Games of The Hangman

20

Sangster was thinking about the assassination of Aldo Moro, a classic case history of the down side of the personal protection business that had taken place some three years previously. The Moro killing was not an encouraging precedent. Granted, there were certain obvious errors. His original bulletproof Fiat had become unreliable because of the weight of its additional armor, and pending the delivery of a new armored automobile, Moro was being driven in an unarmored Fiat sedan; second, he was using the same route he had traveled for the last fifteen years, so even the most slow-witted of terrorists could have put together a reasonable strike plan; third, although the police bodyguards were carrying their personal weapons, it struck Sangster as being less than inspired to have all their heavy firepower locked away in the escort car's trunk.

Still, mistakes or not, the fact remained that Aldo Moro, ex-prime minister and senior statesman of Italy, had been protected by no fewer than five experienced bodyguards — and the entire escort had been wiped out in seconds, with only one man even getting his pistol out to fire two shots in vain. The moral of the story, thought Sangster, is that you're a sitting duck against automatic-weapons fire if you are operating from an unarmored vehicle.

Sangster looked at the Hertz symbol on the windshield of his rented Mercedes. It didn't exactly make his day to know that he was making an even worse mistake than Moro's team. At least their vehicles had been moving. He was parked at the head of the track that led to Vreni von Graffenlaub's house, semiblind with the steamed-up car windows and furious that the bitch wouldn't let him and Pierre into her home, where they could do a decent protection job.

Woodsmoke trickled from Vreni's chimney. She was a pretty little thing, he had to admit. He tried to think of Vreni naked and willing in the farmhouse under a cozy duvet. Bodyguarding sometimes worked out that way. He picked up the field glasses and tried to catch a glimpse of her through the windows. He could see nothing. He scanned the rest of the area. There was still snow on the ground though it was melting. At night it would freeze again. He raised the radio and checked with Pierre, who was doing a mobile on the other side of the farmhouse. Pierre was wet and cold, and merde was the politest expletive he used. The exchange cheered Sangster up a little.

Sangster doubted that Vreni von Graffenlaub was in any serious danger. Most likely it was Dad trying to put some pressure on a wayward daughter; it wouldn’t be the first time a protection team had been so employed. Not that it made any difference to them. The conditions might be variable, but the money was excellent.

Moro's bodyguards had been hit with an average of seven rounds each. Funny how details like that stick in your mind. Sangster raised the field glasses again. Bloody nothing.

* * * * *

The Chief Kripo was busy fishing a fly out of his tea when he heard the news of the Bärenplatz shootings. He stopped thinking about the fly and started thinking about crucifying the Irishman. Easter was over, but it was that time of year, and three crosses on top of the Gurten would not look amiss. Fitzduane could have the place of honor, with the Bear and von Beck standing in for the thieves. There would be none of that rubbish about taking them down after three days either. They would hand there until they rotted — an example to all not to stir up trouble in the normally placid city of Bern.

The Chief Kripo spread a protective cloth on his desk and hunted through his desk drawers for some guns to clean. He found four pistols and lined them up on his left, with the cleaning kit to his right. Everything was in order. He picked up the SIG 9 mm and stripped it down. It was immaculate, but he cleaned it anyway. He liked the smell of gun oil. In fact, he liked everything about guns except people using them on people.

He did some of his best thinking while cleaning his guns. Today was no exception. Perhaps he'd better stop contemplating a triple crucifixion and have a serious look at what was happening off Kirchenfeldstrasse. Certainly his conventional investigation wasn't coming up with any answers. It could be that the time had come to take Project K seriously.

The four guns were now cleaned but still broken down into their component parts. He mingled the pieces at random, then closed his eyes and reassembled the weapons by touch. After that he strapped on the SIG and rang for a car.

* * * * *

After forty-five minutes with the Project K team, the Chief Kripo decided that life was too short and he was too old to have the time to get fully familiar with artificial intelligence and expert systems. The principles weren't too hard to grasp, but once Henssen got technical and started talking about interference engines and consistency checking and the virtues of Prolog as opposed to LISP, the Chief's eyeballs rolled skyward. Soon afterward, his chair being exceeding comfortable, he fell asleep. Henssen could believe what he was seeing and chose to think that the Chief's eyes were closed in deep concentration.

The Chief started to snore. It was such a melodious sound with some of the cadence and lilt of Berndeutsch, and it prompted Fitzduane to wonder whether the language one spoke affected the sound produced when snoring. Did a Chinese snore like an Italian?

The Chief's eyes snapped open. He glared at Henssen, who was standing there bemused, mouth half agape, pointer in hand, flip chart at the ready. "All that stuff might be a barrel of laughs to a bunch of long-haired, unwashed, pimple-faced students," the Chief barked, "but I'm here to talk about murder! We've got dead bodies turning up like geraniums all over my city, and I want it stopped — or I may personally start adding to the list."

"Um," murmured Henssen, and sat down.

"Look," said von Beck in a mollifying tone, "I think it might be easier if you ask us exactly what you want to know."

The Chief leaned forward in his chair. "How close are you people to coming up with a suspect, or at least a short list?"

"Very close," said Chief Inspector Kersdorf.

"Days, minutes, hours? Give me a time frame."

Kersdorf looked at Henssen, who cleared his throat before he spoke. "Within forty-eight hours at the outside, but possibly as soon as twelve."

"What are the main holdups?" asked the Chief. "I thought your computers were ultrafast."

