"An emotional hold?"
"No, it's not like that. He has photographs and other things he has threatened to send to the police."
"We don't care about your sex life," said the Bear. "What kind of photographs are these?"
There was silence again and then the sound of sobbing, followed by an editing break. The conversation started again in midsentence.
"...embarrassing, terribly embarrassing to talk about," said Paulus in a strangled voice.
"So the von Graffenlaub twins weren't the only underage kids involved," said the Bear.
"No."
"How old were they?"
"It varied. Normally they were in their mid-teens or older—and that was all right."
"But not always?"
"No."
"What age was the youngest?"
There was silence yet again, and then an encouraging noise from the Bear could be heard. Reluctantly Paulus answered. "About twelve or thereabouts. I don't know exactly."
There was a crash as Charlie von Beck threw his coffee mug to the ground. His face was white with anger. Fitzduane stopped the tape. "The idiot, the stupid, irresponsible, disgusting idiot!" shouted the examining magistrate. "How could he?"
"Calm down, Charlie," said the Chief. "You nearly gave me a heart attack. I hope that mug was empty."
Charlie von Beck smiled in spite of himself. The Chief waited until he was sure von Beck was in control, then gave Fitzduane the signal to proceed.
"Where did these sexual encounters take place?" said the Bear's voice.
"Oh, various places."
"For instance? In your house, for example?"
"No, never in my house. Balac always likes things done his way. He likes a certain setting, and he likes to have the things he needs, his drugs and other things."
"So where did you go?"
"I didn't always know. Sometimes he would pick me up and blindfold me. He likes to play games. Sometimes he would pretend I was a stranger and we were meeting for the first time."
"Did you ever go to Erika's apartment?"
"Yes, but not so often. Mostly we went to Balac's studio down by the Wasserwerk."
"You mentioned that Balac likes a certain setting," said the Bear. "Could you describe it? Why was it important?"
"He likes rituals, different kinds of rituals," said Paulus, his voice uncertain and strained.
"What kinds of rituals?"
"Like ... like a black mass, only not the real thing. More like a parody of a black mass but with black candles and mock human sacrifices. It was frightening."
Fitzduane broke in. "Could you describe the rooms where this happened?"
"There were several such rooms. They were all decorated the same way, with purple walls and black silk hangings and the smell of incense. Sometimes we were masked; sometimes the other people were masked."
"Tell me about the sacrifices," said the Bear. "You said mock human sacrifices?"
"The idea was that the victim should die at the moment of climax. It was something that Erika, in particular, liked. She had a knife, a thing with a wide, heavy blade, and she used to wave it. Then she brought a cat in and killed it at just that moment, and I was covered in blood." There was the sound of retching, cut off abruptly by an editing break.
The Chief signaled for Fitzduane to stop the tape. He looked shaken, the full implications of what he had been hearing beginning to sink in. "And next came people," he spat. "It's making me sick. Is there much more of this?"
"Not a lot," said the Bear. "I'll summarize it for you if you like."
The Chief steepled his hands, lost in thought. After perhaps a full minute he looked up at the Bear. "It's just hitting home. It's so incredibly sick ... so perverted ... so evil."
"We asked about the knife," said the Bear. "Balac told Paulus that he'd had it specially made. It was a reproduction of a ritual sacrifice knife used by a pagan cult in Ireland. He'd seen a drawing in some book and taken a fancy to it. Apparently he has a library of pornography and black magic and the sicker aspects of human behavior. He uses these books to set up his games. The more elaborate rules are written down in what he calls 'The Grimoire.' "
"A grimoire is a kind of magician's rule book, isn't it?" Kersdorf broke in. "I seem to remember running across a case involving a grimoire many years ago. Again the whole black magic thing was essentially sexually motivated."
"Who else was involved apart from Balac, Erika, and these kids?" asked the Chief. "Did he recognize anyone, or was he the only adult supporting player?"
"There were others," said the Bear, "but they were always masked. He said he thought he recognized some of the voices." The Bear gave a list of names to the Chief, who shook his head. He wasn't altogether surprised at the ambassador mentioned, but the other names were from the very core of the Bernese establishment.
"There were also some young male prostitutes involved from time to time," said the Bear. "He gave me several names, first names. One of them was Klaus. The description fits; it was Minder. Another was the Monkey. Knowing he was involved in the same games as Minder, Ivo went after the Monkey and, I guess, went too far trying to make him talk. Ivo, the poor little bastard, was trying to find Klaus Minder's killer. Sir Ivo, indeed. He found out too much, and his quest got him killed."
