GAMES OF THE HANGMAN

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  "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 San 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 New York after using some of the stolen money. He was an oil industry executive. He'd picked up the money cashing a check in a bank in Libya. 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.

  Chapter 15

  It was dark when they left the Klotzikeller. Medieval Bern at night had an atmosphere all its own. 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 antipasto 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.

  Fitzduane was mildly shocked. "Surely not a diet."

  "Certainly not." A look of pain crossed the Bear's face. "It is just that too much food can dull the mind and we have some serious thinking to do. Now what was I talking about?"

  "Terrorism and Switzerland," said Fitzduane, "and some ideas of your own on the subject."

  "Ah, yes. My point is that here in Switzerland we don't have a terrorist problem as such, or at least not in the sense that we suffer to any significant extent from terrorist attacks. Oh, we have the odd incidents, to be sure, but they are few and far between."

  "So if I understand you right," said Fitzduane, "you are suggesting that not only is there very little terrorist activity in Switzerland, but even such few incidents as have occurred were either accidental or directed at someone or something outside the country."

  The Bear nodded. "I'm not suggesting for a moment that these few incidents are the limit of terrorist activity here. That would be naive and ridiculous. No, what I am saying is that Switzerland has much the same role in terrorism as it has in business and world affairs, except that in this case it's involuntary and mainly initiated by foreigners. I'm referring to our role as banker, head office, communications point, middleman, and haven. As far as those roles are concerned, I personally believe that there is considerable terrorist activity here. Perhaps we should spend less time on shooting practice and more on detective work because if we don't, sooner or later some terrorist will find he doesn't like commuting and then the blood will start to flow here."

  "And what about the youth movement?"

  "Any disillusioned kid can be manipulated," said the Bear. "I've seen it often enough on the drug squad. But to suggest that the youth movement is an embryonic terrorist grouping is going too far. Most of the kids who demonstrate on the streets go back home to Mommy and Daddy afterward and have hot Ovalmaltine in the bosom of the family before they go to bed."

  Fitzduane laughed, and the Bear's resolve weakened. He ordered the piattino di formaggio italiano; the Gorgonzola, Taleggio, Fontina, and Bel Paese surrendered gracefully.

  "I'll tell you something else," said the Bear. "I think most people have the wrong idea about terrorists. They think of terrorists as being a bunch of fanatics motivated by idealism. In other words, however reprehensible their methods, their eventual goals are pure and noble, at least if seen from their point of view. That may be true for some, but for many I think the objective is simpler and more basic: money."

  "So you are saying that many so-called terrorist incidents are actually crimes committed solely for personal gain?"

  " 'Solely' might be going too far," said the Bear. "Let me just say that I believe decidedly mixed emotions may be involved. I mean, do you have any idea of the sheer scale of money a terrorist can make? It's one of the fastest tax-free ways going to make a million dollars."

  "And one of the most dangerous," said Fitzduane.

  "I'm not so sure," said the Bear. "If you examine a list of incidents in which money was involved—money for the cause—" he added sardonically, "you'll be surprised how often the terrorist gets away with it, and you'll be surprised by the scale. After the OPEC hijack of Yamani and the other oil ministers," said the Bear, "Carlos received a personal bonus of two million dollars from Qaddafi. And that was a bonus on top of his other takings. Another small Arab group supported by Qaddafi receives five million dollars a year, but that pales in comparison with the sums raised by terrorists from kidnapping.

  "Few details are available because secrecy is often part of the agreement between kidnappers and victim, but consider the activities of just one group, the ERP, the People's Revolutionary Army of Argentina. They got a million dollars for kidnapping a Fiat executive; they got two million for Charles Lockwood, an Englishman who worked for Acrow Steel; they got three million for John R. Thompson, the American president of the local subsidiary of Firestone Tires; they were paid over fourteen million for Victor Samuelson, an Exxon executive. But get this: In 1975, the Montoneros, another Argentinean group, demanded and received sixty million dollars in cash and another million plus in food and clothing
for the poor in exchange for the two sons of Jorge Born, chairman of the Bunge y Born group."

  "Sixty million dollars!" exclaimed Fitzduane.

  "Sixty," said the Bear. "Hard to credit, isn't it? And I'm quoting only from the cases we know about. God knows how many hundreds of millions are paid each year by companies and the rich in secret. Either as ransom or else to avoid being kidnapped—in other words, protection.

