GAMES OF THE HANGMAN Read online

  He could hear voices. He could see the long legs again. He squeezed the trigger, and the shuddering weapon leaped against his riven body. The hot brass of ejected cartridge cases scorched his face. He held the trigger until the magazine was empty. Just a moment too late he thought of the leaking gasoline. He slipped into unconsciousness before the pool of fuel, ignited by the muzzle blast of his Gustav, exploded—and patrol car and army Land Rover were engulfed in flames.

  Black smoked fouled the sky.

  Fitzduane replaced the telephone receiver with a sense of relief. He had been working on the von Graffenlaub file for more than eleven hours almost without a break, and he was tired and hungry.

  The contents of the file and related papers lay scattered across the top of the polished oak slab on trestles that Etan used as a desk. The information was helping build up a more complete picture of the von Graffenlaub family and its circumstances, but it was slow work. Despite the extensive network of sources and contacts typical of a successful working journalist and the advantage of an initial file from Kilmara, he was having a harder time putting together a comprehensive picture of Rudi's Swiss background than he had expected.

  Most of his difficulties seemed to have to do with Switzerland. He had been reluctant to call Guido. His other contacts could tell him—at times in the most intimate detail—about such matters as the latest financial scandal in the Vatican or who was bribing whom in Tanzania or which ballet dancer was sleeping with which member of the Politburo in Moscow, but any question to do with any aspect of Switzerland seemed to result in a resounding yawn.

  The consensus seemed to be that Switzerland was a boring bloody country full of boring bloody people who lived off their clichés: cheese, chocolate, cuckoo clocks, mountains, banks, other people, and hot money. Nobody seemed to like either Switzerland or the Swiss. As for Bern—dull, dull, dull was the general view.

  Fitzduane doubted that the investigation of a hanging would be dull even if the Bernese did their worst, and he wondered whether any of his traditional contacts really knew very much about the Swiss. It was also clear that there was a palpable element of jealousy underlying many of the comments made about the country. No wars, virtually no unemployment, one of the highest standards of living in the world, and a healthy and beautiful country. It was, indeed, enough to make you sick.

  He rose, stretched, and went into the kitchen to open a bottle of chilled white wine. He carried the wine and cheese and crackers into the living room, kicked the open log fire into life, and settled down in an armchair. He moved the television remote control near to hand.

  In a few minutes he would watch the nine o'clock evening news and then Etan's program, "Today Tonight." It was strange watching this different, professional Etan through the cold medium of television. He drank some wine, the fire flickered and glowed, and he thought yet again about the von Graffenlaubs.

  The file was thin on fact and short on explanation. The hanged boy's father was sixty-one-year-old Beat von Graffenlaub, a lawyer with extensive business interests. He lived in Junkerngasse and had offices in Marktgasse. He was a member of the old Bernese aristocracy, a Bernbürger, and a Fürsprecher (whatever that was). He was a director of various companies, including one of the big four banks, an armaments conglomerate, and a chemicals and drugs multinational. In his youth he had been a skier of Olympic caliber. He was extremely, but discreetly, rich. He seemed to be what is sometimes described as an overachiever. But what was a Bernbürger?

  The Bernbürger had married another Bernbürger, a certain Claire von Tscherner—another aristocrat to judge by the "von"—in 1948, and together, after a slow start, they had produced lots of little Bernbürgers, four to be precise. Daughter Marta appeared on the scene in 1955, son Andreas followed in 1958, and then, after four years of limbering up, the Beat von Graffenlaubs really got to work and in 1962 produced twins, Rudolf (Rudi) and Verena (Vreni).

  Twins. How had Vreni felt at the news of her brother's death? Had they been close? Most twins were. The probability was high that if anyone knew why Rudi had done it, she did. Fitzduane wondered if Vreni would look like her brother.

