* * * * *
Frau Hunziker looked up in surprise as the door opened.
"Herr von Graffenlaub," she said, a little flustered. "I didn't expect you until next week. I thought you were in New York. Is something wrong?"
Beat von Graffenlaub smiled at her gently. The smile was incongruous because his eyes were hollow from lack of sleep and his whole demeanor projected stress and worry. He had aged in the past few days. My God, he's an old man, she thought for the first time.
"You and I, Frau Hunziker," he said, "have some arrangements to make."
"I don't understand," said Frau Hunziker. "Everything is in order as far as I know."
"You do an excellent job, my dear Frau Hunziker, excellent, quite excellent." He stood in the doorway of his office. "No interruptions until after lunch. Then I will need you. No interruptions at all. Is that quite clear?"
"Yes, Herr von Graffenlaub." She heard the lock click in the door. She was concerned. Herr von Graffenlaub had never behaved this way before, and he was looking terrible. Perhaps she should do something. She looked up at the clock on the wall. It was just after midday, two hours until her employer would need her. But training and discipline reasserted themselves, and she returned to her work.
* * * * *
Moving at speed, Ivo emerged from behind the jugglers, sideslipped gracefully between a mother and her dallying gaggle of children, looped around a flower stall, and glissaded to a halt in front of Fitzduane. He slid his visor up with a click. Behind him the fire-eater started to do something antisocial. Fitzduane hoped the mother was keeping count of her children: the smallest looked as if he were planning to get fried.
"Hello, Irishman," said Ivo. "I'm glad you came."
"I hope I am," said Fitzduane. "The last time we met I nearly got shot."
"Nothing will happen today," said Ivo. "I am invisible to my enemies. I have special powers, you know."
"Nothing personal," said Fitzduane, "but it's not you I'm worried about. I don't have any magic skates, not even a broomstick, and there are people out there with decidedly unpleasant habits."
Ivo sat down across the table from Fitzduane and with the grace of a conjurer produced two brightly painted eggs from the depths of his guitar and began to juggle with them. His special powers obviously didn't extend to juggling, and Fitzduane waited for the accident to happen. He hoped that Ivo had used an egg timer, or he was likely to need a fresh shirt. The display was morbidly fascinating. One egg went unilateral and thudded onto the table in front of Fitzduane.
There was no explosion of yellow; it just lay there cracked.
Ivo shrugged and began removing the shell. "I can never decide which color to eat first," he said.
Fitzduane pushed the salt cellar across the table. "It's one of life's great dilemmas," he said. "Something to drink?"
A waiter was standing by their table, looking at Ivo with ill-concealed distaste. He wrinkled his nose as the light breeze demonstrated the less visible aspects of knightly behavior, and he looked around to see if the other customers seemed to have noticed the smell. Fortunately it was late for morning coffee and early for lunch. The tables were nearly empty. In his own idiosyncratic way, Fitzduane decided, Ivo was a smart screwball, and polite, too. He was sitting downwind of Fitzduane.
"One of those," said Ivo, pointing at Fitzduane's beer.
Fitzduane looked up at the waiter, who seemed to be debating about accepting the order. Fitzduane was not entirely unsympathetic, but the time didn't seem right for a discussion of personal hygiene. "My eccentric but very rich and influential friend," he said, "would like a beer." He smiled and placed a hundred-franc note on the table, weighting it in place with his empty beer bottle.
The waiter's scruples vanished at much the same speed as the hundred-franc note. Fitzduane thought that with such manual dexterity the waiter would be a safer bet with the colored eggs than Ivo.
"Would the gentleman like anything else?" asked the waiter. "Perhaps something to eat?"
"The gentleman's diet permits only a certain type of egg, which, as you can see, he carries with him, but more salt would be appreciated." Fitzduane indicated the nearly empty cellar.
Ivo moved on to the second egg. "I've written a book," he said, his mouth half full. "a book of poems." He reached inside the guitar and produced a soiled but bulky package, which he pushed across the table to Fitzduane. "It's about my friend Klaus and the man who killed him."
