Games of the Hangman (58 page)

"We're
not to of a job yet," said Kersdorf.
 
"The computer does the heavy data interpretation, ‘thinking,’ if
you will, but only within parameters we determine.
 
The computer learns as it goes, but we have
to tell it, at least the first time, what is significant."

The Chief
grunted.
 
He was having a hard time
trying to assess to what extent the damn machines could actually think, but he
decided that the balance, at this stage, between man and machine was not so
important.
 
What he had to decide was the
effectiveness of the full package.
 
Was
Project K worth the candle and likely to deliver, or should he do a Pontius
Pilate and wash his hands while the Federal Police or a cantonal task force
took over the whole thing?
 
"Let's
talk specifics," he said.
 
"Have you considered that our candidate is almost certainly known
by the von Graffenlaubs?"

The Bear nodded.
 
"We asked the von Graffenlaub family to
list all friends and acquaintances, and they are now entered into the data
base.
 
There are several problems.
 
Beat von Graffenlaub has a vast circle of
acquaintances; Erika is almost certainly not telling the whole truth, if for no
other reason than she doesn't want the extent of her sex life to end up on a
government computer.
 
Life being the way
it is, none of the lists will be entirely comprehensive.
 
Few people can name everyone they know."

"Have you
thought of narrowing down the von Graffenlaub list by concentrating on who they
know in common?"

The Bear
grinned.
 
"The computer did — but
gave the result a low significance rating because of the inherent unreliability
of the individual lists."

"I
remember the days when you talked like a cop," said the Chief.
 
He looked down at his notes again.
 
"How do we stand on the tattoo
issue?"

"Good and
bad," said the Bear.
 
"The good
news is that we finally traced the artist — a guy in
Zurich
operating under the name of
Siegfried.
 
The bad news is that he'd
disappeared when the local police went to pick him up for a second round of
questioning.
 
He reappeared in walking
boots, full of holes."

"The body
found in the woods?
 
I didn't know it had
been identified yet."

"An hour
of so ago," said the Bear.
 
"You were probably on your way here at the time."

"Did
Siegfried leave any records?"

"He had a
small apartment above his shop," said the Bear.
 
"Both were destroyed in a fire shortly
after he did his vanishing act.
 
A thorough
case of arson with no attempt to make it look accidental; whoever did it was
more concerned about carrying out a total destruction job.
 
They used gasoline and incendiary
devices.
 
On the basis of analysis of the
chemicals used in the incendiaries, there is a direct link to the Hangman's
group."

The Chief
frowned.
 
"What about Ivo's
package?"

"That's
still with forensics," said the Bear.
 
"They hope to have something later on today, but it could be
tomorrow.
 
About eighty percent of it was
destroyed by Fitzduane's shotgun blasts, and the rest of it was saturated in
blood and bits of our unlamented killer.
 
That shotgun load he's using is formidable."

"Not
exactly helpful in this situation," said the Chief.

"I'm not
used to shooting people wearing roller skates," said Fitzduane.
 
"It confused my aim."

"What you
need is a dose of Swiss Army," said the Chief.
 
"We'd teach you how to shoot."

"We're
particularly strong on dealing with terrorists wearing roller skates,"
said Charlie von Beck.

"
Which reminds me.
 
I
really would like my shotgun back," said Fitzduane.
 
"Your people took it away after the
Bärenplatz."

"Evidence,"
said the Chief.
 
"Democratic legal
systems are crazy about evidence.
 
Consider yourself lucky you weren't
take
away,
too."

The Bear looked
at Fitzduane and stopped him as he was about to reply.
 
"Be like a bamboo," he suggested,
"and
bend
with the wind."

"That's
all I need," said Fitzduane, "a Swiss Chinese philosopher."

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

Sangster would
have been flattered by the meticulous planning that went into his death.
 
Sylvie had been assigned the task of tidying
up Vreni von Graffenlaub.
 
With her were
a technician of Columbian origin known as Santine and two Austrian contract
assassins, both blond and blue-eyed and baby-cheeked, whom she immediately
dubbed Hansel and Gretel.

She still felt
sore about the Bärenplatz shootings.
 
Certainly the target had been killed, and a policeman for good measure,
and losing the Lebanese had been no loss — she had become extremely bored with
his alligator shoes — but she wished she hadn't lent the incompetent idiot her
Ingram.
 
It was the weapon she was used
to, and now here she was carrying out an assignment it would have been ideal
for, and she was reduced to one of those dull little Czech Skorpions.

They
considered bypassing the bodyguards by approaching the farmhouse
cross-country.
 
That would have worked if
Kadar had ordered just a quick kill, but he wanted something more elaborate, so
it became clear they'd have to take out the bodyguards prior to the main event.

The killings
would have to be silent.
 
Vreni's
farmhouse was situated outside the village, but noise travels in the still air
of the mountains, and although the immediate police presence might not be
significant, this damned Swiss habit of every man's having an assault rifle in
his home had to be considered.

In the end it
wasn't too difficult to come up with an effective plan.
 
It hinged up Santine's technical capabilities
and close observation of the bodyguards' routine.
 
For at least twenty minutes out of every hour
both bodyguards were out of the car patrolling, and for at least half that time
they were out of sight of the car.

The first move
was to bug the bodyguards' car.
 
