Games of the Hangman (72 page)

Charlie von
Beck came into the room and closed the door behind him.
 
He leaned back against it.
 
He was remembering a time when he and Paulus
had been as close as brothers.
 
"You
know, Paulus," he said, "I've been thinking some rather unkind
thoughts about you recently."

Paulus smiled
slightly.
 
"I've been thinking some
rather unkind thoughts about myself."

"You love
somebody — you trust somebody — and then you find he's flawed in some way that
offends you," said Charlie von Beck.
 
"Suddenly you feel betrayed, and you start asking questions.
 
The loved one becomes someone you hate — you
want to hurt — to compensate for the hurt you feel."

"It's a
natural reaction," said Paulus.
 
He
prepared to leave the room.
 
Charlie
still leaned against the door as if unsure what to do.
 
"I've got to go," Paulus said.
 
"Relax, I don't need a speech.
 
I know what has to be done."

"You
fucking idiot," said Charlie.
 
He
embraced Paulus in a bear hug and then stood back as if embarrassed.
 
"I guess blood is thicker than—"

"An errant
penis," aid Paulus with a rueful smile.
 
"Don't worry.
 
I won't let
the von Beck's down."

"I know
that."
 
Charlie stepped back from
the door.
 
Through the window he watched
Paulus get into his car and drive away, the delivery van containing the two
policemen and the Picasso in its packing case following close behind.

He wondered if
he should have done anything about Paulus's carrying a gun.
 
The Chief's view was that Paulus should not
be armed, and Fitzduane wasn't expecting him to be.
 
And supposing he was wrong about Paulus?

He hoped Balac
wasn't in the habit of embracing his guests.
 
The gun didn't show, but in a bear hug it could certainly be felt.
 
He looked at his watch yet again.
 
Whatever the outcome, it should be over
within the hour.
 
He left the museum and
headed toward Waisenhausplatz.

*
         
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*
         
*
         
*

"How much
time have we got?"
 
The Chief
Kripo's nostrils flared in anger, and his whole body radiated rage, but his
voice was controlled — barely.
 
He held a
message slip in his hand.

"Five or
six minutes," said the Bear.
 
"Charlie has called in.
 
Paulus has already left.
 
In fact,
he should be almost there by now."

The Chief
thrust the message at the Bear.
 
"Something about a new man in the Operations Room taking a shit and
— well, this is no time for a postmortem."

The door of
Fitzduane's car was open.
 
A convoy of
police cars and trucks was lined up behind, ready to seal off Balac's warehouse
as soon as Fitzduane was inside.
 
Army
units were on call.
 
Airborne
surveillance was minutes away.

"Who or what
are the Lestonis?" asked Fitzduane.

The Chief
shook his head.
 
"You can't go
in.
 
We'll have to do this the
old-fashioned way, with the assault unit."

"The
Lestonis," explained the
Bear,
"are
professional bodyguards who tend to be hired by distinctly unpleasant people,
the Libyan People's Bureaus and the Syrian Secret Service being two
examples.
 
The Lestonis' approach to
their work might best be termed preventive.
 
Nothing has been proved, but the consensus of several police forces and
rather more intelligence agencies is that they have been responsible for some
eleven hits that we know of."

"Pick
them up for indecent exposure," said Fitzduane.
 
"Is there a warrant out against
them?"

"There's
an Interpol ‘Observe and Report’ notice out on them," said the Chief,
"but no warrant.
 
That kind of
animal we sling out of
Switzerland
for illegal parking, and the Israelis terminate them in some dark alley.
 
But that's not the point.
 
It's too late.
 
The Lestonis are already there.
 
They arrived at Balac's nearly an hour
ago."

"They're
probably art collectors," said Fitzduane wryly.
 
His mind wasn't entirely on the
conversation.
 
He was doing a last-minute
check of his weapons and equipment.
 
The
remote detonator for the shaped charge was strapped to his left wrist above his
watch.
 
Another miniature transmitter
would broadcast sound to the police outside.
 
He had his SIG 9 mm loaded with Glaser bullets in an upside-down
shoulder holster together with two spare clips of ammunition.
 
In addition, he had a backup five-shot Smith
& Wesson .38 in a holster on his right leg, a razor-sharp Stiffelmesser
knife was slipped inside his waistband in the small of his back, and he had a
miniature of CS gas in his left jacket pocket and a set of disposable nylon
handcuffs in his right.
 
To top it off,
he wore a Kevlar bullet-resistant vest designed to look like a T-shirt worn
under his shirt.
 
Everything was there
where it should be.
 
It seemed like a
hell of a way to dress for a lunchtime drink in a city that had been at peace
since Napoleonic times.

"I'm
going in," he said.
 
It was clear
that some reckless moron had hijacked his voice; he couldn't believe what he
was hearing.

The Chief held
up four fingers.
 
He spaced each word.

"There —
is — no — fucking — way that you can go up against four people of the caliber
of the Lestonis and Balac.
 
Forget about
getting the drop on them.
 
It isn't
possible.
 
You're dealing with
professionals.
 
Killing people is what
they do — and they're very good at it.
 
They've had lots of practice.
 
They
like what they do.
 
They've got
motivation, and the Lestonis, anyway, are younger than you.
 
They've got faster reflexes.
 