"Processing time isn't the problem," said Henssen. "The main delays are in three areas: getting the records we want out of people, transferring the data to a format the computers can use, and the human interface."

"What do you mean by the human interface? I thought the computer did all the thinking."

"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...

"Quite so," said von Graffenlaub dryly. He terminated the call, made the locksmith comfortable, and sat down to wait. The elusive Erika might return first. He took the unconscious locksmith's pulse. It was strong. He, at least, would live to see the summer.

* * * * *

The Chief Kripo had been playing devil's advocate for more than five hours, and he wasn't scoring many points. The project team's approach was different in many ways from conventional police work, but to someone not used to working in an integrated way with an expert system, it was impressively comprehensive. Once instructed, the computer didn't forget things. It was hard to find a facet the team hadn't covered or at least considered. But there were some potential flaws.

"How do you people deal with data that aren't already computerized?" he asked. "How do you handle good old-fashioned typed or handwritten data?"

Faces turned to Henssen. He shrugged. "It's a problem. We can input some data by hand if only a few hundred records or so are involved, and in Wiesbaden we have scanning equipment that can covert typed records directly to computer format. But for all that, if data aren't computerized, we can only nibble at them."

"So how much of the data isn't computerized?" asked the Chief.

Henssen brightened. "Not a lot. Orwell's 1984 wasn't so far out."

"What about Babel?" said the Chief.

Henssen looked confused. He looked at the Bear, who shrugged.

"The Tower of Babel," explained the Chief. "How do you cope with records in different languages — English, French, German, Italian, whatever?"

"Ah," said Henssen. "Actually the Babel factor — as such — is not as much of a problem as you'd think. We do have computerized translation facilities that are over ninety percent accurate. On the other hand, that ten percent error factor leaves room for some elegant confusion that can be compounded by multiple meanings within any one language. Consider the word screw for example. That can mean ‘to rotate,’ as in inserting a wood screw; it can mean ‘to cheat or swindle,’ as in I was screwed on the deal’; it can mean the act of sex as in..." He went silent, embarrassed.

"Go on," said Kersdorf irritably. "We can perhaps work out some of the details ourselves."

"Well," continued Henssen, "fortunately most police information is held in a structured way, and so is the majority of commercial data. For example, an airline passenger list doesn’t take much translation, nor do airline schedules, or subscription lists, or lists of phone calls, and so on."

"Okay," said the Chief, "structured data are held on the computer version of what we old-fashioned bureaucrats would call a form — so translate the headings and the meaning of the contents is clear."

"Much simplified, that's about it," said Henssen. "And unstructured data, to give an example, might be a statement by a witness consisting of several pages of free-form text."

"And it's with the unstructured data that you have most of the problems," said the Chief.

"Precisely. But with some human involvement linked to our expert system there is nothing we can't resolve."

"But it takes time," said the Chief, "and that's my problem."

There was silence in the room. Henssen shrugged.

* * * * *

"I'm surprised people don't use carbon monoxide more often," said Santine. "It's a beautifully lethal substance. It works through inhalation. It's not quite as exciting as some of the nerve gases that can be absorbed through the skin. Carbon monoxide is breathed in as normal, is absorbed by the blood to form carboxyhemoglobin, and all of a sudden you haven’t got enough oxygenated blood — oxyhemoglobin — and you're history. There is no smell and no color, and a couple of lungfuls will do you in. Most city dwellers have some carbon monoxide in the blood from exhaust fumes — say, one to three percent — and smokers build up to around five percent. These levels don't produce any noticeable symptoms in the short term, but at around thirty percent you start to feel drowsy, at fifty percent you're coordination goes, and by between sixty and seventy percent, you're talking to Saint Peter."

"So if you're a heavy smoker and someone used carbon monoxide on you, you'll die faster," said Sylvie.

"Absolutely," said Santine, "especially if you’ve been smoking in a confined space."

"Interesting," said Sylvie. "But all it has to do is buy us a little time if a casual visitor comes along, thought I doubt a security check would be fooled."

Santine grimaced. "Come on, Sylvie, I'm not an amateur. Why do you think I suggested monoxide? The corpses will stand up to cursory examination. There will be no blood. Nothing's perfect, but with a little sponge work, they won't look too bad — and it'll be dark. You’ve got to remember that monoxide poisoning is a kind of internal strangulation, so you get some of the same symptoms. The face gets suffused, you get froth in the air passages, and the general effect isn't exactly pretty."

"I take it you brought along a sponge."

Santine puffed out his chest. He tapped the bulky black attaché case in front of him. "Madame, I am fully equipped."

Pompous prick, thought Sylvie. She looked at the sky and then at her watch. They'd do it in about an hour, just after Sangster had checked in and when it was completely dark.

* * * * *

The team from Vaybon Security wore white coats and the blank expressions of people who are paid well not to care about reasons. One of their board of directors opening his wife's apartment without her knowledge or permission wasn't the most unusual assignment they'd had, and besides, Beat von Graffenlaub's signature was on the check that had paid for the original installation — even if he hadn't known exactly what he was buying. But then, thought the technician in charge, who knows what a wife is really up to?

"Can you open it without leaving any sign?"

The senior technician consulted the blueprint he was carrying and had a brief, whispered conversation with his colleagues. He turned back to von Graffenlaub. "There will be minute marks, Herr Direktor, but they would not be noticed unless the door was being examined by an expert."

