Games of The Hangman

22

Fitzduane played the tape that he'd made of the first half of their interview with Paulus. He plugged the miniature tape recorder into a battery-powered extension loudspeaker. Immediately the sound was crisp and clear, and the listeners were transported to that small office in the museum and the strained voice of Paulus von Beck. Fitzduane stopped the tape at the point previously agreed upon with the Bear. There was silence in the room.

"For the first time," said the Bear, "we've actually got a live witness who can tie Balac in with some of the key elements of the case. It's no longer supposition. We now know that Balac was involved with Erika von Graffenlaub on an intense and regular basis. We know that he was the original seducer of Rudi and Vreni. We know that he made use of drugs in a manner similar to the Hangman. It's all getting closer."

"There's a difference between running orgies, even if they do involve underage kids, and killing people," said Charlie von Beck. "God knows I'd like to believe we've got a case. If you put everything together, I guess we have, but it's far from a sure thing. There could be an innocent explanation for almost everything we've got so far. You've put forward one hell of a clever hypothesis, I'll grant you, but that final firm link is still missing."

The Bear looked around the room. It was clear that most of the team agreed with the magistrate. The Chief looked indecisive. The Bear was glad he'd taken time to build his argument point by point. Once the discussion stage was over, they would be back in harm's way. They had to avoid another Muri. The needed a united team convinced of what it was doing if they were to come up with an angle that would result in success.

"Both Hugo and I," continued the Bear, "felt that Paulus's reaction indicated rather more than that he was gay and had played around with group sex, even if some borderline minors were involved. This is a tolerant town if you're discreet, and whereas the Rudi / Vreni thing isn't the stuff fairy tales are made of, they weren't exactly prepubescent children — that would have been serious. No, Paulus was actually afraid, afraid for his life. Why? What does he know or surmise that brings him close to panic?

"Most of you here know what an interrogation is like. A good interrogator often learns more from atmosphere and body language than he does from the actual words used. After a while he gets so immersed in the mood of the whole thing that he begins to sense meanings, almost to be telepathic.

"Any successful investigation requires luck as well as man-hours. And so far the tide of fortune seems again and again to have favored the Hangman. Whether by accident or design or a mixture of both, he seems to have been just ahead of us most of the time. He had Ivo killed before we could talk to him. Siegfried, the tattoo artist, went the same way. Vreni was saved, but she can't or won't talk about her experiences. Ericka von Graffenlaub, who might have cracked under interrogation, is dead. Lodge either wasn't there or escaped before we arrived. And so it goes on. We're dealing with a shrewd and lucky man. But no one is lucky all the time. Very early into the questioning of Paulus, but Hugo and I had the feeling that here was the essential like we were looking for. You can decide for yourselves."

Fitzduane moved the tape recorder selector switch to ‘play.’

"This is an edited version," began the Bear.

"Play it," said the Chief.

There was a slight hiss, and the Bear's recorded voice could be heard. "Paulus, he said, "you've stated that your relationship with Balac started about five years ago."

"Yes."

"Is it still going on?"

"Not... not exactly," said Paulus hesitantly.

"I don't quite understand," said the Bear, his voice gentle.

"It's not so easy to explain. The relationship, as it were, changed; it came to an end. But from time to time he calls me, and I go to him."

"Why, if it's over."

"I... I have to. He has... he has a hold on me."

"An emotional hold?"

"No, it's not like that. He has photographs and other things he his threatened to send to the police."

"We don't care about your sex life," said the Bear. "What kind of photographs are these?"

There was silence again and then the sound of sobbing, followed by an editing break. The conversation started again in mid-sentence.

"...embarrassing, terribly embarrassing to talk about," said Paulus in a strangled voice.

"So the von Graffenlaub twins weren't the only underage kids involved," said the Bear.

"No."

"How old were they?"

"It varied. Normally they were in their mid-teens or older — and that was all right."

"But not always?"

"No."

"What age was the youngest?"

There was silence yet again, and then an encouraging noise from the Bear could be heard. Reluctantly Paulus answered. "About twelve or thereabouts. I don't know exactly."

There was a crash as Charlie von Beck threw his coffee mug to the ground. His face was white with anger. Fitzduane stopped the tape. "The idiot, the stupid, irresponsible, disgusting idiot!" shouted the examining magistrate. "How could he?"

