Read Games of the Hangman Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
Games of the Hangman (20 page)
Most of the
men he created had pale skin and sun-bleached hair and were beautiful.
Most of the women he created were more
utilitarian, although there were exceptions.
Over time he
had learned to modify his ritual to mold and change real people.
There wasn't the same totality of control,
but there was more challenge.
There was
a higher wastage factor, but that in
itself
yielded
benefits.
It was in the
process of killing that he reasserted control.
*
*
*
*
*
Fitzduane
patted the harp on its little head,
then
left the
plane.
The flight had taken under two hours.
It was on time.
He pushed his luggage cart through the
NICHTS ZU DEKLARIEREN
and looked for a public
telephone.
There were
times when having intuition and perception could be a disadvantage, even a
curse.
They had not
parted well.
Etan lay next to him, their
sweat mingled, yet there had been a distance between them.
Different people, different
ways, different goals, and, for the moment, no bridge.
Love and desire, but no
bridge.
That bridge was
commitment, not just talk about marriage but the serious practical business of
changing their lives so they could be together.
There would be small people to nurture and care for.
That meant being around,
not departing yet again on another quest.
It meant choices and some hard
decisions.
He smiled to himself.
He missed her already, but hell, growing up
was harder when you were an adult.
In the end
Guido was the obvious man from whom to obtain background information on the von
Graffenlaubs.
He and Fitzduane either
had covered assignments together or had competed for them in half a dozen
different countries.
Since being wounded
in
been deskbound and was currently filling in the time with a research job in the
records section of Ringier, the major Swiss publishing house.
And yet
Fitzduane hesitated by the phone; Guido had been Etan's lover for several
years.
Lover —
familiar with her body in the most intimate of ways.
A kaleidoscope of explicit sexual images
crowded his mind.
Another man, his
friend, in the body of the woman he loved — in the past perhaps, but in his
mind now.
Life, he
thought, is too short for this kind of mental shit.
He began to dial.
*
*
*
*
*
Dr. Paul had
pale, aristocratic features, and his blond hair was silky smooth.
"Are you comfortable?" he
asked.
He managed to sound genuinely
concerned.
The tone of his voice was
reassuring, and its timbre projected professional confidence.
Kadar thought
he'd got Dr. Paul about right.
"Why
don't we start with your name?"
"Felix
Kadar.
But that's not my real
name."
"I
see," said Dr. Paul.
"I have
many names," said Kadar.
"They
come and go."
Dr. Paul
smiled enigmatically.
He had beautiful
white teeth.
"My birth
certificate," said Kadar, "states that I was born in 1944.
My place of birth is given as
Actually I was born in a small apartment in
Brunnengasse, just a couple of minutes' walk from here.
My mother's name was listed as Violeta
Consuela María Balart.
My father was
Henry Bridgenorth Lodge.
She was Cuban,
a secretary with the diplomatic mission.
He was a citizen of the
States of America
They were not married.
It was wartime.
Even in
high.
"Father
worked for the
He never got around to mentioning to Mother
that he had a wife and young son back in the States.
When Mother explained that it wasn't the high
standard of Swiss wartime cuisine that was thickening her waist, Dad had
himself parachuted into
and by all accounts he had a very good war.
"Mother
and I were shipped back to
The area has one claim to fame:
the biggest hacienda for miles around — it
was over ten thousand acres — was owned by a man with a singularly
inappropriate name, Ángel Castro.
He
sired seven children, and one of them was Fidel.
"Many
people say that they have no interest in politics because no matter who is in
power, it seems to make no difference.
Life just goes on grinding them down.
Well, I can't agree with that view.
The Batista government meant a great deal to me.
All of a sudden — I was about eight at the
time — I had new clothes to wear, shoes on my feet, and there was enough to
eat.
Mother had a new hairstyle and
smelled of perfume.
Major Altamir
Ventura, the province head of Batista's secret police, had entered our
lives.
He wore a uniform and had shiny
brown boots and smelled of sweat and whiskey and cigars and cologne.
When he took off his jacket and draped his
belt and holster over the chair, I could see that he had another, smaller
pistol tucked into the small of his back."
"How did
you feel about your mother at that time?" asked Dr. Paul.
"I didn't
hate her then," said Kadar, "and of course, it's pointless to hate
her now.
At that time I merely despised
her.
She was stupid and weak — a natural
victim.
Whatever she did, she seemed to
come out second best.
She was one of
life's losers.
She was abandoned by my
father.
She was treated abominably by
her family.
She had to scrimp and scrape
to make a living, and then she became
plaything."