Equipment was wheeled into the foyer outside the door. Von Graffenlaub had the feeling the technicians were going to scrub up before commencing. "Will it take long?"

"Fifteen minutes, no longer," said the senior technician.

"You are aware that the door is electrified," said von Graffenlaub.

The senior technician shot him what started off as a pitying glance but changed in mid-expression to obsequiousness when he remembered to whom he was speaking. "Thank you, Herr Direktor," he said.

He withdrew a sealed security envelope and opened it with scissors. Von Graffenlaub noticed that the other instruments were laid out on a tiered cart close at hand. The senior technician removed a sheet of heavy paper from the envelope, read it, and punched a ten-digit number into a keyboard. He hit the return key. A junior technician checked the door with a long-handled instrument.

"Phase one completed," said the senior technician. From his bearing one could believe that he had just successfully completed a series of complex open-heart procedures. "The electrical power source attached to the door can be deactivated by radio if the correct code is used. Your wife provided us with such a code, which was kept in this envelope in a safe until required. The same system can also be used for the lock, but in this case, unfortunately, she has not deposited the necessary information. We shall have to activate the manufacturer's override. That requires drilling a minute hole in a specific location and connecting an optical fiber link thought which a special code can be transmitted to override the locking mechanism. The optical fiber link is used to avoid the possibility of the door's being opened by anyone other than the manufacturer. The location of the link is different with each installation and—"

"Get on with it," said von Graffenlaub impatiently.

Eleven minutes later the door swung open. He waited until the Vaybon team had departed before he walked into the apartment and shut the door behind him. He found the electrification controls and reactivated the system, following the instructions given to him by the technician. Reassured by the sophisticated perimeter security of electrification, steel door, and hermetically sealed armor-plated windows — installed originally with the excuse that the construction of Erika's little apartment was an ideal opportunity to put in some really good security — Erika had made little serious attempt to conceal things inside the apartment.

Twenty minutes later Beat von Graffenlaub had completed a thorough search of the apartment. What he had found, detailed in photographs but with other quite specific evidence, was worse than anything he had — or could have — imagined. Nauseated, white-faced, and almost numb with shock, he waited for Erika to return. He was unaware of time. He was conscious only that his life, as he had known it, was over.

* * * * *

The Bear was drinking coffee and eating gingerbread in the kitchen when Fitzduane entered, and the sweet, sharp aroma of baked ginger reminded the Irishman of Vreni. The Bear looked up. Fitzduane sat across from him at the kitchen table, lost in thought about a scared, lonely, vulnerable girl hiding in the mountains.

"Thinking about the girl?" said the Bear. One piece of gingerbread remained. He offered it to Fitzduane, who shook his head. Instead, he spoke. "She was so bloody scared."

"As we now know, with excellent reason," said the Bear. "But she won't talk, and there's not much else we can do now except see that she has security and try to find the Hangman."

"Henssen was building in some slack when he spoke to the Chief. He now thinks he might be ready to do a final run in about four hours."

"A name," said the Bear, "at last."

"A short list anyway."

"Any candidates?" The Bear was checking through various containers. A morsel of gingerbread couldn’t be termed a serious snack or even an adequate companion to a cup of coffee. His hunt was in vain, and he began to look depressed. "The people here eat too much," he said. "Kersdorf, for instance, has an appetite like a greyhound. The least he could do is bring in a cake now and then."

"He does," said Fitzduane, "and you eat it." He wrote a name on a piece of paper. "Here's my nomination," he said, handing it to the Bear, who looked at it and whistled.

"A hundred francs you're wrong."

"Done," said Fitzduane. "But I've got a proposal. Let's have one last crack at Vreni. You can come along for the ride, and maybe we can find somewhere nice to eat on the way back."

The Bear cheered up. "Why don't we eat on the way? Then we'll be fortified for some serious questioning."

"We'll talk about it," said Fitzduane. He was suddenly anxious to be on his way. "Come on, let's move."

"I'll check out a weapon for you."

"There isn't time for that," said Fitzduane. "You're armed, and that'll have to do." His voice was sharp with anxiety.

The bear looked up at the heavens, shook his head, and followed Fitzduane out the door.

* * * * *

Vreni summoned every last ounce of resolve.

She fetched a duvet and cocooned it around her body as if it were a tepee. She was sitting cross-legged, and the phone was in front of her. Inside her tepee of warmth she felt more secure. She waited for the warmth to build up, and as she did, she imagined that she was safe, that the Irishman had come to rescue her, and that she was far away from anything He could do. He didn't exist anymore. Like a bad dream, His image faded, leaving an uncomfortable feeling but no more actual fear.

She left her hand on the gray plastic of the phone until the handle was warm in her grasp. She imagined Fitzduane at the other end, waiting to respond, to take her to a place of safety. She lifted up the receiver and began to dial. She stopped halfway through the first digit and pressed the disconnect button furiously. It made no difference. The phone was quite dead.

Her heart pounding, she flung open the door and ran to the back of the house, to where some of the animals were housed. She seized her pet lamb, warm and groggy with sleep, and with him clutched in her arms ran back into the house and locked and bolted the door. She crawled back under the duvet with her lamb and closed her eyes.

* * * * *

Sylvie flung open the door on the driver's side. Eyes open, face distorted, Sangster slid toward her, his face covered in secretions. Sylvie stepped back and let the head and torso fall into the snow. Sangster's feet remained tangled in the pedals.

