"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 clipped 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 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 two 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 had 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," said Fitzduane through 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 from 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.
The Picasso, still hidden from view in the packing case, had arrived at its destination. Paulus looked relieved and started adjusting the lighting to create the right effect. The Lestonis resumed their positions, standing well spaced out against the wall so that they could observe the entire room. Balac decided that introducing them to his guests as businessmen interested in his work wasn't going to play. The only commercial activity other than violence that they could credibly be involved in was drug peddling or maybe pimping. Or arms dealing—now there was an occupation the Swiss could identify with. No, he'd say they were bodyguards hired to lend a little pizzazz to his next show and he was rehearsing the effect. The good burghers of Bern would love it.
The door indicator buzzed. He looked at the TV monitors set into the wall: Fitzduane coming to pay his respects before he returned to that dreary, wet country of his. Balac controlled the security doors with a remote unit. He pressed the appropriate buttons in a spaced sequence and watched Fitzduane's progress on the monitors. The last door slid shut behind him, and he entered the room. What a delicious irony—to entertain a man who was scouring the city looking for him. Life was full of simple pleasures.
They shook hands. "I can't stay long," said Fitzduane. "I just wanted to say good-bye. I'm off this evening from Zurich, and I've a hundred and one things to do before then."
Balac laughed. "Not the remark of a Swiss. A Swiss would be well organized in advance and would now be going through his travel checklist—for the third time—before leaving for the air
port several hours in advance in case he was delayed."
Fitzduane smiled. Once again he was struck by the magnetism of the man's personality. Even knowing the extent of Balac's sadism and criminality, even remembering the stomach-turning sight of some of his victims, he found it impossible not to be affected. In Balac's presence he easily understood how Paulus had been corrupted. The Hangman was an infectious force of truly formidable power. In his presence you wanted to please, to see that responsive twinkle in his eyes, to bask in the aura he radiated. The man had charisma. He was more than charming; his willpower dominated.
One of the Lestonis—he thought it was Cousin Julius, on the basis of a quick look at the file the Bear had thrown into the car—stood to Balac's left, slightly forward and to one side. If Fitzduane had been left-handed, he would have stood to the right—always the side nearer to the gun hand. It was a reflex for such a man. Fitzduane was beginning to see the Chief's point. Even with the element of surprise, he'd be lucky to get one of them, let alone three—not to mention Balac.
He began to feel like a moron for suggesting such an idiotic plan. It was looking beyond bloody dangerous. Foolhardy didn't even begin to describe it. Now he knew how the twenty Greeks inside the Trojan Horse must have felt while the Trojans discussed whether or not to bring it inside. The Trojan equivalent of the Lestonis had suggested burning the wooden horse. The Greeks inside must have felt great when those encouraging words had floated up into their hiding place.
"Let me introduce Julius," said Balac, indicating the Lestoni on his right. The gunman nodded. He made no offer to shake hands. Balac waved at the two other Lestonis. "Angelo and his brother, Pietro." They stared at Fitzduane, unblinking.
Fitzduane thought he'd have a quick glass of beer—his mouth was feeling sand dry—and fuck off very, very fast. He poured some Gurten into a glass and drank through the froth. It tasted like nectar.
Julius was whispering into Balac's ear. He had a pocket-size bug detector in his hand, and a small red light on it was flashing. Balac looked at Fitzduane and then at Paulus.
How he realized they were both involved, Fitzduane never fully understood, but from that moment there was no doubt: Balac knew.
One element of the plan that had particularly bothered the Bear was the correct functioning of the shaped charge. Certainly it had worked fine on the range at Sand, but that was a test under optimum conditions. Real life, in the Bear's experience, tended to be something less than optimal, often a lot less. A lot less in relation to the shaped charge meant either no hole or an inadequate hole, and either way that meant the assault team couldn't get in on time, which promised to be exceedingly bad news for Fitzduane and Paulus. Of course, Fitzduane was supposed to have left before the charge was blown so that he, at least, would be out of the firing line. But deal or no deal with the Chief, the Bear's insides told him that things were not going to work out that way.
All of which meant that if Fitzduane couldn't get out as planned, the assault force was going to have to go in—and that suggested a need for a king-size can opener. He tossed the problem to Henssen and Kersdorf and the Nose, and together they came up with an answer that derived from three of Switzerland's greatest assets: snow, the army, and money.
Strategically placed out of sight of the entrance to Balac's studio, the Bear waited, earphones glued to his head, and listened to Fitzduane drinking beer. Along with a unit of the assault force and an army driver, he was sitting inside the army's latest and most expensive main battle tank. The sharp prow of a military specification snowplow was mounted on the front of the huge machine. The tank's engines were already ticking over. Both coaxial and turret machine guns were loaded.
The Bear had decided it was time to stop pissing around with this psycho. He stood up in the turret and pulled back the cocking handle on the .50 caliber. One of the huge machine-gun rounds slid into the breech. This time, he thought, he had a big enough gun.
He felt sick at what he heard coming over his earphones. "Go!" he shouted into his throat microphone to the driver.
The huge machine rumbled forward.
Eyes narrowed, Balac stared at Fitzduane as if reading his mind. The aura of bonhomie had vanished. Implacably Balac's face was transformed into something vicious and malevolent. The features did not change, but the image they projected was so altered that fear struck Fitzduane like a knife in the guts.