"Calm down, Charlie," said the Chief. "You nearly gave me a heart attack. I hope that mug was empty."

Charlie von Beck smiled in spite of himself. The Chief waited until he was sure von Beck was in control, then gave Fitzduane the signal to proceed.

"Where did these sexual encounters take place?" said the Bear's voice.

"Oh, various places."

"For instance? In your house, for example?"

"No, never in my house. Balac always like things done his way. He likes a certain setting, and he likes to have the things he needs, his drugs and other things."

"So where did you go?"

"I didn't always know. Sometimes he would pick me up and blindfold me. He likes to play games. Sometimes he would pretend I was a stranger and we were meeting for the first time."

"Did you ever go to Erika's apartment?"

"Yes, but not so often. Mostly we went to Balac's studio down by the Wasserwerk."

"You mentioned that Balac likes a certain setting," said the Bear. "Could you describe it? Why was it important?"

"He likes rituals, different kinds of rituals," said Paulus, his voice uncertain and strained.

"What kinds of rituals?"

"Like... like a black mass, only not the real thing. More like a parody of a black mass but with black candles and mock human sacrifices. It was frightening."

Fitzduane broke in. "Could you describe the rooms where this happened?"

"There were several such rooms. They were all decorated the same way, with purple walls and black silk hangings and the smell of incense. Sometimes we were masked; sometime the other people were masked."

"Tell me about the sacrifices," said the Bear. "You said mock human sacrifices?"

"The idea was that the victim should die at the moment of climax. It was something that Erika, in particular, liked. She had a knife, a thing with a wide, heavy blade, and she used to wave it. Then she brought a cat in and killed it at just that moment, and I was covered in blood." There was the sound of retching, cut off abruptly by an editing break.

The Chief signaled for Fitzduane to stop the tape. He looked shaken, the full implications of what he had been hearing finally beginning to sink in. "And next came people," he spat. "It's making me sick. Is there much more of this?"

"Not a lot," said the Bear. "I'll summarize it for you if you like."

The Chief steepled his hands, lost in thought. After perhaps a full minute he looked up at the Bear. "It's just hitting home. It's so incredibly sick... so perverted... so evil."

"We asked about the knife," said the Bear. "Balac told Paulus that he'd had it specially made. It was a reproduction of a ritual sacrificial knife used by a pagan cult in Ireland. He'd seen a drawing in some book and taken a fancy to it. Apparently he has a library of pornography and black magic and the sicker aspects of human behavior. He uses these books to set up his games. The more elaborate rules are written down in what he calls ‘The Grimoire.’"

"A grimoire is a kind of magician's rule book, isn't it?" Kersdorf broke in. "I seem to remember running across a case involving a grimoire many years ago. Again the whole black magic thing was essentially sexually motivated."

"Who else was involved apart from Balac, Erika, and these kids?" asked the Chief. "Did he recognize anyone, or was he the only adult supporting player?"

"There were others," said the Bear, "but they were always masked. He said he thought he recognized some of the voices." The Bear gave a list of names to the Chief, who shook his head. He wasn't altogether surprised at the ambassador mentioned, but the other names were from the very core of the Bernese establishment.

"There were also some young male prostitutes involved from time to time," said the Bear. "He gave me several names, first names. One of them was Klaus. The description fits; it was Minder. Another was the Monkey. Knowing he was involved in the same games as Minder, Ivo went after the Monkey and, I guess went too far trying to make him talk. Ivo, the poor little bastard, was trying to find Klaus Minder's killer. Sir Ivo, indeed. He found out too much, and his quest got him killed."

"Heini," said the Chief, "I really don't think I want to hear any more. The question is, how do we pick up this psycho without losing more people?"

"We've got some ideas on that score," said Fitzduane. "We thought we might take a tip from the ancient Greeks."

* * * * *

They were on a secluded testing range that was part of the military base at Sand. The man in combat fatigues had the deep tan of someone who spends a great deal of time in the mountains. Paler skin around the eyes indicated long periods wearing ski goggles. He was a major, a member of the Swiss Army's elite grenadiers, and a counterterrorist expert. He normally advised the Federal Police antiterrorist unit but wasn't against practicing his craft at the cantonal or indeed city level. His specialty was explosives.