"Leave the door open," said Santine. He dragged Pierre's body out of the passenger seat and around to the rear of the car, then opened the trunk.

"Well, fuck me," he said. "The bastard's still alive."

He removed a sharpened ice pick from his belt and plunged it deep into Pierre's back. The body arched and was still. Santine levered it into the trunk. He closed and locked the lid He looked at Sylvie. "Obviously a nonsmoker."

* * * * *

They were using Fitzduane's car, but the Bear was driving. They turned off the highway to Interlaken and headed up toward Heiligenschwendi. The road was black under the glare of the headlights but piles of snow and ice still lingered by the roadside. As they climbed higher, the reflections of white became more frequent. They hadn't talked much since leaving Project K, though the Bear had had a brief conversation with police headquarters.

"The Chief isn't too happy that we took off without saying goodbye," he had said when he finished.

Fitzduane had just grunted. Only when they drove into the village did Fitzduane break the silence. "Who is running the security on Vreni?"

"Beat von Graffenlaub arranged it," said the Bear. "It's not Vaybon Security, as you might expect, but a very exclusive personal protection service based on Jersey. They employ ex-military personnel by and large — ex-SAS, Foreign Legion, and so on."

"ME Services," said Fitzduane. "I know them. ME stands for ‘Mallet 'Em’ — the founder wasn't renowned for a sophisticated sense of humor, but they’ve got a good reputation in their field. Who's in charge of Vreni's detail?"

"Fellow by the name of Sangster," said the Bear. "Our people say he's sound, but he's fed up because he has to do this thing from outside the house. Vreni won't allow them within one hundred meters of the place."

"Consorting with the enemy," said Fitzduane under his breath. "Poor frightened little sod." He pointed at a phone booth. "Stop here a sec. I'm going to ring ahead so she doesn't have a heart attack."

Fitzduane was in the phone booth five minutes. He emerged and beckoned the Bear over. "Her phone's dead," he said. "I've checked with the operator, and there is no reported fault on the line."

They looked at each other. "I have a number for ME control," the Bear said. "The security detail checks in regularly, and there are spot checks as well. They should know if everything is okay."

"Be quick," said Fitzduane. He paced up and down in the freezing air while the Bear made the call. The detective looked happier when he had finished.

"Sangster reported in on schedule about fifteen minutes ago, and there was a spot check less than ten minutes ago. All is in order."

Fitzduane didn't look convinced. "Do you have a backup weapon for me?"

"Sure." The Bear opened the trunk and handed Fitzduane a tire iron.

"Why do I suddenly feel so much safer?" said Fitzduane.

* * * * *

The room was in almost total darkness, the light from the dim streetlamps of Junkerngasse excluded by thick purple hangings. Beat von Graffenlaub could hear nothing. The security windows and door combined with the thick walls to produce a soundproofed otherworld. He felt disoriented. He knew he should switch on the lights and try to get a grip on himself, but then he would have to look at the photographs again and face the sickness and the perversion and the graphic images of death.

He tired to imagine the mentality of someone who would torture and kill for what appeared to be not other reason than sexual gratification. It was incomprehensible. It was evil of a kind beyond his ability to grasp, let alone understand. Erika — his beautiful, sultry, sensuous Erika — a perverted, sick, sadistic killer. He retched, and his mouth filled with an unpleasant taste. He wiped his lips and clammy face with a handkerchief.

A well-shaded light clicked on, apparently activated from the outside. The steel door opened. Von Graffenlaub sat in the darkness of his corner of the room and silently watched Erika enter.

She removed her evening coat of dark green silk and tossed it over a chair. Its lining was a vivid scarlet red that reminded von Graffenlaub sickeningly of the blood of her victims. Her shoulders were bare, and her skin was golden. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror strategically positioned at the entrance to the living room and with a practiced movement slipped out of her dress and threw it after the coat. She stared at the image of her body and caressed her breasts, bringing her fingers down slowly over her rib cage and taut stomach to the black bikini panties that were the only clothing she still wore.

Von Graffenlaub tried to speak. His throat was dry. Only a strangled sound emerged.

Erika tossed her head in acknowledgment but didn't turn. She continued to examine her reflection. "Whitney," she said. "Darling, dangerous, delicious Whitney. I hoped you wouldn't be late." She eased her panties down her thighs. Her fingers worked between her legs.

"Why?" repeated von Graffenlaub hoarsely. This time the word came out. She started violently at the sound of his voice but didn't turn for perhaps half a minute. Then, with a quick, animal gesture, she slipped her panties off her thighs and kicked them into a corner.

"And who is this Whitney?" said von Graffenlaub, gesturing at the pile of photographs beside him. "Who is this partner in murder?"

Erika faced him naked. She had regained some of her composure, but her face was strained under the tan. She laughed harshly before she spoke. "Whitney likes games, my darling hypocrite," she said. "And not all the players are volunteers. Look very closely at those photos. Don't you recognize the pristine body? Aren't those long, elegant fingers familiar? Beat, my darling, aren't Vaybon drugs wonderful? My companion in murder — well, in some of the photographs anyway — was you, my sweet. You must admit that does somewhat limit your options."

A dreadful cry came from von Graffenlaub. He brought the Walther up in a gesture of ultimate denial and fired until the magazine was empty. The gun dropped to the carpet. Erika lay where she had been flung, looking not unlike the blood-spattered images I her photographs.

