Read Games of the Hangman Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
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The day, once
again, was warm.
Fitzduane decided he
would have to do some shopping fairly soon.
He had packed for snow, ice, wind, and rain.
He hadn't expected shirtsleeve weather so
early in the year.
They left the
Theaterplatz, passed the casino on their left, and walked across the elegant
arches of the
They passed the Kunsthalle and the Alpine and
They walked briskly; the lawyer was in good condition.
Just near the
junction of Helvetiastrasse and Kirchenfeldstrasse, von Graffenlaub turned into
a narrow cul-de-sac.
Trees shaded the
entrance.
It would have been easy to
miss from the main road.
Nameplates and
speakerphones on each entrance they passed denoted apartments.
At the fourth entrance von Graffenlaub
stopped and punched a number into the keyboard of an electronic lock.
The heavy
glass door, discreetly barred with ornate wrought steel, clicked open.
Von Graffenlaub ignored the elevator and led
Fitzduane up two short flights of stairs.
The stairs and second-floor entranceway were carpeted.
Von Graffenlaub unlocked a second door, this
time with a key.
They entered a narrow
but well-appointed hallway.
Von
Graffenlaub shut the door behind them.
It closed with a sound that suggested more than wood in its
construction.
Fitzduane
found himself grabbed.
With some slight
difficulty he disentangled himself from a huge potted plant whose greenery was
modeled on the tentacles of an octopus with thorns added.
He was becoming quite annoyed with this Swiss
obsession for growing rain forest undergrowth inside the home.
Von
Graffenlaub showed him around the apartment with the detached professionalism
of a real estate agent.
Nonetheless,
small actions and an ease of movement suggested he was very much at home.
The place was
comfortable to the point of being luxurious, but the furnishings and décor
were, for the most part, almost deliberately unostentatious.
The one exception was the master bedroom,
which featured a thick white carpet, a king-size bed with black silk sheets,
and a mirror set into the ceiling over the bed.
"Homey,"
said Fitzduane.
What must
originally have been the dining room had been turned into a lavishly equipped
study.
Laden bookshelves filled one wall.
Another wall was equipped for visual
aids.
There was a pull-down screen, a
recessed television monitor, and a hessian-covered bulletin board on which maps
and other papers could be retained by magnets.
Maps of
The furniture was
modern and quietly expensive in its solidity and degree of finish.
A conference table made a T shape with the
desk.
The stainless steel and black
padded leather chairs were of the ergonomic design; they swiveled and tilted
and were adjustable for height and lumbar support.
Full-height
folding cabinet doors were pulled back to reveal a wall of state-of-the-art
business communications equipment:
there
were several more television monitors, one of them for Reuthers Financial
Services; there was a telex, a high-speed facsimile transfer, a powerful radio
transceiver, dictating equipment, and a photocopier.
A computer terminal sat docile on a mobile
cart.
"Phones?"
asked Fitzduane; there had to be something missing.
Hew as reminded of a cartoon in
The New Yorker
:
“Even in a think tank, Glebov, nobody likes a
smart alec.”
Von
Graffenlaub pressed a button on the underside of the desk.
A recessed panel slid back, and with a whir
of electric motors, a telephone console, complete with a plethora of ancillary
equipment, slid into view.
He pointed at
one of the electronic boxes.
"It's
fitted with a tape recorder," he said.
"Naturally,"
said Fitzduane politely.
They moved on
to the kitchen.
Cabinets, double-door
refrigerator, and deep freeze groaned with food.
In one walk-in pantry, bottles of red wine
presented their bottoms in rack upon rack.
This being
the bottles had been dusted.
"The
white wine is in the cellar," said von Graffenlaub, "which is also a
nuclear shelter."
Fitzduane
almost started to laugh.
He had been
checking the labels on the red wine.
Most of it was château-bottled and vintage.
"A nuclear shelter — there's no answer
to that."
"No,
really," said von Graffenlaub.
"Almost all houses in
or easy access to one.
This has been a
building regulation for many years."
The tour
continued.
The bathroom looked hygienic
enough to stand in for an operating theater.
Obviously a full scrub and mask and gown were required before one used
the bidet.
The toilet was fitted with an
electronic flush mechanism.
Fitzduane
checked the toilet paper — soft and fluffy.
Not a trick missed.
The living
room was bright and airy.
Double-glazed
sliding doors led onto a veranda.
A long
L-shaped sofa of modern design dominated the floor.
It was covered in the softest leather
Fitzduane had ever felt on furniture.
He
sat down on the long arm and stretched out his legs in front of him.
The leather felt sensuous against his body,
warm to his hands.
Von
Graffenlaub sat across from him in an arrangement of straps, pulleys, leather,
and steel that only remotely resembled a chair but that the lawyer seemed to
find comfortable.
He placed a briefcase,
which had been resting out of sight on the floor, on his knees, then spun its
two combination locks.
The latches
sprang open with the well-machined sound of precision engineering.
