Read Games of the Hangman Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
Fitzduane was
mildly shocked.
"Surely
not a diet."
"Certainly not."
A look of pain crossed the Bear's face.
"It is just that too much food can dull the mind and we have some
serious thinking to do.
Now what was I
talking about?"
"Terrorism
and
said Fitzduane, "and some ideas of your own on the subject."
"Ah,
yes.
My point is that here in
don't have a terrorist problem as such, or at least not in the sense that we
suffer to any significant extent from terrorist attacks.
Oh, we have the odd incidents, to be sure,
but they are few and far between."
"So if I
understand you right," said Fitzduane, "you are suggesting that not
only is there very little terrorist activity in Switzerland, but even such few
incidents as have occurred were either accidental or directed at someone or
something outside the country."
The Bear
nodded.
"I'm not suggesting for a
moment that these few incidents are the limit of terrorist activity here.
That would be naïve and ridiculous.
No, what I am saying is that
much the same role in terrorism as it has in business and world affairs, except
that in this case it's involuntary and mainly initiated by foreigners.
I'm referring to our role as banker, head
office, communications point, middleman, and haven.
As far as those roles are concerned, I
personally believe that there is considerable terrorist activity here.
Perhaps we should spend less time on shooting
practice and more on detective work because if we don't, sooner or later some
terrorist will find he doesn't like commuting and then the blood will start to
flow here."
"And what about the youth movement?"
"Any
disillusioned kid can be manipulated," said the Bear.
"I've seen it often enough on the drug
squad.
But to suggest that the youth
movement is an embryonic terrorist grouping is going too far.
Most of the kids who demonstrate on the
streets go back home to Mommy and Daddy afterward and have hot Ovalmaltine in
the bosom of the family before they go to bed."
Fitzduane
laughed, and the Bear's resolve weakened.
He ordered the
piattino di
formaggio italiano
; the Gorgonzola, Taleggio, Fontina, and Bel Paese
surrendered gracefully.
"I'll
tell you something else," said the Bear.
"I think most people have the wrong idea about terrorists.
They think of terrorists as being a bunch of
fanatics motivated by idealism.
In other words, however reprehensible their methods, their eventual
goals are pure and noble, at least if seen from their point of view.
That may be true for some, but for many I
think the objective is simpler and more basic:
money."
"So you
are saying that many so-called terrorist incidents are actually crimes
committed solely for personal gain?"
"‘Solely’
might be going too far," said the Bear.
"Let me just say that I believe decidedly mixed emotions may be
involved.
I mean, do you have any idea
of the sheer scale of money a terrorist can make?
It's one of the fastest tax-free ways going
to make a million dollars."
"And one
of the most dangerous," said Fitzduane.
"I'm not
so sure," said the Bear.
"If
you examine a list of incidents in which money was involved — money for the
cause —" he added sardonically, "you'll be surprised by the
scale.
After the OPEC hijack of Yamani
and the other oil ministers," said the Bear, "Carlos received a
personal bonus of two million dollars from Qaddafi.
And that was a bonus on top of his other
takings.
Another small Arab group supported
by Qaddafi receives five million dollars a year, but that pales in comparison
with the sums raised by terrorists from kidnapping."
"Few
details are available because secrecy is often part of the agreement between
kidnappers and victim, but consider the activities of just one group, the ERP,
the People's Revolutionary Army of Argentina.
They got a million dollars for kidnapping a Fiat executive; they got two
million for Charles Lockwood, an Englishman who worked for Acrow Steel; they
got three million for John R. Thompson, the American president of the local
subsidiary of Firestone Tires; they were paid over fourteen million for Victor
Samuelson, an Exxon executive.
But get
this:
In 1975, the Montoneros, another
Argentinian group, demanded and received sixty million dollars in cash and
another million plus in food and clothing for the poor in exchange for the two
sons of Jorge Born, chairman of the Bunge y Born group."
"Sixty
million dollars!" exclaimed Fitzduane.
"Sixty,"
said the Bear.
"Hard to credit,
isn't it?
And I'm quoting only from the
cases we know about.
God knows how many hundreds
of millions are paid each year by companies and the rich in secret.
Either as ransom or else to
avoid being kidnapped — in other words, protection.
"Terrorism
is a business.
The publicized
hijackings, bombings, and killings create the required climate of fear.
They from the terrorist
promotional budget, if you will, and then the serious business of extracting
huge sums of money goes on steadily behind the scenes.
The iceberg parallel comes to mind again —
one-tenth exposed, nine-tenths hidden.
Terrorism is a one-tenth composed of highly
publicized outrages with an accompanying nine-tenths of secret extortion and
terror, and a profit orientation in most cases that would put Wall Street to
shame."
"You
know," said Fitzduane, "the figures on terrorism in
violence.