* * * * *

They left the car in the village and walked along the track toward Vreni's farmhouse. The Bear carried a flashlight. When he was about thirty meters away from the Mercedes, he focused it on the windows and flashed it half a dozen times. The front door opened on the passenger side, and a figure got out. He was carrying some kind of automatic weapon.

The flashed the light again. "I don't want to scare them to death," he said in a low voice to Fitzduane. He stopped and shouted to the figure by the Mercedes. "Police," he said. "Routine check. Mind if I approach?"

"You're welcome," said the figure by the Mercedes. "Dig your ID out and come forward with your hands in the air."

"Understood," said the Bear. He moved ahead, hands in the air, the flashlight in one of them. Fitzduane walked beside him about ten meters to the right. His hands were extended also. When they were close, the Bear spoke again. "Here's my ID," he said, shining his light on it and handing it to the bodyguard. Fitzduane moved forward a shade after the detective offered him his ID as well. The bodyguard looked briefly at the Bear's papers and then pitched into the snow as Fitzduane smashed the tire iron against his head.

"No countersign, no partner backing him up from a safe fire position, and a Skorpion as a personal weapon," said the Bear. "Good reasons to take him out, but I hope we're not dealing with an absentminded security man."

"So do I," said Fitzduane. He felt the fallen man's body. "Because he's dead."

"Jesus!" exclaimed the Bear. "I thought I was keeping you out of trouble by not giving you a firearm."

Fitzduane grunted. Keeping the flashlight well shaded and with the automatically activated interior light switched off, he examined the person who was apparently asleep in the passenger seat. Almost immediately it was clear that the sleep was permanent. He went through the pockets of the corpse and compared the ID he found there with the bloated face.

"It's Sangster," he said grimly. "No obvious signs of injury, but I doubt he died of boredom; most likely either asphyxiation or poisoning, to judge by his face."

"There were supposed to be two guards on duty," said the Bear. He opened the trunk and looked at the crumpled figure inside. "There were," he said quietly. He looked at Fitzduane. "You and your damn intuition. This means the Hangman or his drones are inside the farmhouse. You'll need something a little heavier than a tire iron."

Fitzduane searched quickly through the car. He found two Browning automatic pistols and an automatic shotgun — but no ammunition. He guessed the attackers must have tossed it into the snow, but there was no time to look. He picked up the fallen terrorist's Skorpion and a spare clip of ammunition. He felt as if he were reliving a nightmare. It wasn't rational, but he blamed himself for not having saved Rudi. Now his twin sister was in mortal danger, possibly because of his actions in involving her in the investigation, and he was going to be too late again. "Let's move it," he said, a break in his voice. His body vibrated with tension. He felt a hand on his arm.

"Easy, Hugo," said the Bear. "Take it very easy. It won't do the girl any good if you get yourself killed."

The Bear's words had the desired effect. Fitzduane felt the guilt and blind rage subside. He looked at the Bear. "This is how we'll do it," he said, and he explained.

"Just so," said the Bear.

They split up and moved toward the farmhouse.

* * * * *

Sylvie had endured the most brutal training, designed in part specifically to cauterize her feelings, and she had been through Kadar's initiation ceremonies, which were many times worse. She prided herself on being quite ruthless when carrying out an assignment — ruthless in the full sense of the word, without pity — and yet the execution of Vreni von Graffenlaub made her stomach churn.

Kadar had seemed amused when he gave the orders, as if he were enjoying some private joke. "I want you to hang the girl," he had said. "Let her die in the same way as her twin brother. Very neat, very Swiss. Perhaps we'll be establishing a new von Graffenlaub family tradition, thought rather hard to perpetuate from generation to generation under the circumstances. Oh, well. Her father should appreciate the symmetry."

The locks on the farmhouse door had given them little trouble; they were inside in less than a minute. They had found Vreni cowering under a duvet in the living room that led off the small kitchen. She had a lamb clutched in her arms, and her eyes were tightly closed. She wanted to believe that it was all a horrible dream, that the sound of the door opening and the footsteps were all her imagination, that the telephone still worked, that if she opened her eyes, everything would be cozy and normal in the farmhouse.

Gretel had torn the lamb away and slapped the cowering figure until she had been forced to look at him. Then, with one vicious slash, he had cut the throat of the bleating animal, the blood gushing over the petrified girl, her fear so great that they could smell it, the screams stillborn in her paralyzed throat.

The living room ceiling was too low for their purposes. Instead Gretel prepared for the hanging. He could watch the track leading from the village through the kitchen window, and he could just see the shadow where Santine was standing in for the security guards in the distance. There was some visibility thanks to a weak moon reflecting off the snow, but patches of cloud were frequent. At those times it was hard to see anything with certainty, and imagination made shadows move. Fortunately he knew he would get early warning from Santine in the Mercedes, so he gave in to the more compelling distraction of the preparations for the hanging.

The Bear's luck gave out when he tried to close in from the woodshed, which was located only about twenty meters from the farmhouse. The detective's movements, slowed by the snow that had banked up around the shed, around the distracted Hansel, whose first action was to snatch up his walkie-talkie and swear at Santine. He knew the gesture would be fruitless even before his reflex movement was completed, so he dropped the silent radio, shouted a warning to Sylvie and Gretel, and fired at the shadowy figure moving toward him.