"You haven't thought of blasting in, I suppose?" he said diffidently. "There would be fewer constraints in relation to the charges used, and I'm told it's quite a common technique when you want to gain access. Armies have been doing it for years when they don't feel like going through the door." He grinned cheerfully.

"Very funny," said the Bear. "If we blast in, we won't do anyone standing near the entry hole much good."

"And since one of those people is likely to be me," said Fitzduane, "I don't think a hell of a lot of your suggestion — though I'm sure it's kindly meant."

The major looked shocked. "My dear fellow, we won't harm a hair of your head. We can calculate the charges required exactly. Just one little boom, and lo, an instant doorway."

"I once knew an explosives freak in the U.S. Special Forces," said Fitzduane. He was known as No-Prob Dudzcinski because every time he was asked to do something with explosives, no matter how complex, he would reply, ‘No problem, man,’ and set to work. He was very good at his job."

"Well, there you are," said the major.

"He blew himself up," said Fitzduane, "and half an A-team. I've been suspicious of explosives ever since. I don't suppose you want to hear his last words?"

"No," said the major.

"Besides," said the Bear, "our target is partial to burying Claymores and similar devices in the walls, which could be set off by an external explosion. We want a shaped charge that will blast out and at the same time muffle any concealed device."

A truck ground its way in low gear toward them. Well secured in the back was what looked like a rectangular packing case the size of a large doorway, but only about fifteen centimeters thick. The truck drew up near them and stopped. Three soldiers jumped out, unlashed the packing case, and maneuvered it against a sheet of 1.5 centimeter armor plate bolted to the brick wall of an old practice fortification.

"It's quite safe to stand in front of the packing case," said the major, "but the normal practice is to follow routine safety regulations." Fitzduane and the Bear needed little encouragement. They moved to the shelter of an observation bunker set at right angles to the packing case. They were joined by the three soldiers. The major brought up the rear, walking nonchalantly, as befitted his faith in his expertise. All in the bunker put on steel helmets. Fitzduane felt slightly foolish.

The major had a pen-shaped miniature radio transmitter in his hand. "You're familiar with the principle of a shaped charge, or focused charge, as some people call it?" he asked.

Fitzduane and the Bear nodded. The shaped charge concept was based on the discovery that the force of an explosion could be tightly focused in one direction by putting the explosive in a container of an appropriate shape and leaving a hollow for the explosion to expand into. The explosive force would initially follow the line of least resistance, and thereafter momentum would take over. The principle had been further refined to the point where explosives could be used in a strip form to cut out specific shapes.

"I'd be happier if we were cutting through one material," said the major. "Armor plate alone is no problem, but when materials are combined, funny things happen. In this case the charges are on the rear of the packing case. In the center we have Kevlar bulletproof material reinforced with ceramic plates; we can't use armor plate because it would make the whole thing too heavy. At the front we have left space for a painting, as you requested. To view the painting, you don't have to open the entire crate, which could be embarrassing. Instead we've installed hinged viewing doors."

"As a matter of interest," said Fitzduane, "will the painting be damaged by the explosion? We're going to have to put something fairly valuable in there if we are to get our target's attention, and knowing the way you Swiss operate, I'm likely to end up getting the bill if the painting is harmed."

The major sighed. "Herr Fitzduane, I assume this is your idea of a little joke, but whether it is or not, you may rest assured that your painting will be unscathed. The entire force of the explosion will be focused against the wall. The canvas won't even ripple. Watch!"

He pressed the button on the transmitter. There was a muted crack. A door-shaped portion of the steel plate and wall fell away as if sliced out of paper with a razor blade. There was no smoke. Dust rose from the rubble and was dissipated by the wind.

Fitzduane walked across to the front of the packing case and opened the viewing doors. In place of the painting was a large poster extolling the virtues of Swissair. It was unscathed. He turned to the major, who was standing smugly, arms folded across his chest. "You'd have been a wow in Troy." He looked at the packing case again. "I think we can improve our act. How familiar are you with stun grenades?"

* * * * *

"Simon," said Fitzduane into the phone, "are you doing your lunchtime salon tomorrow?"

Balac laughed. "As usual. You're most welcome to drop in."

"I just want to say good-bye. I'm leaving Bern. I've done all I can, and it's time to go home."