It's a matter of biology."

The Chief
grabbed a clipboard off a passing Berp and reversed the printed form that lay
on it.
 
He rested the clipboard on the
top of the car and drew on the paper with a ballpoint.

"Look"
— he indicated the three X's he had drawn — "if you do get close to Balac,
you'll find that you'll always have one of the Lestonis at hand ready to
intervene.
 
The others" — he drew
two more X's — "will be so spaced that one will be at the edge of your
peripheral vision and the other will be in your blind spot.
 
No matter how skilled you are, and even given
the diversion of blowing the wall, I don't see how you can get out of this
alive.
 
Remember, you are also going to
be affected by the stun grenades, even if you are prepared.
 
The best you could hope to do would be to get
who or at the most three.
 
That still
leaves you dead.
 
I ask, is the game
worth the candle?
 
Don't answer.
 
You can't win.
 
If you say yes, it merely proves you're
crazy, or worse, stupid."

"It isn't
four to one.
 
You're forgetting
Paulus."

"Paulus
is irrelevant.
 
That pederast isn't
armed, and we don't know which way he'll jump anyway.
 
The Lestonis will swat him like a fly if he
even thinks of intervening.
 
These people
kill like you shave.
 
It's a matter of
mind-set; they have no scruples.
 
That's
what gives them the edge."

As Fitzduane
got into his car, he was thinking, did Balac know he'd been discovered?
 
He thought it unlikely.
 
Outside the car the Chief was listening to a
walkie-talkie.
 
He held the small
loudspeaker close to his ear.
 
Engines
were starting up all around, and hearing was difficult.
 
He barked an acknowledgment into the
radio.
 
"The packing case has been
delivered,
"
 
he
said.
 
"As expected, my men didn't
get inside.
 
Two people came out and
lugged it in.
 
Paulus went with
them."

"The
Lestonis," said the Bear.

"Looks
like it," said the Chief.

"I've got
to go," aid Fitzduane thought the open car door.
 
"I can't leave Paulus alone for too
long.
 
I'll think of
something."
 
He slammed the door
shut.

"No,"
said the Chief, reaching for the handle and half opening it.
 
"I won't have it.
 
It's too damn dangerous.
 
Paulus will have to take his chances."
 
He reached across for the keys.

The Bear
leaped forward and took the Chief by the arm.
 
"For God's sake, Max," he said, "this is silly.
 
We don't have time to argue — least of all
among ourselves."

"He isn’t
going," repeated the Chief stubbornly.

"Compromise,"
said the Bear.
 
"Fitzduane goes in,
checks out the lay of the land, doesn't stay for lunch, says his good-byes
quickly, and leaves.
 
We don't blow the
wall until he's out.
 
That way we get
confirmation that Balac is there and some up-to-date reconnaissance, but
Fitzduane is clear before the shit starts to fly."

The Chief and
Fitzduane glared at each other.
 
"Do
you agree?" asked the Chief.
 
"No heroics.
 
You arrive, you
look around, and you get the hell out."

Fitzduane
smiled.
 
"Sounds
reasonable."

The Chief
closed the car door.
 
"You're an
idiot," he said.
 
"Good luck,
idiot."

"Stay
close," said Fitzduane.
 
Then he
left the big police parking lot next to Waisenhausplatz and drove toward
Balac's studio.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

Balac rather
enjoyed his informal lunchtime get-togethers.
 
He was able to relax in the security of his own territory, on his own
terms, and within limited time parameters.
 
From twelve to two he was at home to a chosen few — although it looked
casual, no one who had not been specifically vetted turned up — and he was able
to delude himself that he was living a normal social existence.
 
Of course, he knew he was deluding himself,
but that was part of the pleasure.

It was
convenient being an artist.
 
You could
behave in a somewhat eccentric way, and nobody gave a damn.
 
If anything, it was good for business.
 
Many people, in fact, thought his apparent
obsession with security — triple steel doors, indeed, and television monitors —
was
a brilliant marketing ploy.
 
It made him more mysterious.
 
It made his paintings seem more
valuable.
 
It contributed to a sense of
occasion leavened with a whiff of the dramatic.
 
Anyway, getting the right price for his work, it seemed to Balac, had
more to do with theater than with painting.
 
Look at Picasso and
Salvador
Dali.
 
How much more theatrical could you
get?
 
There was no doubt about it:
 
art was a branch of show business.
 
So was terrorism, on reflection.

"I
am," he said to himself, "a man of parts."
 
He was pleased with the thought.
 
He uncapped a bottle of Gurten beer and
drained half of it in true hell-raising
chugalug
fashion.
 
The Lestonis were puffing
across to the viewing area with Paulus's carefully cased Picasso.
 
Paulus was hovering anxiously.

Balac half
regretted having called the Lestonis in.
 
They wouldn't do much for the tone of the gathering.
 
Unfortunately they looked like what they were
— professional killers.
 
The Lestonis
actually did wear snap-brim fedoras — incredible!
 
They had even wanted to wear them inside, but
Balac had drawn the line at that.
 
The
hats had been removed and now hung form three picture hooks like a surrealist
sculpture.
 
An aroma of perfumed hair oil
filled the room.
 
"Fuck me,"
said Balac to himself, and drained the rest of the beer.
 
He was in a hell of a good mood.