  In 1976 Beat, by then aged fifty-six, had done something that wouldn't win him any brownie points for originality. He divorced Claire and married a younger woman, a much younger woman. Erika Serdorf—no "von"—was twenty-eight and his secretary. Exit Claire, duty done, to Elfenau and death two years later in a car accident. The new Mrs. Beat von Graffenlaub would now be thirty-three to Beat's sixty-one, and the couple had no children. An interesting situation. What did Erika do with her day, given Beat's work load, other than spend his money?

  Fitzduane tried to figure out whether the bottle of wine was now half full or half empty. He poured himself another glass to help resolve the problem.

  A great deal was going to depend on the attitude of Beat von Graffenlaub. On the face of it, a stranger's investigation into the death of the lawyer's son was unlikely to be welcome, but without his support significant progress would be problematic. It was clear that the Bernbürger was well connected. Fitzduane's knowledge of Switzerland might be limited to little more than changing planes at Zurich Airport, but he did seem to have heard somewhere about the Swiss fondness for deportation as a solution to those who made waves.

  But back to Rudi. Why had he been sent to finish his secondary education at Draker? The Wiesbaden computer, in a printout that reeked of being fine-sieved prior to being issued, talked of "incipient undesirable political associations" and advised contacting the Swiss Federal Police and the Bern police. Titillating but not very helpful. The Swiss police were rumored to be about as outgoing on sensitive matters as Swiss bankers. The Bible said, "Seek and ye shall find." According to Kilmara, the authors were planning a rewrite since the invention of the Swiss.

  Fitzduane picked up the television remote control. It was almost nine o'clock, and the electronic image of Etan doing the promo for her program materialized in crisp color.

  He pressed the button for sound and caught her in mid-pitch. "...Later on, as security forces surround the house in which five hostages are being held by an unknown number of gunmen, we look at the brutal murder of four victims and ask: What are the causes of terrorism? That's 'Today Tonight' after the news at nine-thirty."

  The causes of terrorism all explained in forty minutes, less commercials. Television was a neat trick. He watched an advertisement and reflected that there were times when television alone provided an adequate motive for terrorism.

  It was only as he listened to the newscaster and saw film of the shocked faces of what the reporter was calling "the Kinnegad Massacre" that he realized the import of Etan's words: Kilmara and his Rangers would be busy.

  He hoped Kilmara had enough sense to keep his head down. He was getting too old to lead from the front.

  Kilmara wore the dull blue-black combat uniform, black webbing, and jump boots of the Rangers. The humor was gone from his face, and his expression was controlled and intent as he took one last look at the bank of eight television monitors that dominated the end of the Mobile Command Center. "Give me a search on main screen by five," he said.

  The Ranger sergeant sitting at the control panel operated the array of buttons and sliders with easy familiarity. At five-second intervals the picture on the main screen switched to images from each of the six surveillance cameras surrounding the house.

  The windows of the modern two-story farmhouse were curtained. No sign of life was visible, yet inside, Kilmara knew, four children and their mother were being held hostage by two killers of singular ruthlessness. To demonstrate their seriousness and disregard for human life, the two terrorists had already killed the farmer in cold blood. His body lay where it had fallen, barely two meters from his own front door. His wife and children had been forced to watch as the young German with the drooping black mustache and gleaming white teeth had neatly cut his victim's throat.

  Kilmara turned from the bank of television monitors and walked do
wn the aisle of the command center. On each side of him combat-uniformed Rangers manned sophisticated electronic audio surveillance and communications equipment. To aid screen visibility, the overall light level was dim, with individual spot lamps providing illumination as required. There was the faint background throbbing of a powerful but sound-deadened generator.

  He entered the small conference room and closed the door behind him. In contrast with the surveillance area, the room was brightly lit. "Anything?" he asked.

  Major Günther Horst and a Ranger lieutenant looked up from their examination of the two terrorists' belongings, which they had found in the hastily abandoned Ford Escort.

  "Personal belongings, maps, and guidebooks," said Günther. "Nothing that looks likely to help our immediate problem, though the forensic boys may find something in time." He paused and then picked up a hardback book from the table. He handed it to Kilmara. "But I think you might be interested in this."