Balac chuckled. "You've certainly seen a different side of Bern from most visitors. We'll miss you. See you tomorrow."

"Ciao," said Fitzduane. He put down the phone and looked across at the Bear. "Now it's up to Paulus von Beck. Will it be Plan A or Plan B?"

They left Kirchenfeldstrasse and drove to police headquarters, where they put in two hours' combat shooting on the pistol range. The Bear was a good instructor, and Fitzduane felt his old skills coming back. For the last twenty minutes of the session they used Glaser ammunition. "Your shotgun rounds are based on these," said the Bear. "In case you think nine-millimeter rounds are inadequate, as they normally are, reflect on the fact that hits with a Glaser are ninety percent fatal."

Fitzduane held up a Glaser round. "Do the good guys have a monopoly on these things?"

"Their sale is restricted," said the Bear.

Fitzduane raised an eyebrow.

"No," said the Bear.

* * * * *

The Chief Kripo was talking on a secure line to Kilmara in Ireland.

Kilmara sounded concerned. "Is there no other way? Hugo isn't twenty-two anymore. One's reflexes slow up with age."

"It's Fitzduane's idea," said the Chief. "You know what's happened when we've gone in the conventional way. We've taken casualties. Hugo believes half the battle is getting in. Then, if Balac is present, his own safety will prevent him using his gadgetry. It becomes a conventional arrest — mano a mano."

"Supposing Balac isn't alone?"

"Fitzduane won't move until he's blown the shaped charge," said the Chief. "We've added stun grenades to the mix. That should buy Fitzduane the time he needs and will enable us to get help to him fast. We're using our best people for this."

"I'd prefer it if you could get Balac away from his own territory," said Kilmara. "God knows what he's got in that warehouse."

"We're going to try. Paulus's picture is the bait. If Balac swallows it, then Fitzduane won't even have to be involved in the arrest. If he won't come across, then it's on to Plan B. Do you think Fitzduane can't hack it?"

Kilmara sighed. "He's a big boy, but I don't like it. I feel responsible."

"Look at it this way. What choice do we have? He'll smell a policeman no matter who we use. Fitzduane at least can get in without provoking a violent reaction. Then we just have to hope."

"What about this guy Paulus?" asked Kilmara. "He's been intimately involved with Balac. How do we know he won't blow the whistle? If he does, Hugo's dead."

"Charlie von Beck swears he can be trusted. Both the Bear and Fitzduane think he's telling the truth. And I have him accompanied by my people and his phone fitted with a tap and interrupt in case our team's judgment is off."

"There are many ways of delivering a message other than by phone," said Kilmara.

"It'll be over by this time tomorrow."

"Make sure you watch out for Balac's legal rights."

"Fuck his legal rights," said the Chief.

After hanging up, Kilmara turned around to the man sitting in the armchair in front of his desk. "You got the gist of that."

The man from the Mossad nodded.

"So how does it feel to be back in Ireland?" asked Kilmara.

The man from the Mossad smiled. "Nothing important ever changes."

"Let's talk about the U.S. Embassy. And other things," said Kilmara. "Fancy a drink?" He pulled a bottle of Irish whiskey and two glasses out of his desk drawer. It was late and dark, and the bottle was empty by the time they finished talking.

* * * * *

The boy had his back to him. He had thrown back the duvet as he slept, and he was naked from the waist up. Paulus couldn't remember who he had come to be there. He stroked the boy's back, trying to remember what he looked like. His hair was a golden color. There was no more than a light fuzz on his cheeks. He couldn't be more than fourteen or fifteen. Paulus found himself hardening. He moved toward the boy and slid his had around to the dormant penis. Skillfully he stroked. He felt the organ grow in his hand. He moved closer, feeling the boy's soft buttocks against his loins.

The boy pressed against him. He had a sudden desire to see his face. He stroked the boy's penis with one hand and with the other turned the boy's face toward him. The boy turned his head of his own volition, and now he was bigger and older and somehow he towered over Paulus and in his hand was a short, broad-bladed knife. The knife descended toward his throat and hovered there, and Paulus opened his mouth to scream, but it was too late. The pain was terrible. Blood — his blood — fountained in front of his eyes.

