Read Games of the Hangman Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
"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
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
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
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."