  The impact of the photo on the front cover of the book was total. In grainy black and white, against a background of swirling dust and smoke, there was the tired, strained, unshaven profile of a soldier. He held a dove in his hands very close to his face and was looking at it with obvious tenderness. Tied to his webbing belt, just next to his water bottle, were two severed human heads.

  The book was entitled The Paradox Business. It was subtitled "A Portrait of War by One of the World's Top War Photographers—Hugo Fitzduane."

  "Well, I'll be buggered," said Kilmara. He looked at Günther. "Let's find him and get him here. Perhaps he can make some connection we've missed."

  "And where might he be?"

  "At a guess, still in Dublin," said Kilmara. "Try Etan's flat or any good restaurant with a decent wine list in the area." He looked at his watch. It read 9:40 p.m., which without conscious thought Kilmara translated automatically into military twenty-four-hour time. "You could also try RTE. He sometimes picks up Etan there after her show."

  "I'll give it a shot," said Günther.

  Kilmara smiled. "I've faith," he said. He turned to the lieutenant. "Give me a shout when the house plans come."

  Fitzduane sat against the back wall of the small control room of RTE Studio Two and watched Etan do useful damage to the selfpossession, credibility, and viewpoints of an eminent churchman, the Minister for Justice, and an associate professor of sociology from UCD.

  From the looks she was receiving toward the end of the program, it appeared that the assembled panel of experts on the causes of terrorism were more afraid of Etan than of terrorists. The Minister for Justice had no real answers, and it showed visibly as a thin sheen of sweat fought a winning battle with his makeup.

  The program was due to be over in a few minutes. Fitzduane looked at the bank of ten monitors and listened to the producer and the production assistants plotting camera movements while the seconds ticked by. Idly he noticed that they all wore dark stockings and ate mints and chain-smoked while they stared at the monitors, controls, and running order with intense concentration. It didn't seem like the kind of occupation that would lengthen your life.

  The credits rolled, there was a blast of theme music, and the show was over. Back to the commercials. For a moment the sheer disposability of the medium shook him, and he was glad he worked in print.

  The monitors were still live. The studio floor cleared. The monitors featured only the image of Etan, who had remained behind alone to tidy up her notes. She bowed her head, suddenly looking tired and vulnerable. It made Fitzduane want to take her in his arms and wonder what the hell he was doing going away yet again. Perhaps the time had come to settle down. He felt tired enough himself.

  The production team looked from Fitzduane to the monitors and back again. He seemed unaware of their existence. The producer put her hand on his shoulder.

  "Come and have a drink," she said. "Etan will be along in a few minutes."

  The "Today Tonight" hospitality room served the same general purpose as the emergency room of a hospital, except that experience had taught the editor of the program that alcohol, if administered in large quantities soon enough, guaranteed a faster recovery rate.

  Interviewers on the program tended to go for the jugular, yet it was important, if the victim was to come back for more, that he have some element of self-esteem restored. The effect of the hospitality room was to ensure that many a politician or bureaucrat, whose dissemblings and incompetence had been revealed only minutes before on prime-time television, soon felt, after a couple of Vincent's gins, that he had carried off the ordeal with the aplomb of a David Frost—and was raring to come back for a second round.

  This pleased the editor, who knew that in a small country like Ireland there was only a limited supply of political video fodder. Also, he was a nice man. He liked people to be happy except when being interviewed on his program.

  So as not to set a bad example, Fitzduane accepted an oversize gin, a drink he normally never touched, and thought thoughts he had avoided for close on twenty years.

  Etan came in freshly made up, the professional mask on again. He checked her legs. She, too, was wearing dark stockings. Full house. He maneuvered her into the corner of the small room for a minute of privacy. "I've been thinking," he said.

  Etan looked at him over the top of her glass and then down at the melting ice and slice of lemon. "Of what?"

  "Our future together, settling down, things like that," he said.

  "Good thoughts or bad thoughts?"