He felt his arm being shaken. He was afraid to look. His body stank of sweat. He could hear himself panting.

"You were screaming," said the voice. Paulus opened his eyes. The duty detective stood there. He was wearing an automatic pistol in a shoulder holster, and he had a Heckler & Koch MP-5 sub-machine gun in his right hand. The bedroom door was open behind him, and Paulus could see the outline of another detective.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Just a bad dream."

More than that, thought the detective. His face was impassive. "Can I get you anything?" he asked.

"I can't do it," thought Paulus. He looked at the detective. "Thank you, but no."

The detective turned to leave. "What time is it?" asked Paulus.

The detective looked at his watch. He'd have to log the incident. "A quarter to four," he answered before closing the door.

Paulus lay sleepless, thinking of the price of betrayal.

* * * * *

Balac drank his orange juice and listened to the tape of his conversation with Fitzduane. The voice stress analyzer revealed nothing significant. It needed more material to work with and more relevant subject matter to come into its own. It had proved useful in the past. Supposedly a new and more sensitive model was in the works. Balac doubted it would ever replace his intuition.

Was he suspect? He rather thought not. Fitzduane had called in a number of times before, and they got on well. It would have been more suspicious if he had not dropped in to say good-bye. It was his last day in Bern. His — Balac's — last day, and now, it appeared, also the Irishman's. Such symbolism. With so much at stake it would make sense to go now, to forget this charade.

And yet seeing things right through to the end had the most enormous appeal. A climber didn't abandon his assault on the peak because the weather looked a trifle uncertain. He persevered. It was the very risk that made the reward so... so stimulating. I'm gambling with my life, thought Balac, and a ripple of pleasure went through him.

Later in his Jacuzzi he thought again about this, his last day in Bern, and he decided a margin of extra insurance might be in order. Gambling was all very well, but only a fool didn't lay off his bets. He made the call. They said they would leave immediately and should arrive well in advance of lunch.

* * * * *

Fitzduane rose early, and the Bear drove him to Waisenhausplatz. He spent ninety minutes practicing unarmed combat with a remarkably humorless police instructor. Toward the end of the session, bruised and sore, Fitzduane dredged up a few moves from his time with the airbornes. They carried the instructor out on a stretcher.

The Bear looked a little shaken. "That's a side of you I haven't seen before."

Fitzduane had calmed down. "I'm not proud of it; only rarely is it a good way to fight." He smiled grimly. "Mostly you fight with your brain."

They spent a further hour on the pistol range, firing only Glaser rounds and concentrating on close-quarters reaction shooting. Fitzduane shot well. His clothes reeked of burned cartridge propellant. After he showered and changed, the smell had gone.

* * * * *

The examining magistrate looked down at his cousin. Paulus was white-faced with fear and lack of sleep. A faint, sweet aroma of vomit and after-shave emanated from him, but his tailoring was as immaculate as ever. Without doubt Paulus was the weakest link in the plan. Fortunately his appearance and nervousness could be attributed to another cause: his apparent attempt to deceive both the owner and the museum over a painting. It was a good story, but whether it was good enough — well, time would tell.

Looking at Paulus with new eyes since he had heard his confession, Charlie von Beck wondered whether their contrived art fraud wasn't a rerun of the truth. Paulus had always seemed to live better than either his salary or private resources would seem to justify. But perhaps he was jumping to conclusions. He would have trusted Paulus with his life until the tape. Why should he change his mind so drastically because his cousin's sex life had gotten out of hand? He was family after all.

The radio crackled as the various units reported in. Charlie von Beck looked at his watch. Not yet quite time to make the call.

Paulus dropped his head into his hands and sobbed. He raised his tear-stained face to his cousin. "I... I can't do it. I'm afraid of him. You don't know how strong, how powerful, he is. He senses things. He'll know there is something wrong." Paulus's voice rose to a shriek. "You don't understand — he'll kill me!"

The Chief Kripo pushed two pills and a glass of water across to Paulus. "Valium," he said, "a strong dose. Take it."

Obediently Paulus swallowed the Valium. The Chief waited several minutes and then spoke soothingly. "Relax. Breathe in deeply a few times. Close your eyes and let your mind rest. There is nothing really to worry about. In a few hours it will all be over."