Unhit but shaken by the blast of fire, the Bear rolled back into the cover of the woodshed and sank into a snowdrift. Emerging covered in snow but still crouched low, he was greeted by a second burst of fire. Rounds plowed into the snow about him and thudded into the wood. He couldn't see his attacker, but the window frame gave him a point of reference. He would be in one or the other of the two lower corners unless he was an idiot or wearing stilts. At this stage of the game the Bear wouldn't have been surprised by either possibility. Further muzzle flashes located the sniper in the left lower corner. Looking like a giant snowman, the Bear moved into firing position. He fired the .44 Magnum four times.

The heavy hand-loaded slugs smashed through the wooden walls of the old farmhouse. Two rounds missed and shattered a jar of mung beans and a container of pickled cabbage. The remaining two slugs hit Hansel in the neck and the lower jaw. The first round smashed his spinal column, killing him instantly. The second round nearly decapitated him.

Hearing Hansel's warning shout, followed shortly by automatic weapons fire, Gretel, who had been holding the petrified Vreni at the edge of the choust while Sylvie adjusted the rope, immediately let go of his victim and jumped through the hose onto the stove and into the living room below. He ran into the kitchen toward Hansel, arriving just in time to see his friend's head blown off. Irrational with shock, Gretel skidded across the blood-slicked wooden floor, flung open the kitchen door and fired a long, low, scything burst into the darkness.

Vreni, released by her captor but still bound hand and foot and blindfolded, tottered at the edge of the choust. Fascinated, Sylvie watched as her terrified victim swayed back and forth and then, too weakened from stress to recover her balance, dropped with sickening sound into the hole.

The rope snapped taut.

* * * * *

The old farmhouse was set into the natural slope of the mountain. The plan was that Fitzduane, being younger and fitter than the Bear, would make his approach from the second-floor level. As he remembered it, an entrance there led into a workroom and then into the bedroom. It was possible to go from the living room to the bedroom either by going through the choust or by leaving the house through the kitchen and going up a steep path to the other entrance on the second floor.

When the firing started, Fitzduane, whose climb up the hill had taken longer than expected, was not yet in position. He debated giving supporting fire from where he was, but the overhang of the roof protected the terrorists inside the house from his line of fire, and he didn't think ineffective noise alone would do much good. The reassuring roar of the Bear's Magnum made up his mind, and he concentrated on trying to get to the second-floor door to take the terrorists from two sides. There was a lull in the terrorists' fire; then it increased. It was hard to be sure, but now there seemed to be at least two automatic weapons firing at the woodshed behind which the Bear was sheltering.

Fitzduane had misjudged his angle of approach and was too far up the slope. He slithered down inelegantly toward the workroom door. No window overlooked it, which made him feel better. He tried the handle. It was locked. He waited for the next burst of firing and opened up with the dead terrorist's Skorpion at the lock surround. The silencer killed most of the noise, but the door still held. He cursed the miserable .32 rounds.

He fired again — this time a long burst — and the lock gave way. He darted into the room and rolled to gain cover, changing the clip and recocking the weapon as soon as he stopped. He switched the fire selector from automatic to single shot. At a cyclic rater of 750 rounds a minute, he didn't think a single twenty-round magazine was going to do him much good any other way. He tried not to think of what might have happened to Vreni. The terrorists were still there, so there was a chance they hadn't finished their business. There was a chance she was alive. He had to believe she was alive.

There was more shooting from below him, and then a round smashed through the outer wall beside him, flinging splinters into his face and causing him to drop to the floor.

"Terrific," he muttered to himself. A virtually simultaneous boom identified the shooter as the Bear. That was always the risk with combining high-powered weapons and strategies of encirclement. You ended up shooting each other.

He wiped the blood from his face. The splinters stung, but the injuries weren't serious. He inched forward until he came to the bedroom door. Using the long handle of a sweeping brush he'd found in the workroom, he lifted the latch and opened the door very slowly.

He could see nothing but a faint patch of night sky through the window. He listened for any sounds of breathing or movement from the room, but there were none. He mentally tossed a coin and then flicked on the flashlight for a brief look around the bedroom.

It was as he remembered it, but none of that registered. All he could grasp was one brief glimpse of Vreni hanging — and then darkness. For long seconds Fitzduane fought to retain his sanity as one hanging face dissolved into another in an endless kaleidoscope of horror. The words of the pathologist in Cork — it seemed an age ago — came back to him: “He might still have been alive...”

He moved forward instinctively, keeping under cover, and snatched one more brief look with his flashlight. Her lower body was concealed by the choust through which she had dropped. Her head and torso were still in the bedroom. Fitzduane felt the last of his hope drain out of him.

He grasped Vreni by the shoulders, hoisted her body out of the hole, and rested her legs on the bedroom floor. With some of the weight now relieved, he was able to remove the noose from her neck. Her body was limp and totally unresponsive, but he could do no more for the moment. He should try artificial respiration, but there was a gunfight going on below him, and the Bear was in harm's way. He lay on the floor and peered down through the choust into the sitting room below. He could just make out one figure silhouetted against the window. The Bear was still firing from outside, but Fitzduane knew he must be running low on ammunition.

Fitzduane considered dropping down through the choust but decided that there were easier ways of committing suicide. He'd be in a crossfire from the two terrorists and in the Bear's line of fire — and he'd have to leave Vreni. There was only one practical alternative: he'd have to fire down through the choust. The angle was awkward, but by using his left hand to balance himself, he was able to fire the Skorpion with his right hand, pistol fashion.