  "Terrorism is a business. The publicized hijackings, bombings, and killings create the required climate of fear. They form the terrorist promotional budget, if you will, and then the serious business of extracting huge sums of money goes on steadily behind the scenes. The iceberg parallel comes to mind again—one-tenth exposed, nine-tenths hidden. Terrorism is one-tenth composed of highly publicized outrages with an accompanying nine-tenths of secret extortion and terror, and a profit orientation in most cases that would put Wall Street to shame."

  "You know," said Fitzduane, "the figures on terrorism in Northern Ireland makes the point that Switzerland hasn't a terrorist problem worthy of the name—at least in terms of violence. Over the last decade here you seem to have had only a handful of incidents of any significance; during the same period in Northern Ireland well over two thousand people have been killed, tens of thousands have been injured, and damage to property has cost hundreds of millions."

  "That isn't terrorism in the Continental sense," said the Bear. "It's a war."

  Bern was nearly asleep. Cafes and restaurants were closed and shuttered. Windows were dark. The streets were empty. Only an occasional car disturbed the quiet.

  Fitzduane leaned against the railings of the Kirchenfeld Bridge and smoked the last of his Havana. He knew he should dictate a few notes on the evening's developments, but he felt mellow from several hours' drinking with the Bear, and the miniature tape recorder remained in his pocket.

  The night air was pleasantly cool. Below him the black waters of the Aare flowed invisibly except for the reflection of a car's headlights as it drove along Aarstrasse and then vanished past the Marzili. Another late reveler returning home, or perhaps a journalist retiring after putting his newspaper to bed. Fitzduane speculated idly.

  To his right he could see the impressive mass of the Bellevue Hotel, with its magnificent view of the mountains during the day from both its windows and its terraces. The Bear had told him that during the Second World War the Bellevue had been the headquarters of German intelligence activities in neutral Switzerland; the Allies had been in the less grandiose but friendlier Schweizerhof only a few blocks away.

  The lights were still on in several of the Bellevue's bedrooms. As he watched the rooms went dark one by one. Fitzduane was much taken by the Kirchenfeldbrücke, though he didn't quite know why. It wasn't the highest bridge in Bern, and it certainly wasn't the oldest. It had none of the drama of the Golden Gate in San Francisco or the storybook appeal of Tower Bridge in London. But it had a quality all its own, and it was a good place to think.

  The Bear had offered him a ride back to the apartment, but Fitzduane had declined, preferring to walk. He enjoyed the feeling of the city asleep, of the sense of space when the streets were empty, of the freedom of the spirit when there were no other people around to distract. The Havana was coming to an end. He consigned the remains to a watery grave. He turned from the railings and began walking along the bridge toward home. He heard laughter and a faint, familiar hissing sound. He looked back. Two lovers, arm in arm on roller skates, were gliding in perfect time along the pavement toward him. They were moving deceptively fast, scarves trailing behind, body movements blurred by loose-fitting garments. As they passed under a streetlamp, they looked at each other for a second and laughed again. Fitzduane stepped back to let them pass. For a moment he thought of Etan and felt alone.

  The force of the blow to Fitzduane's chest was savage, reinforced by the momentum of the skater. The knife fell from his assailant's grasp and clattered to the ground several meters away. The assailant turned neatly on his skates, then glided forward to retrieve his weapon. He tossed it from hand to hand. Light glittered from the blade. The woman stood some distance behind the assailant, watching, but this was to be his kill; the fatal blow was already struck.

  Fitzduane felt numbness and pain. The railings were at his back, the river below. The tripod case containing the shotgun had been torn off his shoulder; it lay to one side, tantalizingly close. He knew he would not have time to reach it before the man with the knife attacked again. His eyes watched the blade. With his right hand he felt his chest for blood. He found there wasn't any. He was surprised he could still stand.

  The blade was still for a moment in the assailant's hand—and then it thrust forward in a blur of steel, the coup de grâce, a deft display of knife craft. Adrenaline pumped through Fitzduane's body. With a sudden effort he moved to one side, parrying the knife with his left arm. He felt a burning sensation and the warmth of blood. He thrust this right hand, fingers stiffened, into the attacker's throat. There was a choking sound, and the man fell back. He clutched at his throat with his left hand, making gasping sounds. His knife, held in the palm of his right hand, fended off a further attack.