Like a docile child, Paulus did as he was told. He lay back in his swivel chair listening to the Chief chatting on inconsequentially. The sound was pleasant and reassuring. He couldn't quite make out the words, but it didn't seem to matter. He dozed. Twenty minutes later he woke refreshed. The first person he saw was the Chief, who beamed at him. He was drinking tea. There were spare cups on the table, and Charlie had a teapot in his hand. "Milk or lemon?" said the Chief.

Paulus drank his tea holding the cup with both hands. He felt calm. He knew what to do.

"Let's do a final run-through." The Chief smiled. "Practice makes perfect."

Paulus gave a half-smile back. "You needn't worry. I'm all right now."

"Let's run through it anyway."

Paulus nodded. "I'm going to call Balac and tell him that I have a picture in for evaluation on which I would like a second opinion and that I would appreciate it if he could take a look at it right away. I will tell him it's very important, and I shall imply that I have the opportunity to purchase it for much less than its real value. I shall suggest that I am bypassing the museum and dealing for myself. I shall tell him I don't want to move on this until I have my own judgment confirmed because the risks are too great. I shall tell him he can come in with me if he confirms the painting's value."

"Balac won't find anything unusual in this," said the Chief. "You’ve asked for his opinion before, haven't you?"

"Many times. He is a brilliant judge of technique. But this will be the first time I have suggested dealing on the side, though he has dropped hints — always as if joking."

"I think he'll swallow it," said Charlie von Beck. "We need some believable explanation for the critical time element. I think he'll be amused. He seems to enjoy corrupting people."

"I shall stress the urgency and will ask that he come around to the museum today since I daren't keep it here longer in case someone else sees it."

"Who is the owner supposed to be?' asked the Chief.

"The owner is a diplomat who had gotten a girl in trouble and needs some quick cash to hush the whole thing up. He thinks his painting is worth useful, but not big, money."

"What is the painting supposed to be?" asked Charlie von Beck.

"I'm not going to say over the phone. I want to whet Balac's appetite. He will be intrigued; he likes games."

"Don't we know it," said Charlie, looking at his watch again.

"It's a Picasso collage," said Paulus. "The question is, is it a genuine Picasso or from the school of?"

"Well, is it?" said Charlie.

"Yes."

"What's it worth?" asked the Chief.

"About half a million dollars. It's not mainstream Picasso, and not everybody likes collages."

"Half a million dollars!" exclaimed the Chief. "I hope there's no shooting or the Swiss franc gets stronger. Where did you get it?"

"I'd prefer not to say."

"And you're sure Balac has never seen it?" said Charlie.

"It's been in a vault for the past twenty years. There was a small matter of avoiding British inheritance taxes."

"Ah," said the Chief, who liked clear-cut motives. "So much money. I used to make collages myself as a child. I've still got some, too."

"Pity your name's not Picasso," said Charlie von Beck. His watch started to beep.

"You're on," said the Chief to Paulus. Paulus lifted the phone.

* * * * *

The man on the third floor of the warehouse that overlooked the entrance to Balac's studio spoke into his radio. His partner emerged from the freight elevator as he completed his call. He was still tucking his shirt into his pants. "Anything?"

The man with the high-power binoculars nodded. "A Merc with Zurich license plates dropped off three men and drove away. One of them said something into the door loudspeaker, and Balac let them in. They were all carrying sports bags. I've got it on video." He pointed at the prefocused video camera mounted on a heavy-duty tripod.

"Odd," said the arrival. "I thought they told us that Balac had some special painting regimen whereby he locks himself away all day except during lunchtime."

"They did," said the watcher. His companion completed rewinding the tape. He pressed ‘play’ and stared intently at the video images. There were impressions, but the faces could not be clearly seen. Then the last man turned and looked around before the steel door closed behind him. The arrival grunted. "What do you think?"

"Same as you," said the watcher. "The last man is Angelo Lestoni, which makes the other two his brother Pietro and his cousin—"

"Julius," said the other man. "You radioed it in?"

"Affirmative."

The other man replaced his bulletproof vest and started checking his tripod-mounted sniper rifle. It was a self-loading model from Heckler & Koch, designed for both high accuracy and rapid follow-on fire. It occurred to him that it cost about as much as a secondhand Porsche. He stroked the handmade stock and dull steel of the weapon and reflected that, on balance, he would prefer the rifle.