Over the last decade here you
seem to have had only a handful of incidents of any significance; during the
same period in Northern Ireland well over two thousand people have been killed,
tens of thousands have been injured, and damage to property has cost hundred of
millions."
"That
isn't terrorism in the Continental sense," said the Bear.
"It's a war."
*
*
*
*
*
asleep.
Cafés and restaurants were
closed and shuttered.
Windows were
dark.
The streets were empty.
Only an occasional car disturbed the quiet.
Fitzduane
leaned against the railing of the
He knew he should dictate a few notes on the
evening's developments, but he felt mellow from several hours' drinking with
the Bear, and the miniature tape recorder remained in his pocket.
The night air
was pleasantly cool.
Below him the black
waters of the
the reflection of a car's headlights as it drove along Aarstrasse and then
vanished past the Marzili.
Another late
reveler returning home, or perhaps a journalist retiring after putting the
newspaper to bed, Fitzduane speculated idly.
To his right
he could see the impressive mass of the Bellevue Hotel, with its magnificent
view of the mountains during the day from both its windows and its
terraces.
The Bear had told him that during
the Second World War the Bellevue had been the headquarters of German
intelligence activities in neutral Switzerland; the Allies had been in the less
grandiose but friendlier Schweizerhof only a few blocks away.
The lights
were still on in several of the
bedrooms.
As he watched, the rooms went
dark one by one.
Fitzduane was much take
by the Kirchenfeldbrücke, though he didn't quite know why.
It wasn't the highest bridge in
wasn't the oldest.
It had none of the
drama of the Golden Gate in
storybook appeal of
But it had a quality all its own, and it was
a good place to think.
The Bear had
offered him a ride back to the apartment, but Fitzduane had declined,
preferring to walk.
He enjoyed the
feeling of the city asleep, of the sense of space when the streets were empty,
of the freedom of the spirit when there were no other people around to
distract.
The
He consigned the remains to a watery
grave.
He turned from the railings and
began walking along the bridge toward home.
He heard laughter and a faint, familiar hissing sound.
He looked back.
Two lovers, arm in arm on roller skates, were
gliding in perfect time along the pavement toward hi.
There were moving deceptively fast, scarves
trailing behind, body movements blurred by loose-fitting garments.
As they passed under a streetlamp, they
looked at each other for a second and laughed again.
Fitzduane stepped back to let them pass.
For a moment he thought of Etan and felt
alone.
The force of
the blow to Fitzduane's chest was savage, reinforced by the momentum of the
skater.
The knife fell from the
assailant's grasp and clattered to the ground several meters away.
The assailant turned neatly on his skates,
then
glided forward to retrieve his weapon.
He tossed it from hand to hand.
Light glittered from the blade.
The woman stood some distance behind the
assailant, watching, but this was to be his kill; the fatal blow was already
struck.
Fitzduane felt
numbness and pain.
The railings were at
his back, the river below.
The tripod
case containing the shotgun had been torn off his shoulder; it lay to one side,
tantalizingly close.
He knew he would
not have time to reach it before the man with the knife attacked again.
His eyes watched the blade.
With his right hand he felt his chest for
blood.
He found there wasn't any.
He was surprised he could still stand.
The blade was
still for a moment in the assailant's hand — and then it thrust forward in a
blur of steel, the coup de grâce, a deft display of knife craft.
Adrenaline pumped through Fitzduane's
body.
With a sudden effort he moved to
one side, parrying the knife with his left arm.
He felt a burning sensation and the warmth of blood.
He thrust his right hand, fingers stiffened,
into his attacker's throat.
There was a
choking sound, and the man fell back.
He
clutched at his throat with his left hand, making gasping sounds.
His knife, held in the palm of his right
hand, fended off a further attack.
Fitzduane saw
the girl beginning to move and knew he would have to finish it quickly.
He slumped against the railings as if that
last effort had finished him.
The man
moved forward this time in a slashing attack and made a sudden rush.
Fitzduane pivoted and, using he attacker's momentum,
flung him over the railings.
There was a
short, terrified scream and a dull thud.
The girl now
had a knife in her hand.
Fitzduane moved
fast.
He threw himself in a combat roll
toward the tripod case and came up with the shotgun.
He pumped a round into the chamber.
Blood was dripping from his arm, and he felt
sick.
The girl stared at him, her knife
held out, weaving slightly.
Slowly she
backed away; then suddenly she turned and sped away into the darkness.
He could hear the hissing of her skates, and
she was gone.
He looked over
the railings, but he could see nothing.
His rib cage felt sore and bruised against the hard metal.
He stood upright and examined where the knife
had struck him initially.
The blade had
not penetrated.
The blow had been
absorbed by his miniature
recorder.
Small pieces of the machine
fell from the rent in his jacket onto the pavement and were joined by drops of
blood from his gashed arm.