Read Games of the Hangman Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
Games of the Hangman (48 page)
The Chief
Kripo had enough embarrassing incidents piling up without adding the killing of
Commander of the Rangers to the pile.
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"You've
got to remember," said Kilmara, "that the Rangers are not mandated to
be an investigation unit in
He grinned.
"We're in the business of applying serious and deadly force when
our nation-state requires it.
We're
considered a little uncouth to deal directly with the public.
Detective work is the job of the police.
Of course, we stretch things a bit, and we
have our own contacts, but we're limited in what we can do directly."
His mood changed.
"It can be fucking frustrating."
"What was
the reaction to the video?" said Fitzduane.
It had been described to him by Kilmara after
the Ranger colonel had first viewed it, but sight of the real thing added an extra
dimension.
People in animal masks
running around his island didn't please him.
It reminded him of the bloody history of the place when the first
Fitzduane had moved in.
What had that
cult been called?
The
Sacrificers.
They had been wiped
out in fierce fighting.
Stories of the
conquest of the Sacrificers in the twelfth century were part of the Fitzduane
family folklore.
Kilmara
sighed.
"I'm not too popular with
our prime minister," he said, "which means his appointed flunkies,
including our brain-damaged Minister for Justice, read the way the wind is
blowing and think it good politics to fuck me around a little when the
opportunity arises."
"Meaning?"
said Fitzduane.
"Meaning
that any further investigation of Draker is out," said Kilmara.
"I did twist an arm or two earlier, and
a couple of Special Branch friends spent a day there asking discreet questions,
but to no avail — and then the minister received a phone call from the acting
headmaster, and that was that.
Besides,
I have to say that I'm buggered if I know what we're supposed to be looking
for.
Sure, there have been three deaths,
but there isn't a hint of foul play.
Your intuition might have currency with me, but I can tell you it's a
thin argument when dealing with the inertia of the average Irish
politician.
The parents of Draker kids
are some very important people, and the school spends good money in the
area.
No one wants to upset a bunch of
international movers and shakers and lose jobs into the bargain.
It pains me to say it, but they have a
point."
Fitzduane
shrugged.
"Rudi and one of the
terrorists you took out in Kinnegad had the same tattoo.
It now looks as if Vreni's absent boyfriend,
Peter Haag, is the late and unlamented Dieter Kretz.
We are talking serious linkage here.
Then there is the matter of a bunch of guys
dressed up like a druidic sacrificial cult."
"I've
been through all this ad nauseum," said Kilmara.
"We have to create a distinction between
facts and the interpretation of those facts.
At present the party line is that the Kinnegad business should be
investigated with vigor but that it has nothing to do with Draker.
Rudi's tattoo is only hearsay evidence since
there is nothing actually on it in the file, and as for our animal-headed
friends — so what?
Dressing up in funny
masks is part of every culture and certainly isn't ether a crime or even
suspicious.
Look at Halloween or the
Wren boys at Christmas.
The bottom line
is that Draker is off limits, but other avenues we can pursue.
And are."
"The idle
thought occurs to me," said Fitzduane, "that your ongoing feud with
the Taoiseach is becoming no small problem.
I wonder why he
does
dislike
you so.
This thing has been going on
since the
Kind of makes you think, doesn't it?"
"I took
this job," said Kilmara, "because I hoped to find out who betrayed us
back then.
My friend the Taoiseach,
Joseph Patrick Delaney, had the means, the motive, and the opportunity — but I
have no proof.
And meanwhile, I have to
protect and work with the man."
"He has a
certain Teflonlike quality," said Fitzduane.
"I guess you could try tact."
"I
do," said Kilmara.
"I don't
call him shithead to his face."
Fitzduane
laughed.
"Politicians," he
said, and he was quoting.
"‘Fuck ‘em all — the long and the short and the tall.’"
Kilmara
smiled.
"The
You bring back memories.
But we were naïve then.
You can't write off politicians that
easily.
Hell, everything's
political.
You're no mean politician
yourself."
Fitzduane grunted.
Kilmara broke
new ground.
"Speaking of
politics," he said, "
remember
"The BKA
and its giant computer, the Kommissar," said Fitzduane.
"Sure."
"Large
organizations like the BKA are coalitions," said Kilmara, "lots of
little factions pushing their own particular points of view, albeit within a
common framework."
"Uh-huh,"
said Fitzduane.
"One of
the factions within the BKA, a unit known as the Trogs — they work troglodyte
fashion, underground in an air-conditioned basement — has been experimenting
for some time with an expert system to work with the Kommissar.
They call it the Kommissar's Nose."
He smiled.
"We have a special relationship with the Trogs."
Fitzduane was
beginning to see the light.
"A back
channel?" he said.
"You're not
just getting the routine reports from the BKA.
The Trogs give you chapter and verse."