"Klaus Minder?"
"Yes," said Ivo, "my friend Klaus." He was silent. Then he put some salt on the side of his left thumb. He drank some beer and licked the salt. "Like tequila," he said.
"You're missing the lemon," said Fitzduane.
"Klaus is dead, you know. I miss him. I need a friend. Will you be my friend? We can find out who killed Klaus together."
"I thought you knew who killed Klaus."
"I know some things — quite a lot of things — but not all things. I need help. Will you help?"
Fitzduane looked at him. Sir Ivo, he thought, was not such a bad invention. There was a noble and sturdy spirit inside that slight physique, though whether it would ever have a chance of fulfillment was a very moot point. He thought of the loaded gun on the table beside him and the police team waiting and the years in prison or in some mental institution that Ivo faced, and he hated himself for what he was doing. He held his hand out to him. "I'll do what I can," he said. "I'll be your friend."
Ivo removed his helmet. He was smiling from ear to ear. He seized Fitzduane's hand in both of his. "I knew you would help," he said, "I knew it. It will be like the Knights of the Round Table, won't it?"
Then his head exploded.
The long burst had hit him in the back of the skull, perforating and smashing the bone into fragments and blowing these and blood and brain matter out through the front of his mouth in a fountain of death. Fitzduane flung himself to the ground as a second burst of fire smashed into Ivo's back and threw him across the table. Arterial blood sprayed into the air and formed a pink, frothy puddle with the spilled beer.
The attacker, on roller skates, shrouded in a long brown robe, and with face concealed, slid forward and grabbed Ivo's package from the table, stuffed it inside his robe, and darted away into the crowd, a silencer-fitted machine gun in his hands.
There was a spurt of flame and cries of agony as the fire-eater was brutally shouldered aside by the fleeing assassin and burning liquid spewed inadvertently over a crowd of onlookers. People screamed and scattered in every direction. Baby carriages were overturned, stalls were crushed in the press of bodies, and complete pandemonium broke out.
The Bear looked on aghast, barking instructions into the radio and trying to deploy his people but constrained by the chaos below. From his vantage point he could see what was happening, but he was temporarily powerless to intervene.
If the police deployment was hindered by the panicking crowd, the attacker was having his own problems weaving in and out of the mêlée. His very speed was at times a hindrance, and several times he crashed into an obstacle or fell. Frustrated in the center of the Bärenplatz, the attacker, who had been heading in a roughly diagonal line toward the Bündesplatz, cut back to cross the square at an angle that would bring him almost directly below the balcony where the Bear and the federal detective were stationed.
"He's doubled back," said the Bear into his radio. "He's going to pass under us. I think he's headed up this side toward the Bündesplatz. Mobile One, corner of the Bärenplatz and Schauplatzgasse. Go!"
Mobile One, an unmarked police BMW motorcycle ridden by a detective who did hill climbing in his spare time, roared up Amthausgasse toward the corner as instructed, only to fall foul of a diplomatic protection team that was escorting a delegation from the Upper Voltan Embassy making an official visit to the Bundeshaus, the Federal Parliament.
The diplomatic protection team, seeing the unmarked motorcycle cut through the uniformed police outriders toward the official-flag-flying Upper Voltan Mercede
s full of diplomats in tribal robes, performed as trained. An escorting police car swung across in front of the BMW, sending it into a violent skid that culminated under the nose of the Swiss foreign minister, who was waiting, together with a retinue of officials, to greet his distinguished guests. The hill-climbing detective, clad in racing leathers, rose shakily to his feet, his pistol butt protruding from the half-open zipper of his jacket. The first reaction of the dazed man when faced by all this officialdom was to reach for identification, whereupon he was shot in the shoulder.
The Bear's side of the square, being out of the sun and gloomy, was less crowded. "I think I can get a shot at him," said the federal detective. He leaned out across the balcony, wrecking a window box, and clasped his 9 mm SIG service automatic in both hands.
