Read Games of the Hangman Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
"Four
different languages are spoken — German, French, Italian, and Romansh — and God
alone knows how many dialects.
The Swiss
are further divided by religion.
Nearly
fifty percent are Catholic, and about forty-eight percent Protestant of various
shades.
I'm not too sure about the
balance.
"Unlike
most other countries, which are strongly centralized, power in
at least in theory and in many cases in practice, comes from the bottom
up.
The core unit is the Gemeinde, or
community.
A bunch of
Gemeinden together make
up a canton, and there are twenty-six cantons,
making up what the outside world knows as
"Central
government in
The constitution strictly
limits its powers, and the voters make sure it does not get too much of the tax
revenue.
Control of money is power:
little money, little power."
Guido smiled
cynically, yet his expression belied his tone.
Guido had a certain pride in being Swiss.
"Different
languages, different dialects, different religions, different geography,
different neighbors, different customs," said Fitzduane.
"What holds it all together?"
"Different
things," said Guido, smiling.
"A damn good constitution, nearly seven hundred years of precedent,
a shared affluence — though not shared equally — and one very strong element in
the social gule, the army."
"Tell me
about the Swiss Army," said Fitzduane.
"Time to
eat," said Christina, appearing in the doorway.
"It's not good for Guido to eat late."
She moved forward to help Guido out of his
chair.
The gesture was discreet but well
practiced.
As he grew tired, he needed
assistance but still must be seen to be in command of his faculties.
It was a caring action, one of love.
Fitzduane
resisted the impulse to help.
He stayed
back and busied himself moving the wineglasses to the dining room table and,
with a little encouragement from Guido, opening another bottle of wine.
*
*
*
*
*
Kadar was
silent, lost in his recollections.
Whitney Reston's death had been blamed on Castro and his rebels.
As a CIA man helping Batista's anti-Communist
police, Whitney was an obvious target.
After
Whitney's death Kadar had gone back to his little world of microphones and tape
recorders and spy holes.
He fitted time
switches and experimented with voice actuation.
He made his own directional mike and experimented with using the
electrical circuitry as a transmission medium.
He even managed to install bugs in both
It might have
been thought that all this surveillance activity was dedicated to finding out
more about who killed Whitney.
Ironically, that was not the case.
At the time Kadar was in shock.
He had accepted
claim that the killers had been caught and executed.
Even when he learned — it was from a
conversation in the car — that the people who were actually executed were
innocent of that specific killing, he had still accepted that the killers were
rebels.
In truth he
was looking for nothing in particular.
The work was an end in itself.
It
stopped him from thinking about what he had lost.
It helped prepare him for his future on his
own.
It helped him feel in control.
One day
Kadar.
He said that somebody wanted to
see him and that he wasn't to tell his mother.
He told Kadar to clean himself up and put on a suit and tie, the drove
him to a house on Calle Olispo in Haban Vieja.
On the way
knew what was good for him, he'd pay attention, be polite, and respond
favorably to anything that was suggested.
Kadar was
shown into a sparsely furnished room on the second floor,
then
left alone.
The windows were closed, and
the place had an unlived-in feel to it.
A few minutes later a distinguished-looking American came in.
He locked the door and motioned Kadar to take
a seat.
Kadar knew
immediately who he was.
Mother had kept
a photograph of his and had talked about him many times.
Of course, he was older now, and there was
gray in his hair, but he had one of those spare
England
He took a
cigarillo out of a silver cigarette case and lit it.
He wore a pale gray lightweight suit, a club
tie, and a shirt of blue oxford cloth with a button-down collar.
His shoes were the kind that bankers
wear.
He couldn’t have been anything but
an American of a certain privileged class.
"I think
you know who I am," the man said.
"My
father," Kadar answered, "Henry Bridgenorth Lodge."
"Your
English is good," Lodge noted.
"Your mother, I guess?"
Kadar nodded.
"I
haven't got a lot of time," Lodge said, "so listen carefully to what
I have to say.
I know I haven't been any
kind of father to you.
I won't try to
apologize.
It would be a waste of
time.
These things happen — especially
in wartime.
That's all there is to it.
"When I
met your mother, I had a wife and a small son already.
When I got back to
I didn't even want her to know about
It was all a bad
dream.