The
rented Mercedes was not difficult to unlock, and within seconds Santine, almost
invisible in white camouflage against the snow, had concealed two audio
transmitters and, under the driver's seat, a radio-activated cylinder of
odorless, colorless carbon monoxide gas.
 
Silently he relocked the car and slithered away into the tree line,
cursing the cold and swearing that he would confine his talents in the future
to warmer climes.

The audio
surveillance was instructive.
 
Sylvie was
glad that she hadn't given in to her initial impulse to bypass the
bodyguards.
 
The farmhouse, it turned
out, was bugged.
 
Vreni von Graffenlaub
might not have allowed her father's security people inside her house, but they
still had the ability to monitor — if not actually see — her every movement.
 
There were microphones, they learned, in all
the main rooms.

Further
surveillance revealed that the bodyguards' reporting procedures, their code
words, their routines, and the interesting gem that their vehicle was shortly
to be replaced by an armor-plated van that was at this moment making its way to
them from Milan.
 
Sangster had learned
something from the Moro experience.
 
He
had put
in
 
a
requisition, and it had been approved.
 
Beat von Graffenlaub had deep pockets, and his family was to receive the
most effective protection the experts thought necessary.

The armored
van could make things difficult.
 
It
would be relatively immune to Skorpion fire.
 
There was only one conclusion:
 
the hit would have to be made before its arrival.
 
Just to complicate things, Sangster and
Pierre reported in every hour to their headquarters by radio and checked upon
in turn on a random basis about once every three hours.
 
The only good news about that was that radio
transmission quality seemed to be poor.
 
It should be possible for Sylvie's team, armed with knowledge of the
codes and procedures, to fake it for a couple of hours.

Sylvie ran
through the plan with her small force.
 
Santine offered a few suggestions that made sense.
 
Hansel and Gretel held hands and just nodded.
 
They had wanted to use crossbows on the two
bodyguards and were not happy at the thought of an impersonal radio-activated
kill.
 
Sylvie reminded them that Vreni
would be a different proposition and that Kadar had issued certain very
explicit instructions.
 
All this cheered
up Hansel and Gretel, who began to look positively enthusiastic.
 
Sylvie, who found them nauseating, almost
missed the Lebanese.
 
Santine, who looked
as if he'd be quite happy to shoot his grandmother when he wasn't peddling
cocaine to three-year-olds, was a breath of fresh air in comparison.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

Vreni was
alone in the farmhouse.
 
She sat on the
floor, her feet bare, her legs drawn up, her hands clasped around her
knees.
 
She had stopped crying.
 
She was almost numb from fear and
exhaustion.
 
Sometimes she shook
uncontrollably.

She was
clinging to the notion that if she didn't cooperate with the authorities — and
she included her father's security guards in that group — then she would be
safe.
 
They would leave her alone.
 
He — Kadar — would leave her alone.
 
The presence of bodyguards in their car only
a couple of hundred meters up the track increased her terror because
 
it might be taken to suggest that she had
revealed things she had sworn to keep secret.
 
She knew there were other watchers, other forces more deadly than anything
officialdom could conceive.

She stared at
the telephone.
 
The Irishman represented
her only hope.
 
His visit had affected
her deeply, and as the days passed, its impact in her mind grew ever greater.
 
He was undaunted by this morass of corruption
into which she had fallen.
 
Perhaps she
could, should talk to him.
 
Her hand
touched the gray plastic of the phone,
then
froze.
 
What if they were listening and
got to her first?

She keeled
over onto her side and moaned.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

The façade of
Erika von Graffenlaub's apartment suggested nothing more than a conventional
wooden door equipped with a good-quality security lock.
 
The locksmith had little trouble with it but
immediately was faced with a significantly more formidable barrier:
 
the second door was of steel set into a
matching steel frame embedded in the structure of the building.
 
The door was secured by a code-activated
electronic lock.

The locksmith
looked at the discreetly engraved manufacturer's logo and shook his head.
 
"Too rich for my blood," he
said.
 
"The only people who can help
you are the manufacturers, Vaybon Security, and they are not too forthcoming
unless they know you."

Beat von
Graffenlaub smiled thinly.
 
"You’ve
done enough," he said to the locksmith, who had turned to admire the steel
door.

The man
whistled in admiration.
 
"Great bit
of work this," he said, "rarely seen in a private home.
 
It's the kind of thing normally only banks
can afford."
 
He stretched out his
hand to touch the flawless satin steel finish.
 
There was a loud crack and a flash and a smell of burning, and the
locksmith was flung across the hallway to collapse on the floor in a motionless
heap.

Beat von
Graffenlaub stared at the steel door.
 
What terrible secrets was Erika concealing behind it?
 
He knelt beside the fallen locksmith.
 
His hand and arm were burned, but he was
alive.
 
Von Graffenlaub removed a mobile
phone from his briefcase and phoned for medical assistance.

His second
call was to the managing director of the Vaybon Corporation.
 
His manner was peremptory; his instructions
were specific.
 
Yes, such a door could be
opened by a special team.
 
There were
plans in the Vaybon Security plant in a suburb of
Bern
.
 
Action would be taken immediately.
 
Herr von Graffenlaub could expect the door to be opened within two
hours.
 
This would be exceptional
service, of course, but in view of Herr von Graffenlaub's special position on
the board of Vaybon...