"This is
a special case," he said.
"You
have to wait thirty seconds after the latches are released before opening it —
or all kinds of things happen.
Tear gas,
dye, a siren, spring-loaded extension arms shoot out.
All quite nasty."
"Whose
apartment is this?" asked Fitzduane.
"Yours."
Fitzduane
raised an eyebrow.
"No shit."
Von
Graffenlaub laughed.
It was a deep, rich
sound, infectious in its appeal.
He may
have been portrayed as ruthless capitalist by Vreni, but Fitzduane was
beginning to like the man — which was not the same as trusting him.
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Erika von
Graffenlaub drew up her knees and spread them.
Her hands clutched at the sweat-dampened sheet.
She waited, eyes for the moment closed, as
his mouth and tongue came nearer the focus of her pleasure.
She could feel the warmth of his breath
first, then the faintest soft touch of his tongue on her clitoris.
She waited, trying to lie absolutely
motionless as slowly, every so slowly, the gentle caressing continued.
Her breathing increased in tempo, but as the
minutes passed she managed to remain almost without moving, occasional tremors
the only outward sign of the passion soaring within her.
It was a game
he had taught her.
He liked to tease, to
delay, to titillate, until sheer physical desire was so strong it could no
longer be resisted but for an infinitely precious time was overwhelming, was
all dominant, was the very stuff of life itself.
The pressure
of his tongue was increasing slightly.
Now he was into that rhythm that only he — and she — seemed to
know.
He cupped her breasts with his
hands, the tips of his fingers caressing her protruding nipples.
Suddenly she could lie still no longer.
Her body arched and shook, and her thighs
clamped his head to her.
Her body
vibrated, and her hands kneaded his arms and shoulders and then dug into the
back of his neck, drawing him ever closer.
"Now!"
she cried.
"Hurt me now!"
His fingers tightened on her breasts and
nipples, and there was pain, stark agony contrasting with the waves of pleasure
that coursed through every atom of her body, that excited every nerve ending,
every essence.
She screamed as she came,
but in absolute ecstasy, and she screamed again as he abandoned his subjugation
between her loins and entered her with brutal force.
Later, when it
was over, she sat cross-legged on the bed and stared at her image in the tinted
mirror.
She held her breasts in her
hands and then felt them gently.
They
were bruised and sore, but in the afterglow of sex the feeling was almost a
pleasure.
"I have
been thinking about the Irishman," she said.
"Don't
worry," said the man with the golden hair.
"Everything is under control."
"No,"
she said.
"Everything never
is.
It doesn't work that way."
"Are you
concerned?" he asked.
He was
standing in front of her.
She thought
that he looked beautiful, awesome,
dangerous
.
She reached out and cupped his male organ in
her hands.
His testicles felt
heavy.
His penis was already beginning
to grow tumescent again.
She touched its
tip with her tongue.
"No,"
she said, "but he's an attractive man.
I'd like to fuck him before he dies."
The man with
the golden hair smiled.
"Dear
little Erika," he said, "such a creature of love."
She drew him
into her mouth.
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"I own
this apartment," said von Graffenlaub.
"It seems to me that your inquiries could well take some time,
probably weeks, perhaps longer.
You will
need a place where you can talk to people in confidence, where you can plan and
organize,
where there is privacy.
I am offering you this place for as long as
is necessary.
I think you will be more
comfortable here than in your hotel, and you will have a better working base.
I should add that there is a car in the
garage that you may use.
It is a small
BMW.
Do you accept?"
Fitzduane
nodded.
It was a qualified nod, but he
didn't want to interrupt the lawyer for the moment.
He sensed there was more.
"Good,"
said von Graffenlaub.
"When I
become involved with something, I like it to be done well."
He smiled.
"The Swiss passion for efficiency, it's bred into us."
He tapped the briefcase.
"In here I have assembled as much
information as I could think of that may be useful to you.
There are photographs, school and medical
reports, the names and addresses of friends, contacts in the various police
forces, letter of introduction, and money."
"Money
isn't necessary," said Fitzduane.
"I
know," said von Graffenlaub.
"I gather from reports I have received that you earn a most
respectable income from your profession and in addition have other resources
.
My agents were
unable to determine either the extent or the nature of this other capital.
They were surprised at this, as was I.
My contacts are normally successful in these
matters."
There was an unspoken
question in his remarks.
Fitzduane
grinned.
"The Swiss are not the
only people with a basic distrust of central government and a preference for
confidentiality.
But let me repeat, I do
not need your money — though I do appreciate your offer."
Von
Graffenlaub flushed slightly.
They were
not talking about money.
The real issue
was control.
He realized that the
Irishman had no intention of allowing himself to be manipulated in any
way.
He would be agreeable, cooperative
even, but he would remain his own man.
It was not a situation the lawyer was used to.
Fitzduane's gaze was steady.
There was steel in those green-gray
eyes.
Damn the man.
Reluctantly von Graffenlaub nodded.