Games of the Hangman (21 page)

"We'd
been in
Havana
for a few years," said Kadar.
 
"
Ventura
still lived with Mother, but he was getting bored with her.
 
He had other women — many other women.

"Whitney
worked for a CIA man called Kirkpatrick.
 
He used to come to the house regularly to see
Ventura
.
 
The CIA had set up BRAC with Batista, and they funded it.
 
They liked to keep an eye on where the money
was going.
 
Ventura
was their man within BRAC, probably
one of many.
 
He was paid a regular
monthly retainer by the CIA on top of his BRAC salary and the money he made in
other ways.
 
One of his favorite
techniques was to arrest someone from a rich family, rough him up a bit, and
then have the family buy the prisoner out."

"How did
you know all this?"

"Various
ways," said Kadar.
 
"The house
we lived in was big and old.
 
I had time
on my hands — I had made the decision not to have any friends — and I had
already discovered that I was smart, really smart.
 
I found if I could get a book on how to do
something, I only had to read it a couple of times and I could become
proficient in whatever it was.
 
In this
way I learned some basic building skills and how to plant microphones and
organize spy holes.
 
I stole much of what
I needed from BRAC and the CIA.
 
I
learned how to tap phones.
 
To tell the
truth, it wasn't difficult.

"I
learned early that knowledge is power.
 
I
made it my business to know everything that went on in that house, and from
that I learned much of what BRAC and the CIA were up to elsewhere.
 
I learned that words such as
good
and
bad
are meaningless.
 
You are
either master or victim.

"I used
to look at
Ventura
and my mother in bed together.
 
That was
easy to arrange because my room was over theirs and all I had to do was make a
hole from my floor to their ceiling.
 
I
put in a monocular so I could see every detail, and I had the place wired, of
course.
 
He made her do some disgusting
things, but she didn't seem to mind.
 
I
thought she was pathetic."

"Tell me
about your affair with Whitney Reston," said Dr. Paul.
 
"Did you have homosexual inclinations to
start with?"

"I don't
think I was either homosexual or heterosexual," said Kadar, "merely
sexually awakening and alone.
 
I hadn't
yet mastered how to mix with people and to take what is needed without being
involved
.
I was still vulnerable."

"When I
was small, I had an imaginary friend called Michael.
 
Whitney looked like an older version of
Michael.
 
He had the same blond hair,
pale skin, and fine features.
 
And he was
nice to me and gentle, and he loved me.
 
It lasted for a year.
 
I was so
happy.

"I spent
so much time with Whitney that I stopped monitoring all the activities of the
house.
 
I still kept an eye on
Ventura
, but provided I
knew where she was, I left mother unsupervised.
 
I didn't think she was important.
 
I was wrong.
 
Even a pathetic
figure like Mother could be dangerous.

"I don't
remember all of it, but I remember too much.
 
Whitney and I had driven out to the beach at Santa María-Guanabo.
 
As far as other people were concerned,
Whitney was just being a family friend giving a lonely teenager an outing.
 
We had been very discreet.
 
Whitney knew he'd be in real trouble if the
CIA found out.
 
He said that the Company
was obsessed with homosexuality.

"The
beach, a ribbon of white sand some ten kilometers long bordered by pine trees,
was only about twenty kilometers from
Havana
.
 
We liked it because it was easy to get to,
yet during midweek it was always possible to find a private spot.
 
Most people used to cluster near the few bars
and restaurants.
 
Ten minutes'
walk,
and you'd think you had the world all to yourself.

"It was a
hot, hot day — hot and humid.
 
The sea
was calm, and the sound of white-topped rollers was beautifully relaxing.
 
I was nearly asleep in the shade of an awning
we had rigged up.
 
There was the smell of
the sea and of pine from the groves behind us.

"I heard
voices — not a long conversation, just a quick exchange of words.
 
I opened my eyes a little.
 
The glare off the sea and the white sand was
dazzling.
 
I was drowsy from drinking
half a bottle of
cerveza
.
 
Whitney used to limit me to half a
bottle.
 
He said I was too young to drink
more.

"Whitney
had gone for a swim to cool off, but he wasn't far out.
 
I put my sunglasses back on to cut the glare,
and as my eyes adjusted, I could see two men walking down to the water's
edge.
 
They were wearing loose cotton
shirts and slacks.
 
Both men wore
wide-brimmed hats like those of cane cutters."

"One of
the men called to Whitney.
 
I couldn't
hear what was said, but Whitney waved and shouted something.
 
He swam toward shore and rose to his feet in
the shallow water.
 
He looked across at
me and smiled.
 
He ran his fingers
through his hair to remove the water.
 
His tanned, wet body gleamed in the sun.

"The two
men stepped forward a few paces, and my view of Whitney was momentarily
obscured.
 
One of the men moved, and I
heard two bangs very close together.
 
The
sound was muffled by the noise of the sea.

"I sat
up, but I was still not seriously alarmed.
 
What I was seeing was unreal.
 
None of the actions I was observing seemed to have any relevance to
me.
 
They were pictures in the landscape
— nothing more.
 
Sweat trickled into my
eyes, and I had to take my sunglasses off for a second to wipe it away.

"The two
men separated.
 
