The boy pressed against him. He had a sudden desire to see his face. He stroked the boy's penis with one hand and with the other turned the boy's face toward him. The boy turned his head of his own volition, and now he was bigger and older and somehow he towered over Paulus and in his hand was a short, broad-bladed knife. The knife descended toward his throat and hovered there, and Paulus opened his mouth to scream, but it was too late. The pain was terrible. Blood — his blood — fountained in front of his eyes.
He felt his arm being shaken. He was afraid to look. His body stank of sweat. He could hear himself panting.
"You were screaming," said the voice. Paulus opened his eyes. The duty detective stood there. He was wearing an automatic pistol in a shoulder holster, and he had a Heckler & Koch MP-5 sub-machine gun in his right hand. The bedroom door was open behind him, and Paulus could see the outline of another detective.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Just a bad dream."
More than that, thought the detective. His face was impassive. "Can I get you anything?" he asked.
"I can't do it," thought Paulus. He looked at the detective. "Thank you, but no."
The detective turned to leave. "What time is it?" asked Paulus.
The detective looked at his watch. He'd have to log the incident. "A quarter to four," he answered before closing the door.
Paulus lay sleepless, thinking of the price of betrayal.
* * * * *
Balac drank his orange juice and listened to the tape of his conversation with Fitzduane. The voice stress analyzer revealed nothing significant. It needed more material to work with and more relevant subject matter to come into its own. It had proved useful in the past. Supposedly a new and more sensitive model was in the works. Balac doubted it would ever replace his intuition.
Was he suspect? He rather thought not. Fitzduane had called in a number of times before, and they got on well. It would have been more suspicious if he had not dropped in to say good-bye. It was his last day in Bern. His — Balac's — last day, and now, it appeared, also the Irishman's. Such symbolism. With so much at stake it would make sense to go now, to forget this charade.
And yet seeing things right through to the end had the most enormous appeal. A climber didn't abandon his assault on the peak because the weather looked a trifle uncertain. He persevered. It was the very risk that made the reward so... so stimulating. I'm gambling with my life, thought Balac, and a ripple of pleasure went through him.
Later in his Jacuzzi he thought again about this, his last day in Bern, and he decided a margin of extra insurance might be in order. Gambling was all very well, but only a fool didn't lay off his bets. He made the call. They said they would leave immediately and should arrive well in advance of lunch.
* * * * *
Fitzduane rose early, and the Bear drove him to Waisenhausplatz. He spent ninety minutes practicing unarmed combat with a remarkably humorless police instructor. Toward the end of the session, bruised and sore, Fitzduane dredged up a few moves from his time with the airbornes. They carried the instructor out on a stretcher.
The Bear looked a little shaken. "That's a side of you I haven't seen before."
Fitzduane had calmed down. "I'm not proud of it; only rarely is it a good way to fight." He smiled grimly. "Mostly you fight with your brain."
They spent a further hour on the pistol range, firing only Glaser rounds and concentrating on close-quarters reaction shooting. Fitzduane shot well. His clothes reeked of burned cartridge propellant. After he showered and changed, the smell had gone.
* * * * *
The examining magistrate looked down at his cousin. Paulus was white-faced with fear and lack of sleep. A faint, sweet aroma of vomit and after-shave emanated from him, but his tailoring was as immaculate as ever. Without doubt Paulus was the weakest link in the plan. Fortunately his appearance and nervousness could be attributed to another cause: his apparent attempt to deceive both the owner and the museum over a painting. It was a good story, but whether it was good enough — well, time would tell.
Looking at Paulus with new eyes since he had heard his confession, Charlie von Beck wondered whether their contrived art fraud wasn't a rerun of the truth. Paulus had always seemed to live better than either his salary or private resources would seem to justify. But perhaps he was jumping to conclusions. He would have trusted Paulus with his life until the tape. Why should he change his mind so drastically because his cousin's sex life had gotten out of hand? He was family after all.
The radio crackled as the various units reported in. Charlie von Beck looked at his watch. Not yet quite time to make the call.
Paulus dropped his head into his hands and sobbed. He raised his tear-stained face to his cousin. "I... I can't do it. I'm afraid of him. You don't know how strong, how powerful, he is. He senses things. He'll know there is something wrong." Paulus's voice rose to a shriek. "You don't understand — he'll kill me!"
The Chief Kripo pushed two pills and a glass of water across to Paulus. "Valium," he said, "a strong dose. Take it."
Obediently Paulus swallowed the Valium. The Chief waited several minutes and then spoke soothingly. "Relax. Breathe in deeply a few times. Close your eyes and let your mind rest. There is nothing really to worry about. In a few hours it will all be over."
Like a docile child, Paulus did as he was told. He lay back in his swivel chair listening to the Chief chatting on inconsequentially. The sound was pleasant and reassuring. He couldn't quite make out the words, but it didn't seem to matter. He dozed. Twenty minutes later he woke refreshed. The first person he saw was the Chief, who beamed at him. He was drinking tea. There were spare cups on the table, and Charlie had a teapot in his hand. "Milk or lemon?" said the Chief.