"Leave it," said the Bear. "There are too many people."
He spoke into the radio again. With the aid of Mobile One it looked as if they might just be able to get the assassin. He hadn't seen Mobile One's unfortunate encounter with the Upper Voltans. His other teams were converging as directed, albeit more slowly than he would have liked. He kept Mobile Two in Spitalgasse to backstop any sudden changes in direction. Reinforcements were being rushed from police headquarters only a few blocks away in Waisenhausplatz, but he guessed the whole affair would be over by the time they arrived.
Covered in the blood and tissue that had been Ivo, and holding the Remington at high port, Fitzduane presented a truly fear-inspiring sight. Rage pumping energy through his entire being, he ran across the square behind the killer, followed by one of the detectives who had been concealed in the High Noon's kitchen. It was no contest. No matter how fast they ran, the twisting and turning killer, seen in brief glimpses as he maneuvered through the crowd, was gaining. Once he reached the emptier part of the square, he could put on more speed and be out of sight in seconds.
Fitzduane crashed into a flower stall, spilling hundreds of impeccably arranged blooms to the ground. His breath rasping in his throat, he picked himself up and ran on. Behind him, the detective, his gun drawn, skidded on the carpet of petals and pitched into a stall selling organic bread, sending loaves cartwheeling in every direction.
"I can get him," said the federal detective on the balcony. He cursed when a crying child ran behind the killer, causing him to hold his fire for a split second. It was all the margin the killer needed. He could see the federal detective clearly outlined as he leaned out across the balcony.
He pivoted as the detective fired, the round smashing into the ground beside him, and in an extension of the same elegant movement, he brought up his weapon and fired a long burst along the balcony, causing the Bear to dive for cover and stitching a bloody counterpoint across the federal detective's diamond-pattern sweater. He slumped across the balcony, a stream of scarlet pouring from his mouth. Glass from the shattered tearoom windows tinkled to the ground. Moving at lightning speed, the killer skated toward the ground-floor doorway of the tearoom, changed magazines, and recocked his weapon. He was now directly under the Bear, who swore in frustration and ran for the stairs, knowing he'd be too late but forced to do something.
The killer scanned the square for pursuers and fired a wide burst over the crowds, shattering more windows and causing almost all the onlookers to fling themselves to the ground. Satisfied that he had bought himself the time he needed for his final dash to the corner of the Bärenplatz, where Sylvie waited with a motorcycle, he sprint-skated toward safety.
The killer's suppressing fire had given Fitzduane the clear shot he needed. From a range of 120 meters, using the XR-18 sabot rounds, he fired twice, blowing the killer's torso into a bloody mess all over the front of the Union Bank of Switzerland.
* * * * *
Oblivious of the carnage taking place just a short distance from his Marktgasse office, Beat von Graffenlaub paused in his writing and put down his pen. Hands clasped in front of him, he sat back in his chair for several minutes without moving. So much wealth, so much power and influence, so much failure. An image of Erika, young and fresh and beautiful as he had first known her, dissolved into the distorted face of his dead son. Sweat broke out on his brow. He felt sick and alone.
His movements neat and precise despite his nausea, he took a small brass key secured by a chain from his vest pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. Inside lay a lightweight shoulder holster and harness and a 9 mm Walther P-38 German Army service pistol. He had killed to get it and killed to keep it, but that was forty years ago, when his ideals were still fresh, before the corrosion of life had set in.
He checked the pistol, pleased to see that it was in perfect working order. He inserted a clip of ammunition and a round in the chamber and placed the weapon on the desk beside him. He picked up his pen again and continued writing. Tears stained his cheeks, but he wiped them away before they marked the paper.
20
Sangster was thinking about the assassination of Aldo Moro, a classic case history of the down side of the personal protection business that had taken place some three years previously. The Moro killing was not an encouraging precedent. Granted, there were certain obvious errors. His original bulletproof Fiat had become unreliable because of the weight of its additional armor, and pending the delivery of a new armored automobile, Moro was being driven in an unarmored Fiat sedan; second, he was using the same route he had traveled for the last fifteen years, so even the most slow-witted of terrorists could have put together a reasonable strike plan; third, although the police bodyguards were carrying their personal weapons, it struck Sangster as being less than inspired to have all their heavy firepower locked away in the escort car's trunk.