One was reloading a
short, thick weapon.
 
I could see the sun
glinting off cartridge cases.
 
The other
man had an automatic pistol in his right hand.
 
He stepped into the shallow surface and pointed the weapon toward
Whitney but didn't fire immediately.
 
For
some moments he stared at Whitney, his weapon extended as if he were shocked
into stillness by what he saw.

"Whitney's
body remained upright, but where his face and the top of his head had been
there was nothing.
 
A fountain of
arterial blood gushed from his head and cascaded down his torso and lower body
and stained the water around his feet.

"Then the
man with the pistol fired.
 
The first
shot hurled the body back into the water in a cloud of pink spray.
 
The man went on firing shots into the bundle
at his feet until the gun was empty and the slide locked back.
 
He pulled a fresh clip from his pocket and
pulled back the slide to insert a round into the breach and recock the
weapon.
 
He looked toward me.
 
The other man said something, and the two of
them walked away into the woods."

Kadar looked
up at Dr. Paul.
 
"I think I'd like a
rest now," he said.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

They took a
taxi from Ringier, picked up Fitzduane's bags from the station, and traveled
the short distance to Guido's apartment on Limmatstrasse.

The River
Limmat was a dull steel gray in the evening light.
 
The rush-hour traffic was heavy but moved
easily.
 
Trams were filled with tired
faces heading homeward.

As they turned
into Guido's street, they passed a factory or warehouse that looked as if it
had been involved in a minor war.
 
It was
covered with banners and graffiti.
 
Stones and other discarded missiles littered the ground.
 
The place was surrounded by coils of barbed
wire.
 
Police, some in uniform, some in
full riot gear, occupied every strategic point.
 
Outside the barbed wire, knots of people stood looking and talking.

"As you
can see," said Guido, "my apartment is well placed.
 
I can walk to the war zone, even in my
present state of health, only a modest three hundred meters."

"What
is
this war zone?" asked Fitzduane.

"It's the
highly controversial Autonomous Youth House," said Guido.
 
"I'll tell you about it over a
drink."
 
He looked amused.
 
"Not exactly what you expected of placid
Switzerland
,
Hugo."

"No,"
said Fitzduane.

The apartment
was on the second floor.
 
As Guido was
about to place his key in the lock, the door opened.
 
A handsome but studious-looking dark-haired
woman in her early thirties gave him a hug.
 
He rested his arm around her shoulders.
 
"This is Christina," he said.
 
"She tries to see I behave myself; she pretends I need looking
after, thinks I can't boil an egg."
 
He kissed her on the forehead.
 
She squeezed his hand.

The apartment
was spacious and comfortable.
 
Guido ushered
Fitzduane into his study and poured them both a glass of dry white wine.
 
"I should be hard at work, preparing the
salad," he said, "but Christina knows we want to talk.
 
I have a reprieve."

"An
attractive woman," said Fitzduane.
 
"I never thought to see you so domesticated."

"Made it
by a short head," said Guido.
 
"If I had known it was so enjoyable, I might have tried it earlier
in my life."

"You did
try it earlier," said Fitzduane, "or had you forgotten?"

Guido gazed at
him directly and took his time before answering.
 
"No," he said.

They were both
silent for a little while; then Guido spoke.
 
"I've been doing some work on Beat von Graffenlaub, as you
asked.
 
You have found yourself a
formidable subject.
 
Don't cross him, or
you'll find yourself leaving
Switzerland
sooner than you might wish."

"How so?"

"Von
Graffenlaub is very much an establishment figure," said Guido, "and
the Swiss establishment looks after
it's
own.
 
You rock the boat too much, they ship you
out.
 
Very
simple."

"What
constitutes rocking the boat?"

"That's
the random factor; you won't necessarily know," said Guido.
 
"They make the rules.
 
It's their country."

"Yours,
too," said Fitzduane.

"So my
papers say, but I don't own a big slice of it like von Graffenlaub.
 
That makes a difference."

"To your perspective?"

"To my
perspective, sure," said Guido, "but mostly I'm talking about power,
real power."
 
He smiled
cheerfully.
 
"The kind you don't
want to be on the receiving end of," he added.

Fitzduane
looked at him and nodded.

Guido laughed.
 
"Don't pack yet."

"I'd like
to know more about the general Swiss setup," said Fitzduane, "before
you go into detail on von Graffenlaub.
 
What constitutes the establishment?
 
How does the system work?
 
Why has
this haven of peace and prosperity got to rioting in the streets?
 
What is an Autonomous Youth House?"

Guido lit a
Brissago, a long, thin, curly cigar with a straw as a mouthpiece.
 
It looked not unlike a piece of gnarled
root.
 
Smoke filled the air.
 
The room was warm, and the sounds of dinner
being prepared emanated from the kitchen.

"I'll
start with the basics," he said.
 
"Population, 6.3 million.
 
Currently one of the most
prosperous nations in the world.
 
Inflation minimal, and unemployment almost nonexistent.
 
Trains, buses, aircraft, and even joggers run
on time.
 
In many ways not a nation at
all so much as a collection of diverse communities; in many cases these
communities do not even like each other or, in terms of language and culture,
would appear to have little in common.
 
Yet they are linked together for mutual advantage.