* * * * *

The Bear and Fitzduane were in the tiered conference room of the police headquarters on Waisenhausplatz. The news had just come in. Balac was too busy to leave his studio, but he'd be delighted to look at Paulus's picture if he would bring it around during lunch. They could talk when the rest of the guests had gone.

The Hangman wouldn't leave his lair. It was going to have to be Plan B. Fitzduane wasn't surprised.

The Bear was going through the details of the operation yet again with the ten-man assault team. Blueprints of Balac's studio obtained from the city planning office were pinned up on a large bulletin board. The key phases of the plan were carefully hand-lettered on a flip chart, and the Bear, pointer in hand, was talking.

"Most of you were on the Muri operation. You know what can happen if we try to blast our way in. We are likely to take casualties, and there is no guarantee we'll end up with the Hangman. In fact, the track record suggests that we won't.

"The intention here is to get a man in to immobilize the Hangman before he can activate any of his defenses. That man is Hugo Fitzduane, whom you see beside me. Take another good look at him. I don't want him shot by mistake."

He looked at Fitzduane, who smiled and said, "Neither do I." There was laughter.

"We've got the plans of Balac's warehouse, but if precedent is anything to go by, the inside of the building will have been extensively modified. God knows what surprises he's built in. It's vital, therefore, that he be neutralized before he leaves the main studio area; that's the large room on the ground floor immediately off the entrance, where he has a combined studio and reception area. Fortunately, since he runs this lunchtime open house between midday and two, we do know the geography of that room." He pointed at the scale drawing behind him.

"Balac's routine is to remain incommunicado — except by phone, and often that's connected to an answering machine — until noon. He then entertains friends who call in on a casual basis until 1400 hours, when he locks himself away again. It's a credible routine for a painter and damn handy for a terrorist.

"Herr Fitzduane, who's been to several of these buffet lunches, says that people normally don't turn up until about 1220. It's our intention, therefore, to have the whole thing wrapped up before then. We don't want any innocent burghers caught in the crossfire.

"Let's go through the sequence. One — just after 1200 hours Paulus von Beck will arrive in a delivery van with the picture in a packing case. He'll have two deliverymen with him. If we're in luck, they'll be allowed into the studio with the picture, and they'll grab Balac there and then. However, most likely — this is Balac's normal routine — they'll be asked to leave the packing case inside the first door. You will recall that he has an extensive security system that involves a three-door entrance hall. Only one door is opened at one time. It's a kind of double air lock, a classic installation in secure buildings and a bitch to overcome since all three doors are of armored steel. It was because of the entrance problem that we came up with this Trojan Horse idea.

"Two — a couple of minutes after Paulus's arrival Fitzduane will turn up. If the deliverymen aren't allowed in, as we expect, he will offer to give Paulus a hand, and together they will move the packing case into the studio and lean it against the wall. According to Paulus, there is one particular spot that Balac normally used to hang pictures he's assessing — something to do with the right lighting — and that's marked on the diagram here.

"Three — we are now into the area of discretion, but the basic plan is for Fitzduane to neutralize Balac and blow the shaped charge. The we come storming in as rehearsed and instantly remove Balac into custody. Any questions?"

The second-in-command of the assault unit, an intelligent-looking police lieutenant in his late twenties, spoke. "Will Paulus von Beck be armed?"

"No," said the Bear. "He has been associated with Balac in the past. We aren't suggesting serious criminal involvement, but we don't want to run any risks."

"Supposing people arrive before Herr Fitzduane is going to have to use his discretion. He'll have to pick his time. It's not a perfect plan, merely the least objectionable."

The questions continued, double- and triple-checking aspects of the plan. The fact that the assault team members were intelligent and well trained gave Fitzduane some degree of comfort, but he still had to face the stark reality that they would be outside the building when he made his move, and for a vital few seconds — he'd be on his own with Paulus, unarmed and unproven, and a multiple killer. It didn't promise to be a fun lunch.

The question and answer session had finished. The assault unit filed past Fitzduane, the commander of the unit bringing up the rear. He held out his hand. "Herr Fitzduane, my men — and I — we wish you well."

"A drink together when it's over," said the Bear. "I'll buy."

Fitzduane smiled. "It'll cost you."