"Did you
love her?"
"Love,
love, love," said Kadar.
"What
an odd word.
It is almost the antithesis
of being in control.
I don't know
whether I loved her or not.
Perhaps I
did when I was very small.
She was all I
had.
But I grew up quickly."
"Did she
love you?"
"I
suppose," said Kadar without enthusiasm, "in her own stupid way.
She used to have me sleep in her bed."
"Until
Major Ventura came along?"
"Yes,"
said Kadar.
"Was your
mother attractive?"
"Attractive?"
said Kadar.
"Oh, yes, she was
attractive.
More to the point, she was
sensual.
She liked to touch and be touched.
She always slept naked."
"Did you
miss sleeping with your mother?"
"Yes,"
said Kadar.
"I was lonely."
"And you
used to cry and cry," said Dr. Paul.
"But
nobody knew," said Kadar.
"And you
swore never to rely on anybody again."
"Yes,"
said Kadar.
"But you
didn't keep your promise, did you?"
"No,"
Kadar whispered.
"No."
*
*
*
*
*
Fitzduane had
several hours to kill before he met Guido at the close of the working day at
Ringier.
He took a train the short
distance into the center of
He shrugged his camera bag over his shoulder and set off to
explore.
Wandering around a
something he loved to do.
affluent as he had expected, but to his surprise there were no signs of discord
among the banks, the expensive shops, and the high-rise office buildings.
At first it looked like a few isolated cases
of vandalism.
Then he began to notice
that the damage, albeit superficial, was widespread.
There were clear signs of recent rioting on a
substantial scale.
Plate glass windows
had been cracked and were neatly taped up pending repair.
Other windows had been smashed and were
boarded up, again in the same painstaking and professional manner.
Shards of broken glass glittered from the
gutters.
Spray-painted graffiti
festooned the walls.
A church just off
Bahnhofstrasse was smeared with red paint as if with gobbets of blood.
Under the read streaks were the words
EUTHANASIE = RELIGION
.
On another side street he found two empty
tear gas canisters.
He bought a map and
walked to Dufourstrasse 23.
Ringier was
one of the largest publishing houses in
in the sleek modernism of its headquarters building.
The foyer was large and dominated by a
bunkerlike reception module;
desk
hardly seemed the appropriate term.
There was a magazine shop built into the ground floor.
While Guido was being located, Fitzduane
browsed idly through some of the Ringier output.
A miniature television camera whirred quietly
on its mobile mount, following his movements.
The last time
he had seen Guido, the Swiss had been fit and noticeably handsome, with a deep,
confident voice and a personality to match.
The overall effect was to project credibility, and it was not a
misleading impression.
Over the years
Guido had built up a considerable network of sources and contacts who confided
in him with unusual frankness.
This time, as
Guido stepped from the elevator, Fitzduane felt a sense of shock and then
sadness.
He knew that look all too
well.
Guido's face seemed to have
shrunk.
It was newly lined and an
unhealthy yellow.
His eyes were
bloodshot and cloudy.
He had lost
weight.
He walked slowly, without his
normal vigor of stride.
Even his voice
had changed.
The warmth was still there,
but the assurance was lacking, replaced by pain and fatigue.
Only his smile was the same.
"It's
been a long time, Samurai," he said.
He grasped Fitzduane's hand with both of his and shook it warmly.
Fitzduane felt a rush of affection but was at
a loss for words.
Guido looked
at him in silence for a moment; then he spoke.
"I had much the same reaction when I looked in my shaving mirror
every morning.
But you get used to
it.
Anyway, it won't be long now.
I don't want to talk about it.
Come on home and tell me all."
*
*
*
*
*
The last
Batista presidency, as far as Major Ventura was concerned, was an opportunity
for both career advancement and the acquisition of serious wealth.
furthered by the international political climate of the period.
The Cold War was at full chill.
The Dulles brothers were in charge of the
State Department and the CIA, and they did not look kindly on even the hint of
communism on their doorstep.
Batista's
approach to upward mobility mightn't exactly be the
bitch couldn't be accused of being a Red.
Within two
years Major Ventura was Colonel Ventura and posted back to
the special anti-Communist police.
He
stopped wearing a uniform and instead dressed in immaculately tailored
cream-colored suits cut generously under the left armpit.
He was fond of alligator-skin shoes.
He took vacations in
He investigated, arrested, interrogated,
tortured and killed many people who were said to be Communists.
He had close working links with the CIA, which
was how Kadar met Whitney Reston, the only person Kadar truly loved, and by
whom he was seduced.