"Heini," said the Chief, "I really don't think I want to hear any more. The question is, how do we pick up this psycho without losing more people?"
"We've got some ideas on that score," said Fitzduane. "We thought we might take a tip from the ancient Greeks."
They were on a secluded testing range that was part of the military base at Sand. The man in combat fatigues had the deep tan of someone who spends a great deal of time in the mountains. Paler skin around the eyes indicated long periods wearing ski goggles. He was a major, a member of the Swiss Army's elite grenadiers, and a counterterrorist expert. He normally advised the Federal Police antiterrorist unit but wasn't against practicing his craft at the cantonal or indeed city level. His specialty was explosives.
"You haven't thought of blasting in, I suppose?" he said diffidently. "There would be fewer constraints in relation to the charges used, and I'm told it's quite a common technique when you want to gain access. Armies have been doing it for years when they don't feel like going through the door." He grinned cheerfully.
"Very funny," said the Bear. "If we blast in, we won't do anyone standing near the entry hole much good."
"And since one of those people is likely to be me," said Fitzduane, "I don't think a hell of a lot of your suggestion—though I'm sure it's kindly meant."
The major looked shocked. "My dear fellow, we wouldn't harm a hair on your head. We can calculate the charges required exactly. Just one little boom, and lo, an instant doorway."
"I once knew an explosives freak in the U.S. Special Forces," said Fitzduane. "He was known as No-Prob Dudzcinski because every time he was asked to do something involving explosives, no matter how complex, he would reply, 'No problem, man,' and set to work. He was very good at his job."
"Well, there you are," said the major.
"He blew himself up," said Fitzduane, "and half an A-team. I've been suspicious of explosives ever since. I don't suppose you want to hear his last words?"
"No," said the major.
"Besides," said the Bear, "our target is partial to burying Claymores and similar devices in the walls, which could be set off by an external explosion. We want a shaped charge that will blast out and at the same time muffle any concealed device."
A truck ground its way in low gear toward them. Well secured in the back was what looked like a rectangular packing case the size of a large doorway, but only about fifteen centimeters thick. The truck drew up near them and stopped. Three soldiers jumped out, unlashed the packing case, and maneuvered it against a sheet of 1.5-centimeter armor plate bolted to the brick wall of an old practice fortification.
"It's quite safe to stand in front of the packing case," said the major,
"but the normal practice is to follow routine safety regulations." Fitzduane and the Bear needed little encouragement. They moved to the shelter of an observation bunker set at right angles to the packing case. They were joined by the three soldiers. The major brought up the rear, walking nonchalantly, as befitted his faith in his expertise. All in the bunker put on steel helmets. Fitzduane felt slightly foolish.
The major had a pen-shaped miniature radio transmitter in his hand. "You're familiar with the principle of a shaped charge, or focused charge, as some people call it?" he asked.
Fitzduane and the Bear nodded. The shaped charge concept was based on the discovery that the force of an explosion could be tightly focused in one direction by putting the explosive in a container of an appropriate shape and leaving a hollow for the explosion to expand into. The explosive force would initially follow the line of least resistance, and thereafter momentum would take over. The principle had been further refined to the point where explosives could be used in a strip form to cut out specific shapes.
"I'd be happier if we were cutting through one material," said the major. "Armor plate alone is no problem, but when materials are combined, funny things happen. In this case the charges are on the rear of the packing case. In the center we have Kevlar bulletproof material reinforced with ceramic plates; we can't use armor plate because it would make the whole thing too heavy. At the front we have left space for a painting, as you requested. To view the painting, you don't have to open the entire crate, which could be embarrassing. Instead we've installed hinged viewing doors."
"As a matter of interest," said Fitzduane, "will the painting be damaged by the explosion? We're going to have to put something fairly valuable in there if we are to get our target's attention, and knowing the way you Swiss operate, I'm likely to end up getting the bill if the painting is harmed."
The major sighed. "Herr Fitzduane, I assume this is your idea of a little joke, but whether it is or not, you may rest assured that your painting will be unscathed. The entire force of the explosion will be focused against the wall. The canvas won't even ripple. Watch!"
He pressed the button on the transmitter. There was a muted crack. A door-shaped portion of the steel plate and wall fell away as if sliced out of paper with a razor blade. There was no smoke. Dust rose from the rubble and was dissipated by the wind.