  Fitzduane saw the girl beginning to move and knew he would have to finish it quickly. He slumped against the railings as if that last effort had finished him. The man moved forward this time in a slashing attack and made a sudden rush. Fitzduane pivoted and, using the attacker's momentum, flung him over the railings. There was a short terrified scream and a dull thud.

  The girl now had a knife in her hand. Fitzduane moved fast. He threw himself in a combat roll toward the tripod case and came up with the shotgun. He pumped a round into the chamber. Blood was dripping from his arm, and he felt sick. The girl stared at him, her knife held out, waving slightly. Slowly she backed away; then suddenly she turned and sped away into the darkness. He could hear the hissing of her skates and she was gone.

  He looked over the railings, but he could see nothing. His rib cage felt sore and bruised against the hard metal. He stood upright and examined where the knife had struck him initially. The blade had not penetrated. The blow had been absorbed by his miniature Olympus tape recorder. Small pieces of the machine fell from the rent in his jacket onto the pavement and were joined by drops of blood from his gashed arm.

  In his dream the Bear was happy. He and Tilly had gone to the little castle at Spiez to pick up some wine. There were those who said that Spiez wine was far too dry and was made out of dissolved flints, but the Bear did not agree. Anyway, they always enjoyed the whole business of actually getting the wine, the drive out by the Thunersee, lunch at a lakeside restaurant, and then going down into the cellar and joining the line to watch one's own wine bottles being filled. He wondered why the telephone was ringing so loudly in the wine cellar. Nobody else seemed to notice. He looked at Tilly and she smiled at him, and the she was gone. He felt lost.

  He lifted the telephone receiver. "Sergeant Raufman," said the voice. It sounded excited.

  "Yes," said the Bear, "and it's two o'clock in the fucking morning in case you're interested."

  "I'm sorry to disturb you, Sergeant Raufman," said the voice, "but it is important. I am the night duty manager at the Hotel Bellevue."

  "Good for you," said the Bear. "I like to sleep at night; some of us do."

  "Let me explain," said the voice. "A man has come into the hotel. He is bleeding from one arm onto our carpets, and he has a gun. What should we do?"

  "Haven't a clue. Try putting a bucket under the arm. Call the police. Who the fuck knows?"

  "Sergeant Raufman, this man says he knows you—"

  "Wait a second," said the Bear, "who is this man?"

  "He says his name is Fitz something," said the voice. "I didn't want to ask him again. He looks"—there was a pause—"dangerous." There was wistfulness in the voice.

  "What's your name?"

  "Rolf," said the voice, "Rolfi Müller."

  "Well, listen, Rolfi. I'll be over
in ten minutes. Bandage his arm, get him what he wants, don't call anyone else, and don't make a pass at him, capisce?"

  "Yes, Sergeant," said Rolfi. "Isn't it exciting?"

  There was no reply from the Bear. He was already pulling his trousers over his pajama bottoms. Somehow he wasn't entirely surprised at the news.

  An hour later the Bear was letting the doctor out of Fitzduane's apartment when the phone rang. He closed and locked the door and slipped two heavy security bolts in place; then he took the call in the study. Fitzduane lay back against the pillows of the king-size bed and let the lassitude of reaction take over.

  The Bear came in. He stood with his hands in his pockets and looked own at Fitzduane. The collar of his pajama top protruded above his jacket. The stubble on his cheeks made him look shaggier than ever.

  "The doctor thinks you'll live," said the Bear. "The cut on your arm was bloody but not deep. On your chest you'll just have a good-size bruise, and I guess you'll need a new tape recorder."

  "I'm beginning to float," said Fitzduane. "Whatever that doctor gave me, it works."

  "They found him," said the Bear. "Or what we assume is him. He just missed the river. There's the body of a young male who answers your description. He's at the edge of the sports ground under the bridge."

  "Dead?"

  "Oh, yes, very much so. I'm afraid this is really going to complicate things."

  "It was self-defense," protested Fitzduane. "He seemed keen on one of us leaving the bridge, and it was bloody close as it was."

  The Bear gave a sigh. "That's not the point," he said. "You've killed someone. There are no witnesses. There will have to be an investigation. Paperwork, statements, an inquiry by an examining magistrate, the whole thing."

  Fitzduane's voice was sleepy. "Better investigated than dead."

  "You don't have to do the paperwork," was the grumpy rejoinder. "By the way, there is a Berp outside. Technically you are under arrest."