The Chief started to snore. It was such a melodious sound with some of the cadence and lilt of Berndeutsch, and it prompted Fitzduane to wonder whether the language one spoke affected the sound produced when snoring. Did a Chinese snore like an Italian?
The Chief's eyes snapped open. He glared at Henssen, who was standing there bemused, mouth half agape, pointer in hand, flip chart at the ready. "All that stuff might be a barrel of laughs to a bunch of long-haired, unwashed, pimple-faced students," the Chief barked, "but I'm here to talk about murder! We've got dead bodies turning up like geraniums all over my city, and I want it stopped — or I may personally start adding to the list."
"Um," murmured Henssen, and sat down.
"Look," said von Beck in a mollifying tone, "I think it might be easier if you ask us exactly what you want to know."
The Chief leaned forward in his chair. "How close are you people to coming up with a suspect, or at least a short list?"
"Very close," said Chief Inspector Kersdorf.
"Days, minutes, hours? Give me a time frame."
Kersdorf looked at Henssen, who cleared his throat before he spoke. "Within forty-eight hours at the outside, but possibly as soon as twelve."
"What are the main holdups?" asked the Chief. "I thought your computers were ultrafast."
"Processing time isn't the problem," said Henssen. "The main delays are in three areas: getting the records we want out of people, transferring the data to a format the computers can use, and the human interface."
"What do you mean by the human interface? I thought the computer did all the thinking."
"We're not to of a job yet," said Kersdorf. "The computer does the heavy data interpretation, ‘thinking,’ if you will, but only within parameters we determine. The computer learns as it goes, but we have to tell it, at least the first time, what is significant."
The Chief grunted. He was having a hard time trying to assess to what extent the damn machines could actually think, but he decided that the balance, at this stage, between man and machine was not so important. What he had to decide was the effectiveness of the full package. Was Project K worth the candle and likely to deliver, or should he do a Pontius Pilate and wash his hands while the Federal Police or a cantonal task force took over the whole thing? "Let's talk specifics," he said. "Have you considered that our candidate is almost certainly known by the von Graffenlaubs?"
The Bear nodded. "We asked the von Graffenlaub family to list all friends and acquaintances, and they are now entered into the data base. There are several problems. Beat von Graffenlaub has a vast circle of acquaintances; Erika is almost certainly not telling the whole truth, if for no other reason than she doesn't want the extent of her sex life to end up on a government computer. Life being the way it is, none of the lists will be entirely comprehensive. Few people can name everyone they know."
"Have you thought of narrowing down the von Graffenlaub list by concentrating on who they know in common?"
The Bear grinned. "The computer did — but gave the result a low significance rating because of the inherent unreliability of the individual lists."
"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 vehi
cle 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 engraved 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.
* * * * *
Fitzduane 01 - Games of The Hangman Page 34
