Read Games of the Hangman Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
Fitzduane
sighed and spread his hands in resignation.
There was a glint in his eyes.
"This all
started with a morning constitutional," he said.
"It's turning out like
"Don't
complain," said Kilmara.
"
photographer's war.
Now, will you do
it?"
"Why
not?" said Fitzduane.
"I've
never worked with a Bear and an intelligent computer before."
"We'll
call the operation Project K," said Kilmara, "on account of your
upmarket location."
He tossed
Fitzduane a bulky package.
"An
Easter present," he said.
The package
contained a bottle of Irish whiskey, fifty rounds of custom-loaded shotgun
ammunition, and a lightweight Kevlar bulletproof vest.
"It's our
standard How-to-get-on-in-Switzerland kit," said Kilmara.
Fitzduane
looked up at him.
"How did you know
about the shotgun?"
"Von Beck
told me you were lugging one around in your tripod bag," said
Kilmara.
"Besides, I remember your
taste in weapons from the
"I gather
you think I'll need this stuff."
"Haven't
a clue, but it's no use running out with your Visa card when the shooting
starts."
Fitzduane
picked up one of the shotgun rounds.
It
was stenciled with the marking “XR-18.”
"What's
this?"
"It's an
experimental round," said Kilmara, "that we've cooked up
ourselves.
As you know, a shotgun
pattern is useless against a man above fifty yards — and if you've any sense,
you'll fire at less that half that distance.
A solid slug has more range but poor accuracy.
Well, we ran across a new discarding-sabot
slug that will enable you to hit a torso-size target at up to two hundred
yards.
We combined it with some of the
characteristics of the Glaser slug by filling it with liquid Teflon and other
material.
It works" — he paused —
"rather well."
"Any good
against dragons?" said Fitzduane.
*
*
*
*
*
Kadar held a
flower in his hands.
He plucked the
petals one by one and watched them flutter to the ground.
Already they have begun to decompose, he
thought.
Soon they will be part of the
earth once more, and they will feed other flowers.
More likely some developer will grab the
location and stop the cycle with a few tons of concrete.
Even beautifully preserved
edges.
But the old town, he was
delighted to say, maintained it charmed life.
He decided he
would make a donation to ProBern.
Just
because he was a terrorist didn't mean he couldn’t be concerned about the
environment.
Good grief,
everything from mercury in the water to acid rain killing the trees.
Half the men in the
There were
too many people wanting too much in too small a space.
Really, killing a few people was for the
long-term good.
Mother Earth needed some
supporting firepower.
He decided to send
some money to Greenpeace, too.
He had no
desire to spend his retirement building up his radioactivity level so that he
could read at night by the glow.
Besides, he liked whales.
"It's
tidying-up time," he said.
"You know I like neat projects.
Well, I want Geranium to be especially neat."
"How long
do we have?" asked one of the five people sitting in a semicircle before
him.
He was a Lebanese who had
freelanced for the PLO until the Mossad blew up his contact and two bodyguards
and their armor-plated, totally untamperable-with Mercedes in
He knew
He had developed a strong bias against German
cars and flinched inwardly every time a Mercedes taxi went by.
He liked
take a tram if time was pressing.
You
could kill to a schedule.
Working for
Kadar you soon learned to meet your deadlines.
"You each
have your own timetable," said Kadar, "but the whole operation must
be completed inside two weeks.
Then we
will rendezvous in
By the end of May you will all be quite rich."
Kadar opened
his rucksack and a large carryall and removed five packages.
He gave one to each of the terrorists.
"Each package contains your
weapon,
a and the envelope contains details of your targets,
travel arrangements, tickets, and so on.
I suggest that you read these details here so that I can answer any
questions."
There was the
rustle of paper as the envelopes were opened.
One of the two women present used a switchblade that she wore strapped
in a quick-release mechanism on the inside of her left forearm.
Her name was Sylvie, and she had trained with
Action Directe in
Sylvie read her operations order and looked
up at Kadar.
His face was
expressionless.
He looked at the group.
"Perhaps
you would like to examine your weapons," he said.
Each terrorist
bent forward and began to open the package.
Inside the external wrapping was a layer of polyethylene followed by
waxed paper.
Sachets of silica gel had
been added to absorb any surplus moisture.
The weapons were free of protective grease and, though unloaded, were
otherwise ready for use.
Soon one
Czech-made VZ-61 Skorpion lay
exposed,
then two
more.
Sylvie had a 9 mm Ingram fitted
with a silencer.
She clipped a magazine
into place and cocked the weapon.
The remaining
terrorist — a Swiss who operated under the name of Siegfried — sat looking at
the jagged half-meter splinter of polished stone he had unwrapped.
