Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

"No, really," said von Graffenlaub. "Almost all houses in Switzerland have nuclear shelters – 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.

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.

"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.

"I accept your offer of the apartment," said Fitzduane. "I find it hard to resist a good wine cellar." His tone was mollifying and friendly. "Tell me," he added, almost as an afterthought, "is the phone tapped and the place bugged?"

Fitzduane's tone and manner had lulled the lawyer. Von Graffenlaub was disconcerted and visibly embarrassed. Momentarily he was speechless.

"Yes," he said finally.

"Specially for me?" said Fitzduane, "or are bugs part of the decor – sort of companions to the house plants?"

"They were installed to record you. I gave the order before my investigations into your background were completed. I did not know with whom I was dealing."

"People in the electronics business call it a learning curve," said Fitzduane. "Tell me, who normally uses this place?"

"I have had this apartment for many years. I use it from time to time when I want to be alone, or to work on something particularly confidential."

"I see," said Fitzduane, "sort of an adult tree house."

"The recording devices will be removed immediately," said von Graffenlaub. He went to the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses of whiskey. He gave one to Fitzduane. Fitzduane tasted it. It was Irish, a twelve-year-old Jameson.