The unit commander gave a small salute and left the room.

* * * * *

Anxiously Paulus von Beck supervised the loading of the packing case containing the Picasso collage. He was less concerned about the safety of the painting itself —although that was a factor — than he was about Balac's noticing something unusual about the moving men. The overalled policemen weren't used to the finer touches involved in handling a painting worth about as much as the average policeman would earn in a lifetime. The exercise was repeated several times until they looked like trained moving men — at least to a superficial glance.

He was thinking that every job has its own visual style in addition to expertise. You'd imagine anybody in the right coveralls could look like a deliveryman, but it just wasn't so. A man who carries things for a living soon works out certain ways of lifting and carrying that make even difficult jobs seem easy.

To his critical eye, the policemen didn't look quite right. They were using too much muscle and not enough brains to lift the heavy case. Well, what else could you expect from policemen? he said to himself. He walked back to his office briskly. There was barely enough time for him to get ready. My God, in a matter of minutes he might be dead or horribly wounded.

He could feel his heart pound, and sweat broke out on his forehead. He looked at the Valium on a saucer beside a glass of water. The Chief Kripo had left it, and it was sorely tempting. He picked up the pill and held it between his thumb and forefinger. So that's how you get addicted, he thought. Physiological dependency. Was that what they would call his sexual needs? Was that at the root of his relationship with Balac?

Angrily he flung the Valium away from him. What was done was done. Now he must keep his brain as clear as possible and do what was necessary. He unlocked his briefcase and removed a compact .45-caliber Detonics automatic pistol. The weapon closely modeled on the U.S. Army Colt .45 and fired the same effective man-stopping ammunition, but it was smaller and lighter and had been specifically designed for concealment.

He slid a round into the chamber and placed it, cocked and locked, in the small of his back, where it was held in place by a spring-clip skeleton holster. He knew from past experience that the flat weapon wouldn't show. He had carried it many times when transporting valuable works of art — art collectors liked their security to be there but discreet — and he knew how to use it. This was Switzerland. Paulus von Beck, art expert and sculptor, was also a captain in the Swiss Army and was being groomed for the general staff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Lestonis," said the Bear.

"Looks like it," said the Chief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fitzduane smiled. "Sounds reasonable."

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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 airport 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 something 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 way that 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 end 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, the handle of a knife could be seen protruding 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 knew 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 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.

Pietro had been half behind the packing case when the charge went off. He had been surgically cut in two from the top of his head to the upper thigh of his right leg. The right-hand side of his body had disappeared in the rubble behind the packing case. The left-hand side still stood propped against the wall. Fitzduane's SIG automatic lay on the ground where it had fallen from Julius's belt as he collapsed. He leaped forward and grabbed it. Balac seemed to have vanished.

The shaped charge, moved away from its correct positioning against the wall and diluted by Pietro's body, had been only partially successful. One side and the top of a door-shaped aperture had been cut out of the wall, but the remaining vertical had been only half cut through, and rubble blocked the way.

Fitzduane caught a brief glimpse of Angelo Lestoni through the smoke and dust. He fired. Automatic fire scythed through the air in return. He crawled along the ground. Further bursts cut through the air above him. He could see Angelo's legs. He fired again.

The external wall of the studio seemed to implode. The noise was overwhelming — a growling metallic shrieking mixed with the crash of falling masonry and the rattle of gunfire. The muzzle of a huge machine gun poked into the room, spitting tracers. The bullets found Angelo Lestoni, who was lifted off the ground and thrown against the floor, a broken mess.

Fitzduane caught a brief glimpse of Balac at the end of the studio and fired twice rapidly.

The tank, rumbling farther forward, blocked his view. There was a string of sharp explosions as prepositioned Claymore antipersonnel mines detonated uselessly, their normally lethal ball-bearing missiles smashing harmlessly against the tank's armor.

The end of the studio erupted in a sea of flame. Members of the assault unit grabbed Fitzduane and hurried him out of the building and into a waiting ambulance. Paulus, paramedics working on him furiously, lay in the other bunk.

He heard noises, more explosions, and the sound of heavy gunfire. He felt a pinprick on his arm and a brief glimpse of a man in a white coat standing over him and the Bear behind him wearing some kind of helmet.

And then there was nothing.