Fitzduane walked across to the front of the packing case and opened the viewing doors. In place of the painting there was a large poster extolling the virtues of Swissair. It was unscathed. He turned to the major, who was standing smugly, arms folded across his chest. "You'd have been a wow in Troy." He looked at the packing case again. "I think we can improve our act. How familiar are you with stun grenades?"
"Simon," said Fitzduane into the phone, "are you doing your lunchtime salon tomorrow?"
Balac laughed. "As usual. You're most welcome to drop in."
"I just want to say good-bye. I'm leaving Bern. I've done all I can, and it's time to go home."
Balac chuckled. "You've certainly seen a different side of Bern from most visitors. We'll miss you. See you tomorrow."
"Ciao," said Fitzduane. He put down the phone and looked across at the Bear. "Now it's up to Paulus von Beck. Will it be Plan A or Plan B?"
They left Kirchenfeldstrasse and drove to police headquarters, where they put in two hours' combat shooting on the pistol range. The Bear was a good instructor, and Fitzduane felt his old skills coming back. For the last twenty minutes of the session they used Glaser ammunition. "Your shotgun rounds are based on these," said the Bear. "In case you think nine-millimeter rounds are inadequate, as they normally are, reflect on the fact that hits with a Glaser are ninety percent fatal."
Fitzduane held up a Glaser round. "Do the good guys have a monopoly on these things?"
"Their sale is restricted," said the Bear.
Fitzduane raised an eyebrow.
"No," said the Bear.
The Chief Kripo was talking on a secure line to Kilmara in Ireland.
Kilmara sounded concerned. "Is there no other way? Hugo isn't twenty-two anymore. One's reflexes slow up with age."
"It's Fitzduane's idea," said the Chief. "You know what's happened when we've gone in the conventional way. We've taken casualties. Hugo believes half the battle is getting in. Then, if Balac is present, his own safety will prevent him using his gadgetry. It becomes a conventional arrest—mano a mano."
"Supposing Balac isn't alone?"
"Fitzduane won't move until he's blown the shaped charge," said the Chief. "We've added stun grenades to the mix. That should buy Fitzduane the time he needs and will enable us to get help to him fast. We're using our best people for this."
"I'd prefer it if you could get Balac away from his own territory," said Kilmara. "God knows what he's got in that warehouse."
"We're going to try. Paulus's picture is the bait. If Balac swallows it, then Fitzduane won't even have to be involved in the arrest. If he won't come across, then it's on to Plan B. Do you think Fitzduane can't hack it?"
Kilmara sighed. "He's a big boy, but I don't like it. I feel responsible."
"Look at it this way. What choice do we have? He'll smell a policeman no matter who we use. Fitzduane at least can get in without provoking a violent reaction. Then we just have to hope."
"What about this guy Paulus?" asked Kilmara. "He's been intimately involved with Balac. How do we know he won't blow the whistle? If he does, Hugo's dead."
"Charlie von Beck swears he can be trusted. Both the Bear and Fitzduane think he's telling the truth. And I have him accompanied by my people and his phone fitted with a tap and interrupt in case our team's judgment is off."
"There are many ways of delivering a message other than by phone," said Kilmara.
"It'll be over by this time tomorrow."
"Make sure you watch out for Balac's legal rights."
"Fuck his legal rights," said the Chief.
After hanging up, Kilmara turned around to the man sitting in the armchair in front of his desk. "You got the gist of that."
The man from the Mossad nodded.
"So how does it feel to be back in Ireland?" asked Kilmara.
The man from the Mossad smiled. "Nothing important ever changes."
"Let's talk about the U.S. Embassy. And other things," said Kilmara. "Fancy a drink?" He pulled a bottle of Irish whiskey and two glasses out of his desk drawer. It was late and dark, and the bottle was empty by the time they finished talking.
The boy had his back to him. He had thrown back the duvet as he slept, and he was naked from the waist up. Paulus couldn't remember how he had come to be there. He stroked the boy's back, trying to remember what he looked like. His hair was a golden color. There was no more than a light fuzz on his cheeks. He couldn't be more than fourteen or fifteen. Paulus felt himself hardening. He moved toward the boy and slid his hand around to the dormant penis. Skillfully he stroked. He felt the organ grow in his hand. He moved closer, feeling the boy's soft buttocks against his loins.
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 submachine 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 th
e 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?" said 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 into 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.
GAMES OF THE HANGMAN Page 40