Stripped of its mask, the face of the Hangman was diabolical. The man radiated the power of evil. It assaulted Fitzduane's senses like something physical. He could smell the stench of corruption and depravity, of the blood of his many victims, of their flesh rotting in disparate places.
All the Lestonis had drawn their weapons. Julius had a sawed-off shotgun. The other Lestonis both had automatic weapons, an Ingram and a Skorpion. All the weapons pointed at Fitzduane. He raised his hands slowly in defeat and clasped them on top of his head. Through the light material of his jacket, with the forefinger of his right hand, he could feel the button controlling the shaped charge in the Picasso frame. The muzzles of three multi-projectile weapons faced him. Stun grenades or not, they would fire as a reflex, wouldn't they? It was an option he didn't want to check out. He relaxed his finger but kept it in place.
"Where is the wire, Hugo?" said Balac.
"Clipped inside the front of my shirt."
Balac stepped forward and ripped the microphone from Fitzduane and ground it under his heel. He removed the SIG from Fitzduane's shoulder holster and gave it to Julius, who stuck it in his belt. Balac stepped back, sat down on a sofa, and looked at Fitzduane thoughtfully. He uncapped a bottle of Gurten and drank from it, then wiped his mouth with his hand. He stood up and stretched like an animal. He was in superb physical condition. He looked at Paulus, then at Fitzduane, then at the packing case. "Beware of Greeks bearing gifts."
Paulus flinched, almost imperceptibly, but Balac noticed the reaction. "So, friend Paulus, you've sold me out. Thirty pieces of silver, thirty little boys, what was the price?"
Paulus stood there pale-faced and trembling. Balac walked toward him and stopped just in front of him. He looked into Paulus's eyes, holding his gaze even while he spoke. "Pietro," he said to one of the Lestoni brothers, "check out that packing case."
Pietro slung his submachine gun and walked across to the packing case. He opened the viewing doors. The Picasso in all its arcane beauty was exposed.
"There's a picture inside—kind of peculiar," said Pietro. "Looks like a load of crap."
Balac hadn't relaxed his gaze. "So," he said to Paulus, "you have brought me a Picasso. The surprise must lie elsewhere. Keep looking," he said to Pietro. "Check out the back as well as the front."
The remaining blood drained from Paulus's face. His eyes still fixed on the art dealer, Balac nodded several times.
Pietro produced a knife and started prying boards away from the front of the packing case around the picture. "Nothing here," he said after a couple of minutes. Splintered wood littered the floor.
"Look at the back," said Balac.
The packing case was heavy. It was positioned precisely against the wall, as Paulus had instructed, and Pietro had some difficulty in working it away. He contented himself with moving one side out far enough so that he could prize away a plank. The space was confined, but after a few seconds the nails at the edge were loosened and the plank pulled away. The planks were spaced at close intervals to support an inner casing of thin plywood. Pietro smashed through the plywood with his knife. He ripped away the piece at the corner.
His eyes bulged as the business edge of the shaped charge was revealed. "There's something here, some kind of explosive, I guess." He tried to wriggle back, but his coat was caught on a protruding nail at the back of the packing case.
Balac leaned forward and kissed Paulus hard on the lips. He pulled back and embraced Paulus with his left arm. "I'm sorry. No more little boys." He thrust his right hand forward. Paulus arched his body and gasped in agony. As Balac stepped back, t
he handle of a knife could be seen protruding from Paulus's groin. Balac reached out his hand and pulled the knife from the wound. Blood spurted, and Paulus collapsed writhing on the ground.
Balac turned to face Fitzduane, the knife in his hand. Bloody though it was, Fitzduane recognized the short, broad-bladed design. It was a reproduction scua—a Celtic sacrificial knife.
"See if you can find the detonator," Balac ordered Pietro, who was still struggling to free himself. "Give him a hand," he said to Angelo.
Despite the distractions, Julius's gun hadn't wavered off Fitzduane for a second. The Irishman felt sick at what had happened to Paulus. Now that same knife was coming toward him, and he had only seconds to make his move—but if he did, he would die. At that range the two-barreled shotgun would blow his head off. The bulletproof vest might protect his torso, but even that depended on the ammunition Julius was using.
Balac stopped some three paces away. "It's going to be worse for you, Hugo," he said. "It's going to hurt more than you can imagine, and there's going to be no relief except death. How does it feel to know that it's over?" His eyes were shining. A drop of blood fell from the knife and splashed to the floor.
Angelo screamed something in Italian. There was desperation in his voice. Julius's gaze still didn't waver. The twin barrels of the shotgun were pointed at Fitzduane.
"Julius!" shouted Balac.
Paulus von Beck had somehow risen to his knees. Blood was pouring from his groin. "Sempach, Sempaaach!" he shouted, and the automatic he held in both hands flamed, blowing a neat round hole through Julius Lestoni's head. His brains spattered over the wall.
Fitzduane watched the twin muzzles of the shotgun slip away from his line of sight. He didn't wait. He closed his eyes and, pressing the firing button, blew the shaped charge. Prepared though he was, the noise was shattering. Three stun grenades went off in a ripple effect, the blast completely drowning the crack of the shaped charge and filling the room with the searing light of igniting magnesium. Fitzduane's eyelids went white. There was a roaring in his ears, and he had to fight to avoid being completely disoriented. He shook his head dazedly and opened his eyes.
GAMES OF THE HANGMAN Page 42