"We
trade," said Kilmara.
"They
wanted access to our files for a project they were working on, and then I was
able to help them out through some contacts in other countries.
It took off from there.
We have most-favored-nation status with the
Trogs."
He looked at
Fitzduane and took his time continuing.
"They think we may be able to help each other," he said.
"Who are
they?"
"The
computer guru of the unit is a Joachim Henssen.
He's one of these people who work twenty-four hours at a stretch on the
keyboard, live on junk food, and shave but once a month.
He's a fucking genius.
Administration is handled by a seconded
street cop of the old school, a Chief Inspector Otto Kersdorf.
Surprisingly they get on."
"An
expert system," said Fitzduane, "If memory serves, is a kind of
halfway house on the road to artificial intelligence — a computer thinking like
a human."
Kilmara
nodded.
"Artificial intelligence is
an aspiration.
Expert systems are
reality right now.
Basically you figure
out how humans do things and then program their approach into the
computer.
Human experts tend to reach
conclusions through a series of intelligent guesses called heuristics.
An expert system is based on a series of
heuristics."
He
grinned.
"Here endeth the lesson —
because here endeth my knowledge.
I
belong to a pre-Pac-Man generation."
"So the
Trogs," said Fitzduane, thinking it through, "have come up with a
software package that can analyze the mass of data accumulated by the Kommissar
in much the same way as a bunch of smart, experienced policemen — something no
human could do because there is too much computerized data to crunch
through."
"With one
qualification," said Kilmara.
"It's not a proven system yet.
That means the BKA top brass won't go public on it in case they end up
with egg on their faces — which means what the Komissar's Nose is sniffing out
isn't seeing the light of day.
The Trogs
are going nuts."
"But
they've told you?"
"Unofficially,"
said Kilmara.
"It could explain a
lot if they are right — but there are many uncertainties involved."
"But you
want to take a flier of the whole thing?"
Kilmara
nodded.
"They started off trawling
through the Kommissar's data banks and noticed patterns," he said.
"This led them to look at things on a
more global basis — the
the
Their findings have evolved into the
hypothesis that one person has been behind a series of seemingly separate
terrorist incidents over about a ten-year period.
Common denominators include an excessive use
of violence, a sick sense of humor, and a healthy respect for the bottom
line.
There is also a fondness for
certain types of weaponry, including Skorpion machine pistols and Claymore directional
mines.
"The
Trogs call the mastermind a terrorist multinational.
They say — and maybe they're not joking —
that he thinks, operates, and organizes like a Harvard M.B.A. and probably has
a gold
American Express Card and his accounts audited by one
of the Big Eight.
They claim his pattern
is to work globally through a variety of different subsidiary
organizations."
He
grinned.
"Cynics in the BKA call
this hypothetical master terrorist the Abominable No-Man.
They say it's a wild theory and that Henssen
is spaced.
The Trogs reckon the only way
to vindicate
themselves
is to track down this mythical
being, and to do that, they need to bypass the bureaucracy and be closer to the
action.
They think there's a chance he
may be based in
It's a place to start, and there are quite a
few pointers in this direction, including the gentleman you threw off the
chessboard girl.
"Anyway,
the Trogs have proposed setting up a small unit here.
All they want is a couple of rooms, good
communications, and a computer terminal or two.
They'll supply the secure modems to link with the Kommissar and the rest
of the gear."
He looked
around Fitzduane's borrowed apartment and smiled.
"You
devious son of a bitch," said Fitzduane.
"Where
do
the Bernese cops come into all
this?"
"It's an
unofficial operation with unofficial blessing," said Kilmara.
"Chief Max Buissard is skeptical.
Examining Magistrate von Beck is
enthusiastic.
The deal is that von Beck
heads it up with your friend the Bear.
The one proviso is that we row in with an official representative.
That way, if anything goes wrong, the forces
of law and order of three countries —
be in the shit together and the fallout will be better dissipated.
It's an old bureaucratic trick."
"So who
are you assigning?
Günther?
He likes computers."
"A
newcomer would take time to get acclimatized," said Kilmara.
"Anyway,
von Beck and the Bear want you in on this thing.
The Chief Kripo says you've brought a crime
wave with you and is muttering about your screwing up his statistics but will
support your involvement if you have official status.
The Federal Police are kind of morbidly
curious to find out what you're going to come up with next.
A bit of terrorism does wonders for their
funding, and the Feds think they're deprived if they don't' have Porsches and
this year's chopper to run around in.
"I want
you in — officially now — because I think we're all holding on to different
bits of the dragon without knowing quite what we've found.
I want a man on the spot who already knows
his way around and whom I can trust.
Besides, I don't have anyone else who isn't gainfully employed.
So what do you say?
You'll have official status, which may prove
handy the way the bodies are piling up."