Read Games of the Hangman Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
Games of the Hangman (37 page)
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The Bear put
down his wineglass with a sigh of satisfaction.
Three deciliters of wine had vanished effortlessly.
Fitzduane was impressed by the idea of
actually knowing how much a wineglass held.
The Swiss glasses came in different sizes and were marked
accordingly.
In
spirit of the national obsession for gambling, a wineglass could be almost any
size.
A few glasses of wine could make
you pleasantly mellow, decidedly the worse for wear, or have you punching the
barman in thirst and frustration.
"I'm not
being followed anymore," said Fitzduane, "or at least I don't think
so."
"Perhaps
you were mistaken.
Perhaps you were
never being followed and it was a case of imagination."
"Perhaps."
Fitzduane reached into a breast pocket of his blouson jacket and removed
a photograph.
He handed it to the Bear.
The Bear
pursed his lips; his mustache twitched.
It looked at if he were thinking.
"What do you make
of
it
?" asked Fitzduane.
The Bear was
still studying the photograph.
"A
nice sharp photo of a motorcycle taking a corner somewhere up in the
mountains."
He looked at
Fitzduane.
"And you want me to
check the registration."
Fitzduane
nodded.
"It might be
interesting."
A buxom
waitress in a low-cut traditional blouse with white sleeves brought them fresh
wine.
There was a rising buzz of
conversation around them as the cellar filled up.
They were seated with their backs to the wall
at a corner table, an arrangement that made for privacy yet allowed the
entrance and most of the other tables to be surveyed.
The choice had apparently been made without
conscious thought.
Fitzduane had been
quietly amused.
You get into habits, he
supposed, if you spent a great deal of time watching people.
"A few
centuries ago there used to be a couple of hundred places like this in
said the Bear.
"Many of the
aristocracy had vineyards on their country estates, and the wine business was
the one trade that was considered socially acceptable for the higher echelons,
apart, of course, from the business of army and government.
Then fashions changed, the nobility lost
power, and people drank instead at inns and in cafés.
There are still plenty of cellars left, but
those that are used commercially are boutiques and restaurants and places like
that.
I think it's a pity.
A wine cellar like this has great
atmosphere:
arched ceilings, scrubbed
wooden tables, age-darkened paneling, wine barrels, a drinking song or two, and
a good-looking widow in charge of it all."
"Why a widow?"
"Don't
really know," said the Bear.
"It's just a tradition now that the Klotzikeller is run by a
widow."
He looked across at
Fitzduane.
"My chief called me
in."
"
Ja und?
" said Fitzduane.
"It's about all the German I know."
"Just as
well with an accent like that.
Beat von
Graffenlaub was in touch with him.
They
are old friends, or at least they know each other of old.
They met in the army, and now they play golf
and sit on some Bürgergemeinde committee together."
Where would the
establishment be without golf?" said Fitzduane.
"Sir Francis Drake played bowls, the
Egyptians built pyramids, and in
sort of polo with a goat's head.
I
suppose those activities serve the same purpose."
"You're
going to like this," said the Bear.
"I've been ordered to give you official help, access to information
and records, that sort of thing."
"Very
nice," said Fitzduane.
"Because of von Graffenlaub, you think?"
"Not just
von Graffenlaub.
There has also been a
fair bit of toing and froing between the Chief and your friend Kilmara.
They have decided to put their heads together
over the small matter of the tattoo that keeps cropping up — what did you call
it?"
"The Flowers of Evil."
"So, the
Flowers of Evil symbol being found on various dead bodies in both
countries," continued the Bear, "not to mention some other
developments."
"Out with
it," said Fitzduane.
"We put
out a flier through Interpol — normal procedure — as did the authorities in
All European countries and the
notified.
No reaction at first.
It's always more difficult when something is
visual.
Most police records are geared
toward names, addresses, fingerprints, things like that.
A nameless symbol is hard to index and
classify in a way that all parties will understand."
"But?"
"We had
some luck.
In some far-distant archive a
penny dropped."
"This has
all the markings of a shaggy dog story," said Fitzduane.
"A body
bearing the tattoo was found in a burned-out car near
ago," said the Bear after a momentary pause.
"The intention, it would appear, he been
to completely destroy both car and body in the fire."
"So what
went wrong?"
"Overkill,"
said the Bear.
"In addition to the
gasoline in the tank, there was C-4 plastic explosive in the car.
Part of an arm was thrown clear by the
blast.
It was badly damaged, but they
could just make out part of the circle of flowers and one line of the letter
"A."
Our flier didn't ring a
bell at first until they searched under the name of the flower.
"It's a small drawing, so it's hard to
be sure about the species.
They tried
various names and came up with nothing.