Letters had been cut into it.
His face was ashen.
He looked up at Kadar.
"You're playing a joke with me?"
"Well,
yes — and then again, no," said Kadar.
"It's not just any piece of stone, though I admit it's not the size
it should be.
I couldn’t carry the whole
thing.
Still, I'm sure you can work out
the point."
Siegfried felt
a fear he had never thought possible.
It
penetrated every fiber of his being.
He
knew he was shaking, but he was no longer able to control his body.
His vision blurred; his mouth went dry.
He thought of the people he had killed.
He had always wondered what it felt like to
be a victim.
What did they think and
feel when they looked down the barrel of his gun and knew that there was no way
out, that nothing they could do or say would make any difference?
Then he thought of all the work he had done
for Kadar, and a wave of anger restored in him some slight ability to act.
"What —
what do you mean?"
The words came
out in a jerky whisper so quiet they were almost drowned out by the sound of
buzzing insects.
Shafts of sunlight
penetrated the treetops and flooded the clearing.
"Why?" he said.
"Why, why?"
"I pay
well, as you know," said Kadar, "but I do demand obedience.
Absolute obedience."
He stressed every syllable.
"I
haven't disobeyed you," said Siegfried.
"I'm
afraid you have," said Kadar.
"You were questioned two days ago by the Kripos.
You were held for twenty-four hours and then
released.
Under those circumstances you
should not have come to this meeting.
You might have led the police to us."
"It was
only a routine investigation.
I told
them nothing.
They know nothing."
"You
should have reported being held.
You did
not.
A sin of omission, as Catholics
would say."
"I wanted
to work for you," said Siegfried.
"Geranium is so close."
"Well, we
can't have everything we want.
Didn't
they teach you that in nursery school?"
Kadar looked at Sylvie.
"In
about thirty seconds."
He looked
back at Siegfried.
"I thought you'd
have recognized it," he said, indicating the polished stone.
"It's a piece of gravestone.
There wasn't time to have it properly
inscribed."
The Ingram
fires at the rate of twelve hundred rounds a minute — roughly twice the speed
of the average hand-held automatic weapon.
Sylvie blew her victim's head off with half of the thirty-two-round
magazine in a fraction of a second.
Kadar was
already on his feet.
He pointed at the
envelopes and wrapping paper that littered the ground in front of the four
remaining terrorists.
"As you know,
I am concerned about the environment.
I
would take it kindly if you would remove this litter when you go."
"What
about him?" asked the Lebanese, looking at Siegfried's splayed
body.
"Not to
worry," said Kadar, "he's biodegradable."
With that Kadar vanished into the wood.
*
*
*
*
*
Ivo was still
in
headquarters, in fact, but the Kripos and Berps of the City of
failing to recognize him:
plain Ivo no
longer existed.
He had been replaced by
someone much better suited to the task at hand, a figure of legendary courage
and valor
who
would pursue his quest to the ends of
the earth.
What had started as a
pleasing notion while waiting for the Monkey in the Hauptbahnhof had
metamorphosed, in Ivo's drug-blasted mind, into
fact.
He was Sir Ivo, noble knight and hero.
In keeping
with his new status, Sir Ivo had adopted a new mode of dress.
Since armor and other knightly accoutrements
were not readily available in downtown
he had to improvise with a little judicious pillaging.
In place of chain mail, he wore a one-piece
scarlet leather motorcycle suit festooned with enough zippers and chains to
clink and clank appropriately.
Over it
he wore a surcoat made from a designer sheet featuring hundreds of miniature
Swiss flags and a cloak fashioned from brocade curtain material.
Roller skates served as his horse, and a
motorcycle helmet fitted with a tinted visor did service as his helm.
Sir Ivo knew that
he had enemies, so he decided to disguise himself as a harmless
troubadour.
He slung a Spanish guitar
around his neck.
It was missing most of
its strings, but that was somewhat irrelevant since the sound box had been cut
away to serve as a combined scabbard, arms store, and commissary.
The guitar itself contained a bloodstained
sharpened motorcycle chain — referred to by Sir Ivo as his mace and chain — and
half a dozen painted hard-boiled eggs.
In his new
outfit Sir Ivo was bulkier, taller, and — with his helmet visor down —
faceless.
The valiant knight raised his
visor and lit up a joint.
He was giving
serious thought to his next move.
He was
getting closer to the man who had killed Klaus, but the question was what he
should do with the information he had already acquired.
He thought it would be nice to have some
help.
He missed having Klaus to talk
to.
Working out what one should do next
was a difficult business by oneself.
He
liked the idea of a band of knights, the Knights of the Round Table.