head blown off. Irrational with shock, Gretel skidded across the blood-slicked wooden floor, flung open the kitchen door and fired a long, low, scything burst into the darkness.

  Vreni, released by her captor but still bound hand and foot and blindfolded, tottered at the edge of the choust. Fascinated, Sylvie watched as her terrified victim swayed back and forth and then, too weakened from stress to recover her balance, dropped with sickening sound into the hole.

  The rope snapped taut.

  * * * * *

  The old farmhouse was set into the natural slope of the mountain. The plan was that Fitzduane, being younger and fitter than the Bear, would make his approach from the second-floor level. As he remembered it, an entrance there led into a workroom and then into the bedroom. It was possible to go from the living room to the bedroom either by going through the choust or by leaving the house through the kitchen and going up a steep path to the other entrance on the second floor.