Then they hit the jackpot with—"
"Geranium,"
said Fitzduane.
The Bear
stared at him.
"How did you know
that?"
"I'm the
seventh son of a seventh son," said Fitzduane.
"In
special powers.
And I met somebody who
knows flowers."
"Who?"
"Andreas."
They looked at
each other.
"Means nothing,"
said the Bear.
"Who
knows?" said Fitzduane.
"Why
don't you finish your story?
You were at
the severed arm."
"Humph,"
said the Bear.
He glared balefully at a
couple making signs of wanting to share their table
.
The
couple scurried away.
"They
don't know who the arm belonged to.
No
identification was possible.
The hand
was already severely burned when the explosion took place, and the body itself
was almost completely destroyed, so no fingerprints, no dental records, no
distinguishing marks or features apart from the tattoo, which was partially
protected under the watch, and, of course, no face."
"Sex?"
"Female.
A white Caucasian, as they like to say over
there."
"Age?"
"Hard to say.
The best guess was twenties."
"How about the car?"
"It was a
burned-out wreck by the time it was found, and the explosion had nearly
returned it to its component state.
Forensics was able to trace it to its owner by its engine number."
"Who was
not the body," said Fitzduane.
"No,"
said the Bear.
"The owner was a
company executive described by the FBI as being clean as a whistle."
"Why was
the FBI involved?
As I understand it, it
has a strictly limited mandate."
"Bank
robbery is federal business," said the Bear.
"The FBI believes the car was involved
in a raid that took place in
Clemente
Over two million
dollars was stolen and six people were killed.
One of those shot was a guard.
Before being cut down, he shot and wounded one of the perpetrators.
The FBI says that the body had been shot not
only by the guard but also with the same gun that killed the guard."
"So the
bank robbers, finding one of their own people wounded and doubtless somewhat in
the way, killed her?"
"It looks
that way," said the Bear.
"How many
were involved in the bank raid?"
"Including the woman who was killed, only three.
But they had automatic weapons and were quite
happy to use them.
They killed the bank
guard, as I mentioned, and five other people apparently for no good cause.
Two were bank employees, and three were
customers.
All were unarmed and doing
exactly what they were told when the attackers opened up."
"This has
the smell of a terrorist attack rather than a straightforward bank raid,"
said Fitzduane.
"Did any
organization claim credit?"
"No."
"What
kinds of weapons did they use?"
"A sawed-off shotgun and two Czech Skorpion machine
pistols."
"Familiar hardware.
I can see why
your
chief and Kilmara have been
talking to each other.
Were any of the
terrorists caught?"
"The
investigation got nowhere," said the Bear.
"Then, about a year ago, a man was questioned in
money.
He was an oil industry
executive.
He'd picked up the money
cashing a check in a bank in
The Libyan bank confirmed the transaction but
declined to say where it had received the money.
It suggested that it was probably another
visiting American."
"So what
does the FBI think about all this?"
"It's
keeping its options open," said the Bear, "but the most popular
theory is the obvious one:
a
Libyan-backed terrorist organization topping up its coffers with a little
terror thrown in."
"I
thought Libyan-backed terrorists had more than enough money."
"Nobody
after money that way ever has enough," said the Bear.
"And perhaps they don't regard Qaddafi
as a reliable paymaster, or they want to be prepared for a rainy day."
"Or there
is something special they want to finance," said Fitzduane.
15
It was dark
when they left the Klotzikeller.
Medieval
Dimly lit alleys and side streets, shadowed arcades, the echoing of footsteps,
pools of light and warmth from cafés, restaurants, and
Stuben
all conspired to create an illusion of timelessness and
mystery, and sometimes, when it was late and the crowds were gone and the
hostelries closed and shuttered, of menace.
They took the
now-familiar route past the clock tower.
Lorenzini's restaurant was off a small arcade that linked Marktgasse and
Amthausgasse.
The restaurant itself was
on the first floor.
Inside there was the
clamor, vitality, and distinctive aroma of good Italian food and wine.
The Bear's
eyes lit up.
He was greeted like a
long-lost son, a long-lost hungry son.
Arms outstretched, a quick embrace, a flurry of salutations, quick
bursts of colloquial Italian, and they were seated at a table, menus in hand,
wine poured, in what seemed like seconds.
"Aagh!"
said the Bear as he surveyed the menu and then swiveled his eyes toward the
antipasti cart.
"So
many choices and so little time."
He mused for a while, brows creased in an agony of alternatives.
Finally the choice was made — a meal of
restraint, one might almost say moderation:
antipasto misto all’italiana
,
for starters,
paillarde di vitello con
broccoli al limone
, to keep momentum up, and only half a liter of Chianti
(each) before skipping dessert and going straight to coffee.