I wiped out the last few years
from my mind — and that included your mother and you.
I never gave you a thought.
"Peace
and quiet
were
fun for a while, but soon the juices
began to flow.
There's a high you get
from action, and I missed the excitement.
The
for the spooks.
After a year or so of
being outmaneuvered by Stalin on every front and with country after country
being grabbed by the Reds, Truman did an about-face, and the CIA was born.
Because of my
floor.
I had field experience; I speak
several languages, including Spanish.
I
got promoted fast.
"About
seven years ago I was asked to take a look at our Cuban operations.
The Company had taken over
FBI, and there were some questions about the reliability of a number of the
agents we inherited.
It all got
straightened out, but in the process something made me track down your mother
and you.
"Now
don't get me wrong.
I wasn't thinking of
rekindling an old passion.
I was happily
married.
I'm one of those lucky people
for whom it has worked.
No, it was more
like curiosity.
"I found
the pair of you weren't doing too well.
You were stuck in some nothing town in the toughest province in
You were barely surviving.
"I have
learned to be cold-blooded over the years — this job doesn't leave you with
much faith in human nature — but something pushed me into trying to help.
I figured what you needed was a guardian —
some kind of protector — and some money."
"
muttered.
Lodge looked
at Kadar appraisingly.
"Smart boy.
were bright.
You've probably guessed the
rest of it.
He's been one of our people
for a long time.
I didn't tell him to make
your mother his mistress; that was
I told him to look after the pair of you, and
I paid him a retainer.
It was my money —
not CIA funds.
He received those as
well.
"Why have
you sent for me now?
"
Kadar said.
"Do you expect thanks?"
Lodge smiled
thinly.
"I can see we're going to
have a loving relationship.
No, it's got
nothing to do with my expecting gratitude, and its' not for any feeling I have
for you.
I don't even know whether I'm
going to like you.
But that's not the
issue.
I need you for my wife.
Two years ago our son died — of meningitis,
of all stupid things.
She can't have any
more children, and neither of us wants to adopt a complete stranger.
You're a solution.
She's been seriously depressed since Timmie's
death.
You could make all the
difference."
"Does she
know about me?
"
Kadar asked.
"Yes,"
Lodge said.
"I told her about you a
year ago.
She was upset at first, but
now she had come around to the idea that it would be wonderful.
She's a religious lady, and she sees you filling
the gap as something preordained by God.
You have Bridgenorth Lodge blood of the right shade of blue flowing in
your veins."
"What
about my life here?
"
Kadar asked.
"What about Mother?
Does she know about this?"
"Listen,
kid," Lodge said, "in a few weeks' time Castro and his Commie friends
are going to take
over,
and
into the sewers.
This country isn't much
now.
Under the Fidelistas it's going to
get a whole lot worse.
They talk about
democracy.
They mean a one-party
dictatorship controlling every second of every Cuban's life.
People will remember the Batista years as the
good old days.
"In
contrast, if you come to the States to live with my wife and me, you're going
to have a chance to really make it.
You'll lose that accent.
You'll
go to the best schools and the best universities.
You'll be able to follow whatever career you
want.
I ask you, which is the better
deal?"
"And what
about Mother?
"
Kadar repeated.
"Does she know what you're
proposing?"
"Not
yet," Lodge answered.
"But
don't pretend you care what she thinks.
Don't try to bullshit me.
I know
about your relationship with your mother.
Don't forget
my man."
"Are you
rich?
"
Kadar said.
"You're a
sentimental young fellow, aren't you?
I
see you've inherited some of our family traits."
Lodge smiled slightly.
"Comfortable."
"How comfortable?"
"I'll
give you a million dollars when you are twenty-one if you agree to my
proposition.
Does that help?"
"Yes,
Father," Kadar said.
It had become
clear to him that he was going to need a great deal of money.
Lodge's million would not be enough, and
there was sure to be
terms
and
conditions.
Besides,
he wanted money that no one would know about.
Money is power, but secret money is control.
Kadar was
lying on his bed that same evening, listening to Ventura and his mother through
headphones, when he heard something that determined what he had to do — and
then all the little pieces would fall into place.
"Well, my
sweet,"
Kadar's mother
didn't say anything.