The silhouette at the window jerked when it was hit and then vanished below the window ledge into the darkness. Any illusions that the wound was serious were shattered when a burst of flame spat from the hole. Rounds whined off the cast iron of the stove and embedded themselves in the wooden walls and ceiling.

There was a smashing of glass and the sound of a body dropping outside, then another. Fitzduane looked out the bedroom window and saw a figure running toward the small barn located at the end of the track farthest away from the village. It had sounded as if both terrorists had jumped out of the ground-floor window when they discovered they were being fired upon from both sides — so where was the second one?

Wood splintered, and the front door was smashed off its hinges to hit the floor with a reverberating crash. There was a shout from below. Fitzduane looked down through the choust to see the Bear grinning up at him, looking pleased with himself. He held up the Magnum.

"Seems to work," he said, "but if I'm going to travel around with you, I'd better learn to carry more ammunition. I'm out."

"Your timing's off," said Fitzduane. "One's still in close; the other legged it for the barn. I don't think peace has broken out yet."

A round black object came hurtling through the broken living room window and rolled across the wooden floor. Fitzduane flung himself away from the choust.

There was a vivid flash, and a wave of heat blasted up through the hole, knocking Fitzduane backward. The hanging rope, severed by flying shrapnel, came tumbling down, engulfing him in its coils and invoking an instant feeling of revulsion, as if the rope itself were contaminated. He disentangled himself and crawled to the side of the window. He looked around the frame cautiously and could see a figure zigzagging toward the barn. He fired repeatedly, but he was still shaken from the shock of the explosion — and then the gun was empty.

He ducked down behind the windowsill as return fire coming from the barn bracketed his position. No ammunition. A bloody unhealthy situation that was heading toward terminal unless he could com up with some answers. Think.

He remembered something from his last visit: the incongruity of Peter Haag's army rifle hanging in the bedroom. He fetched it. It was a substantial weapon compared with the Skorpion, but not of much use unless he could find the ammunition. Somewhere in the house there would be twenty-four rounds in a special container, but where? Regulations said ammunition should be stored separately from the weapon. He checked the bedroom closet just in case, but in vain. Peter Haag might have been a terrorist, but he was Swiss, and he would have followed regulations.

Clasping the assault rifle, Fitzduane wriggled down through the choust to the living room below. He found the Bear lying on the floor, semiconscious and muttering in Bernese dialect. The heavy metal stove seemed to have protected him from the full force of the blast, but it hadn’t done him much good either. "For the love of God, Heini," Fitzduane muttered as he searched through the living room, "this is no time to try to teach me your bloody language."

No ammunition.

Heavier-caliber fire started to rip through the farmhouse walls from the direction of the barn, and Fitzduane realized that the terrorists must have concealed some backup weaponry there. One of them had something like a heavy hunting rifle. Obviously he was no expert with bolt action, but the slowness of his fire was compensated for by the fact that the wooden walls gave no protection at all against the new weapon. It was only a matter of time before he or the Bear or Vreni got hit. The sniper was methodically quartering the farmhouse, and it wasn't too big a building to cover. He pulled the Bear further behind the wood stove and tried not to think of Verni's frail body totally exposed to the rifle fire. The desecration of the dead. Did it really matter?

Desperately he scoured the shelves and cabinets for the ammunition. He wondered if it would be hidden behind the marmalade, as it had been at Guido's. Did followers of the Steiner philosophy even eat marmalade? If he didn't strike pay dirt soon, he might get the chance to ask the long-dead Steiner personally.

A rifle bullet plowed into a second jar of mung beans, filling the air with organically approved food mixed with less friendly shards of broken glass. Brown rice was blasted into the air like shrapnel. He reached out for the lethal locally distilled spirit he remembered. Behind the rear bottle lay the ammunition. He ripped open the sealed container and fed in the rounds one by one, hoping that the rifle's mechanism wasn't jammed up with brown rice or lentils or the like. Crouched low, he went out the kitchen door. He found a firing position by the wall facing the barn. He extended the assault rifle's bipod and activated the night sight. His front was substantially protected by a bag of some sort of organic manure; whatever it was, it wasn't odorless.

The firing from the barn ceased. A single figure appeared, moving cautiously but somehow conveying the impression that it didn't expect any more opposition — scarcely surprising after the grenade and the barrage of heavy-rifle fire and the lack of response from the defenders.

Fitzduane waited. The figure was close now and moving more confidently. Fitzduane tried to figure out where the backup sniper would be and had just settled on the most probably location when the barn doors opened and a powerful motorcycle emerged. They were going to check out the farmhouse and make their getaway. The remaining question was, were there only two of them left or were there more surprises?

Fitzduane supposed that legally he should probably shout, "Police," or "Hands up," or some such crap, but he wasn't feeling either legal or charitable. He shot the walking terrorist four time through the chest, sending the body spinning off the track and then down the mountainside like a runaway sled.

The motorcycle engine roared, and submachine-gun fire sprayed the farmhouse. The bike's headlight blinded him. The machine leaped toward him, but it hit a rut and flew through the air, skidding past him before the rider expertly corrected.

He shot the motorcyclist as the bike was approaching the security guards' Mercedes. The machine barreled into the car, flinging the wounded terrorist into the snow. Fitzduane fired again very carefully at the flailing figure until there was no sign of movement.

Fitzduane was holding Vreni in his arms when the villagers arrived minutes later, assault rifles at the ready. She was limp and still, and her body was cold, but the Irishman was smiling.