  "The very best thoughts," he answered. "Well, I think they are the very best thoughts, but I'm going to need a second opinion." He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.

  "Is this a consultation?" she asked. She had gone a little pale.

  Across the room, which meant no distance at all, given its size, a very drunk Minister for Justice went into shock at the sight of his erstwhile tormentor displaying human emotion. It was clear that he would have been less surprised had she breathed fire.

  The telephone rang. Less than thirty seconds later Fitzduane was gone.

  The minister came over to Etan and put a beefy arm around her shoulders. He was pissed as a newt. "Young lady," he said, "you should learn which side your bread is buttered. You work for a government-owned and -licensed station." He leered at her.

  Etan removed his arm with two fingers as if clearing away something unpleasant. She looked him up and down and wondered, given that Ireland was not short of talent, why such scum so often floated to the top. "Fuck off, birdbrain," she said, and it coincided with a general lull in the chatter.

  The editor choked on his drink.

  Geronimo Grady had not acquired his name for nothing.

  In his hands the modified Ranger Saab Turbo screamed through the streets of Dublin and out onto the Galway road in a blurred cocktail of flashing blue light, burning tire rubber, and wailing siren. When the traffic ahead failed to give way fast enough, Grady drove the wrong way up one-way streets, cut through the front lots of garages, or took to the sidewalks with equal ease. Fitzduane regarded him as a skilled maniac and gave thanks that Ranger regulations stipulated four-point racing harnesses and antiroll bars in pursuit vehicles. He winced as Grady roared through a set of red traffic lights and sideslipped around a double-decker bus. He kept his hand tight over the top of his gin and tonic glass and tried to retain the sloshing liquid.

  They covered the thirty-eight miles to the mobile command center in half an hour. Fitzduane was glad his hair was already silver. He unclipped his safety harness and handed Grady his now-empty glass.

  "You really deserve the ears and the tail," he said.

  Chapter 8

  "Legs," said Günther. "They might have got away if it hadn't been for the girl's legs. The corporal in the back of the Land Rover was enthusing about them over his radio to a buddy of his stationed at another roadblock a few kilometers away. And then came gunfire and screaming for split seconds, and then silence.

  "The warning was enough. The terrorists'
car was intercepted in less than three kilometers, and there was an exchange of fire. The terrorists abandoned their car and made a run for it under cover of a driveway hedge. At the end of the drive they burst into a farmhouse located a few hundred meters off the main road. The army, in hot pursuit, surrounded the house and kept them pinned down until reinforcements arrived.

  "So far two policemen, one soldier, and the farmer are dead. Another soldier looks likely to die, and a nurse who went to help got shot to pieces. As best we can determine, the corporal must have mistaken her for a terrorist and put a burst of Gustav fire into her legs. That makes a total of four dead—and two pending." He was silent for a moment. "That we know about," he added.

  "An obvious question," said Fitzduane. "Why?"

  Günther shrugged. "We are pretty sure they aren't IRA, but other than that, we don't know who they are, what they were up to when they were intercepted, or anything much else about them."

  Kilmara stood in the doorway. "We thought you might be able to help, Hugo," he said. He placed two plastic-covered bloodstained rectangles on the table in front of Fitzduane. "Look at them closely and think very hard."

  Fitzduane picked up the first of the international driver's licenses. The face was smiling into the camera, displaying shining white teeth under a drooping mustache. He studied the photograph carefully and shook his head. He picked up the second license. This time the expression on the face looking into the camera was completely serious, almost detached. Again he shook his head.

  Kilmara leaned over and placed the licenses side by side on the table. "Try looking at them together," he said, "and take your time."

  Fitzduane looked down at the small photographs and racked his brain for even the slightest hint of familiarity. Mentally he ticked off the assignments he had been on during the last few years. The girl was supposed to be Italian, but she could be Arab—or Israeli, for that matter. The facial types were often very similar. For his part, the man was dark enough to be of Middle Eastern origin, but despite the mustache he looked European.