Still, mistakes or not, the fact remained that Aldo Moro, ex-prime minister and senior statesman of Italy, had been protected by no fewer than five experienced bodyguards — and the entire escort had been wiped out in seconds, with only one man even getting his pistol out to fire two shots in vain. The moral of the story, thought Sangster, is that you're a sitting duck against automatic-weapons fire if you are operating from an unarmored vehicle.
Sangster looked at the Hertz symbol on the windshield of his rented Mercedes. It didn't exactly make his day to know that he was making an even worse mistake than Moro's team. At least their vehicles had been moving. He was parked at the head of the track that led to Vreni von Graffenlaub's house, semiblind with the steamed-up car windows and furious that the bitch wouldn't let him and Pierre into her home, where they could do a decent protection job.
Woodsmoke trickled from Vreni's chimney. She was a pretty little thing, he had to admit. He tried to think of Vreni naked and willing in the farmhouse under a cozy duvet. Bodyguarding sometimes worked out that way. He picked up the field glasses and tried to catch a glimpse of her through the windows. He could see nothing. He scanned the rest of the area. There was still snow on the ground though it was melting. At night it would freeze again. He raised the radio and checked with Pierre, who was doing a mobile on the other side of the farmhouse. Pierre was wet and cold, and merde was the politest expletive he used. The exchange cheered Sangster up a little.
Sangster doubted that Vreni von Graffenlaub was in any serious danger. Most likely it was Dad trying to put some pressure on a wayward daughter; it wouldn’t be the first time a protection team had been so employed. Not that it made any difference to them. The conditions might be variable, but the money was excellent.
Moro's bodyguards had been hit with an average of seven rounds each. Funny how details like that stick in your mind. Sangster raised the field glasses again. Bloody nothing.
* * * * *
The Chief Kripo was busy fishing a fly out of his tea when he heard the news of the Bärenplatz shootings. He stopped thinking about the fly and started thinking about crucifying the Irishman. Easter was over, but it was that time of year, and three crosses on top of the Gurten would not look amiss. Fitzduane could have the place of honor, with the Bear and von Beck standing in for the thieves. There would be none of th
at rubbish about taking them down after three days either. They would hand there until they rotted — an example to all not to stir up trouble in the normally placid city of Bern.
The Chief Kripo spread a protective cloth on his desk and hunted through his desk drawers for some guns to clean. He found four pistols and lined them up on his left, with the cleaning kit to his right. Everything was in order. He picked up the SIG 9 mm and stripped it down. It was immaculate, but he cleaned it anyway. He liked the smell of gun oil. In fact, he liked everything about guns except people using them on people.
He did some of his best thinking while cleaning his guns. Today was no exception. Perhaps he'd better stop contemplating a triple crucifixion and have a serious look at what was happening off Kirchenfeldstrasse. Certainly his conventional investigation wasn't coming up with any answers. It could be that the time had come to take Project K seriously.
The four guns were now cleaned but still broken down into their component parts. He mingled the pieces at random, then closed his eyes and reassembled the weapons by touch. After that he strapped on the SIG and rang for a car.
* * * * *
After forty-five minutes with the Project K team, the Chief Kripo decided that life was too short and he was too old to have the time to get fully familiar with artificial intelligence and expert systems. The principles weren't too hard to grasp, but once Henssen got technical and started talking about interference engines and consistency checking and the virtues of Prolog as opposed to LISP, the Chief's eyeballs rolled skyward. Soon afterward, his chair being exceeding comfortable, he fell asleep. Henssen could believe what he was seeing and chose to think that the Chief's eyes were closed in deep concentration.
Fitzduane 01 - Games of The Hangman Page 33