Paulus drank his tea holding the cup with both hands. He felt calm. He knew what to do.
"Let's do a final run-through." The Chief smiled. "Practice makes perfect."
Paulus gave a half-smile back. "You needn't worry. I'm all right now."
"Let's run through it anyway."
Paulus nodded. "I'm going to call Balac and tell him that I have a picture in for evaluation on which I would like a second opinion and that I would appreciate it if he could take a look at it right away. I will tell him it's very important, and I shall imply that I have the opportunity to purchase it for much less than its real value. I shall suggest that I am bypassing the museum and dealing for myself. I shall tell him I don't want to move on this until I have my own judgment confirmed because the risks are too great. I shall tell him he can come in with me if he confirms the painting's value."
"Balac won't find anything unusual in this," said the Chief. "You’ve asked for his opinion before, haven't you?"
"Many times. He is a brilliant judge of technique. But this will be the first time I have suggested dealing on the side, though he has dropped hints — always as if joking."
"I think he'll swallow it," said Charlie von Beck. "We need some believable explanation for the critical time element. I think he'll be amused. He seems to enjoy corrupting people."
"I shall stress the urgency and will ask that he come around to the museum today since I daren't keep it here longer in case someone else sees it."
"Who is the owner supposed to be?' asked the Chief.
"The owner is a diplomat who had gotten a girl in trouble and needs some quick cash to hush the whole thing up. He thinks his painting is worth useful, but not big, money."
"What is the painting supposed to be?" asked Charlie von Beck.
"I'm not going to say over the phone. I want to whet Balac's appetite. He will be intrigued; he likes games."
"Don't we know it," said Charlie, looking at his watch again.
"It's a Picasso collage," said Paulus. "The question is, is it a genuine Picasso or from the school of?"
"Well, is it?" said Charlie.
"Yes."
"What's it worth?" asked the Chief.
"About half a million dollars. It's not mainstream Picasso
, and not everybody likes collages."
"Half a million dollars!" exclaimed the Chief. "I hope there's no shooting or the Swiss franc gets stronger. Where did you get it?"
"I'd prefer not to say."
"And you're sure Balac has never seen it?" said Charlie.
"It's been in a vault for the past twenty years. There was a small matter of avoiding British inheritance taxes."
"Ah," said the Chief, who liked clear-cut motives. "So much money. I used to make collages myself as a child. I've still got some, too."
"Pity your name's not Picasso," said Charlie von Beck. His watch started to beep.
"You're on," said the Chief to Paulus. Paulus lifted the phone.
* * * * *
The man on the third floor of the warehouse that overlooked the entrance to Balac's studio spoke into his radio. His partner emerged from the freight elevator as he completed his call. He was still tucking his shirt into his pants. "Anything?"
The man with the high-power binoculars nodded. "A Merc with Zurich license plates dropped off three men and drove away. One of them said something into the door loudspeaker, and Balac let them in. They were all carrying sports bags. I've got it on video." He pointed at the prefocused video camera mounted on a heavy-duty tripod.
"Odd," said the arrival. "I thought they told us that Balac had some special painting regimen whereby he locks himself away all day except during lunchtime."
"They did," said the watcher. His companion completed rewinding the tape. He pressed ‘play’ and stared intently at the video images. There were impressions, but the faces could not be clearly seen. Then the last man turned and looked around before the steel door closed behind him. The arrival grunted. "What do you think?"
"Same as you," said the watcher. "The last man is Angelo Lestoni, which makes the other two his brother Pietro and his cousin—"
"Julius," said the other man. "You radioed it in?"
"Affirmative."
The other man replaced his bulletproof vest and started checking his tripod-mounted sniper rifle. It was a self-loading model from Heckler & Koch, designed for both high accuracy and rapid follow-on fire. It occurred to him that it cost about as much as a secondhand Porsche. He stroked the handmade stock and dull steel of the weapon and reflected that, on balance, he would prefer the rifle.
* * * * *
The Bear and Fitzduane were in the tiered conference room of the police headquarters on Waisenhausplatz. The news had just come in. Balac was too busy to leave his studio, but he'd be delighted to look at Paulus's picture if he would bring it around during lunch. They could talk when the rest of the guests had gone.
The Hangman wouldn't leave his lair. It was going to have to be Plan B. Fitzduane wasn't surprised.
The Bear was going through the details of the operation yet again with the ten-man assault team. Blueprints of Balac's studio obtained from the city planning office were pinned up on a large bulletin board. The key phases of the plan were carefully hand-lettered on a flip chart, and the Bear, pointer in hand, was talking.
"Most of you were on the Muri operation. You know what can happen if we try to blast our way in. We are likely to take casualties, and there is no guarantee we'll end up with the Hangman. In fact, the track record suggests that we won't.
"The intention here is to get a man in to immobilize the Hangman before he can activate any of his defenses. That man is Hugo Fitzduane, whom you see beside me. Take another good look at him. I don't want him shot by mistake."
He looked at Fitzduane, who smiled and said, "Neither do I." There was laughter.