* * * * *

He felt his shoulder being shaken, but he didn't want to leave the warm cocoon of sleep. His shoulder was shaken again, this time less gently. "Chief," said a familiar voice. "Chief," we've got a name."

The Chief Kripo reluctantly reentered the real world. He'd already forgotten what he'd been dreaming about, but he knew it had to have been better than the maelstrom that his waking hours had turned into. On the other hand, perhaps he was being too pessimistic. He recalled being agreeably surprised at the progress being made by Project K, so much so that there would be some kind of breakthrough. And it was a legitimate way of avoiding the flak he knew awaited him on his return to the office.

"A name?" He opened his eyes, blinked, and then opened them wider. "My God," he said to Henssen. "You look terrible."

"My circuits are fucked," said Henssen. "After this is over, I'm going to sleep for a month."

The Chief Kripo unraveled himself from the couch and sipped at the black coffee Henssen had brought him. He could hear computer sounds in the background. He looked at his watch.

"It's tomorrow," said Henssen. "You've been out only a few hours, but there have been some developments. It's kind of good news and bad news."

The Chief remembered something had been nagging at him before he fell asleep. "The Irishman and the Bear," he said. "Are they back?"

"Not exactly," said Henssen, and he told the Chief what they'd heard through the local canton police.

The Chief shook his head. He looked dazed. "Incredible. I must still be dreaming. Is that the good news or the bad news?"

"It depends how you look at it."

"With a jaundiced eye," said the Chief, who actually wasn't quite sure of his reaction. He put down his coffee and stood up. "You mentioned a name," he said to Henssen. "You mean your machine has stopped dithering? You've found the Hangman?"

Henssen looked mildly uncomfortable. "We've got a couple of strong possibilities. Come and see for yourself."

"The Chief Kripo followed Henssen into the main computer room. Only one terminal was live, the one with a special high-resolution screen that Henssen found was a little easier on his eyes when he was tired. There was a name on the screen followed by file references. The Chief looked at it and felt he was going crazy.

The name on the screen read: VON GRAFFENLAUB, BEAT.

"You're all loopy," said the Chief. "Your fucking machine is loopy."

Henssen, Kersdorf, and the other bleary-eyed men in the room were too exhausted to argue. Henssen played with the keyboard. There was a brief pause. Then the high-speed printer started spitting back the machine's reasoning. The computer wasn't too tired to argue. It outlined a formidable case.

* * * * *

He'd forgotten about the radiophone. By reflex he picked it up in answer to its electronic beep. Erika lay there lifeless, her blood congealing. He had no idea of the time or of what he was going to do next. He merely reacted.

"Herr von Graffenlaub," said a voice. "Herr Beat von Graffenlaub?"

"Yes," said von Graffenlaub. The voice was tense, anxious, and familiar. It was not someone he knew well but someone he had spoken to recently.

"Sir, this is Mike Findlater at ME Services. I regret to say I have some very serious news to report, very serious indeed."

Beat von Graffenlaub listened to what the security man had to say. Initial fear turned to relief and then absolute joy as he absorbed the key fact that Vreni, little Vreni, was alive. Tears of gratitude poured down his cheeks.

He didn't hear the other entrance open.

* * * * *

Conventional policing in Bern took a backseat as the special antiterrorist force was assembled and sent into action. The von Graffenlaub premises were surrounded within thirty minutes of his name's flashing up on the screen, but it was more than six hours later before a highly trained entry group gained access. It had taken this long as a result of the most meticulous precautions designed to prevent the kind of surprises the Hangman liked to produce. Scanning equipment of various types was used to locate possible traps, and the entire block was searched to eliminate any chance of the terrorist's escaping through another exit.

Despite protests from some of his most senior officers, the Chief Kripo insisted on leading the entry team on its final push inside. Mindful of booby traps and checking frequently by radio with the Nose, the men entered Erika's apartment not through the door but through a hole cut by a shaped charge in an internal wall — having previously scanned the area with metal detectors and explosive-sniffing equipment that could identify volatile substances in even the minutest volumes. Only traces of small-arms propellant were found by the probes. A second concealed entrance was also located. It led directly into an apartment in an adjoining house.

Inside Erika's sanctum they found what they had been looking for, but not the way they had expected. Beat von Graffenlaub was present, to be sure, but in a fashion that transferred him from the suspect to the victim file of the Nose's memory banks. He lay across his wife, his blood mingled with hers, the point of a fifteenth-century halberd protruding a hand's width from his chest. The handle extended from his back as casually as a fork stuck in the ground.

The Chief was sweaty in his bulletproof armor. "Loopy," he said.

* * * * *

The only good news out of this latest fiasco was that they were now down to one name on the computer's primary suspect list. The Chief radioed through for a progress report on his remaining quarry. He tried not to think of the awful tragedy of Beat von Graffenlaub. Mourning would have to wait.

They were now looking for someone called Bridgenorth Lodge. The computer said he was an American citizen living in Bern, with connections to the city from his earliest days. In fact, he'd been born there — which didn't, of course, make him Swiss. One of the heurisitics programmed into the computer was that the Hangman wasn't Swiss. The Chief had asked Henssen for the basis of what seemed to him to be pure guesswork, and he'd been referred to the Bear.

The Bear had just shrugged. "He isn't Swiss," he'd repeated. He hadn't been able to give a reason, but the Chief went along with it. The whole business was crazy anyway, and in the Chief's experience, the Bear's hunches were every bit as good as any computer's.