"We've got the plans of Balac's warehouse, but if precedent is anything to go by, the inside of the building will have been extensively modified. God knows what surprises he's built in. It's vital, therefore, that he be neutralized before he leaves the main studio area; that's the large room on the ground floor immediately off the entrance, where he has a combined studio and reception area. Fortunately, since he runs this lunchtime open house between midday and two, we do know the geography of that room." He pointed at the scale drawing behind him.
"Balac's routine is to remain incommunicado — except by phone, and often that's connected to an answering machine — until noon. He then entertains friends who call in on a casual basis until 1400 hours, when he locks himself away again. It's a credible routine for a painter and damn handy for a terrorist.
"Herr Fitzduane, who's been to several of these buffet lunches, says that people normally don't turn up until about 1220. It's our intention, therefore, to have the whole thing wrapped up before then. We don't want any innocent burghers caught in the crossfire.
"Let's go through the sequence. One — just after 1200 hours Paulus von Beck will arrive in a delivery van with the picture in a packing case. He'll have two deliverymen with him. If we're in luck, they'll be allowed into the studio with the picture, and they'll grab Balac there and then. However, most likely — this is Balac's normal routine — they'll be asked to leave the packing case inside the first door. You will recall that he has an extensive security system that involves a three-door entrance hall. Only one door is opened at one time. It's a kind of double air lock, a classic installation in secure buildings and a bitch to overcome since all three doors are of armored steel. It was because of the entrance problem that we came up with this Trojan Horse idea.
"Two — a couple of minutes after Paulus's arrival Fitzduane will turn up. If the deliverymen aren't allowed in, as we expect, he will offer to give Paulus a hand, and together they will move the packing case into the studio and lean it against the wall. According to Paulus, there is one particular spot that Balac normally used to hang pictures he's assessing — something to do with the right lighting — and that's marked on the diagram here.
"Three — we are now into the area of discretion, but the basic plan is for Fitzduane to neutralize Balac and blow the shaped charge. The we come storming in as rehearsed and instantly remove Balac into custody. Any questions?"
The second-in-command of the assault unit, an intelligent-looking police lieutenant in his late twenties, spoke. "Will Paulus von Beck be armed?"
"No," said the Bear. "He has been associated with Balac in the past. We aren't suggesting serious criminal involvement, but we don't want to run any risks."
"Supposing people arrive before Herr Fitzduane is going to have to use his discretion. He'll have to pick his time. It's not a perfect plan, merely the least objectionable."
The questions continued, double- and triple-checking aspects of the plan. The fact that the assault team members were intelligent and well trained gave Fitzduane some degree of comfort, but he still had to face the stark reality that they would be outside the building when he made his move, and for a vital few seconds — he'd be on his own with Paulus, unarmed and unproven, and a multiple killer. It didn't promise to be a fun lunch.
The question and answer session had finished. The assault unit filed past Fitzduane, the commander of the unit bringing up the rear. He held out his hand. "Herr Fitzduane, my men — and I — we wish you well."
"A drink together when it's over," said the Bear. "I'll buy."
Fitzduane smiled. "It'll cost you."
The unit commander gave a small salute and left the room.
* * * * *
Anxiously Paulus von Beck supervised the loading of the packing case containing the Picasso collage. He was less concerned about the safety of the painting itself —although that was a factor — than he was about Balac's noticing something unusual about the moving men. The overalled policemen weren't used to the finer touches involved in handling a painting worth about as much as the average policeman would earn in a lifetime. The exercise was repeated several times until they looked like trained moving men — at least to a superficial glance.
He was thinking that every job has its own visual style in addition to expertise. You'd imagine anybody in the right coveralls could look like a deliveryman, but it just wasn't so. A man who carries th
ings for a living soon works out certain ways of lifting and carrying that make even difficult jobs seem easy.
To his critical eye, the policemen didn't look quite right. They were using too much muscle and not enough brains to lift the heavy case. Well, what else could you expect from policemen? he said to himself. He walked back to his office briskly. There was barely enough time for him to get ready. My God, in a matter of minutes he might be dead or horribly wounded.
He could feel his heart pound, and sweat broke out on his forehead. He looked at the Valium on a saucer beside a glass of water. The Chief Kripo had left it, and it was sorely tempting. He picked up the pill and held it between his thumb and forefinger. So that's how you get addicted, he thought. Physiological dependency. Was that what they would call his sexual needs? Was that at the root of his relationship with Balac?
Angrily he flung the Valium away from him. What was done was done. Now he must keep his brain as clear as possible and do what was necessary. He unlocked his briefcase and removed a compact .45-caliber Detonics automatic pistol. The weapon closely modeled on the U.S. Army Colt .45 and fired the same effective man-stopping ammunition, but it was smaller and lighter and had been specifically designed for concealment.
He slid a round into the chamber and placed it, cocked and locked, in the small of his back, where it was held in place by a spring-clip skeleton holster. He knew from past experience that the flat weapon wouldn't show. He had carried it many times when transporting valuable works of art — art collectors liked their security to be there but discreet — and he knew how to use it. This was Switzerland. Paulus von Beck, art expert and sculptor, was also a captain in the Swiss Army and was being groomed for the general staff.
Games of The Hangman f-1 Page 41
