Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

Within minutes of his name's flashing up on the Project K computer screen, Lodge's house in the exclusive Bern suburb of Muri had been surrounded by heavily armed police. Only minutes away from both Kirchenfeldstrasse and police headquarters, Muri was a quarter occupied mainly by diplomats, senior bureaucrats, and the ex-wives of successful businessmen. The houses were solidly built and expensive even by Swiss standards and in many cases were discreetly set back from the road in the seclusion of their own grounds.

Lodge's house wasn't just discreet; it was downright reclusive. It occupied a two-acre lot at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac. A thick screen of trees and shrubbery rendered it invisible from either the road or its neighbors on either side, and the grounds at the back of the house not only were similarly screened but led in turn to a private fenced-off wood and through it to the River Aare. Further privacy was ensured by a four-meter-high perimeter wall topped with razor wire – sprayed green for environmental reasons. The wire was electrified. The main gates were the same height as the wall and were made from oak-faced steel plate. There was no doorbell.

The Chief Kripo would have preferred to keep Lodge's place under observation for some days before taking more dramatic action, but practical realities intervened. First, the Hangman was simply too dangerous to leave on the loose any longer than necessary, and second, they had to find out as fast as possible whether they were on the right track. After all, the computer wasn't infallible. Lodge might not be the right man. He might be a totally innocent run-of-the-mill privacy-loving billionaire.

The Chief wished that there were a better way of checking out Lodge, but he couldn’t think of one. Once again he was going to lead the raid, and this time he was sweating under his body armor even before the assault team went into action. His skin felt cold and clammy, and there was an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He had a very bad feeling about what was to happen. He swallowed with difficulty and issued the command. The team started in.

Henssen replaced the receiver slowly and stared into the middle distance. "What a bloody business."

Kersdorf's legs were hurting him. "What happened?" he asked. "Is Lodge our man?"

Henssen shrugged helplessly. "The assault team lost two men going in plus another half dozen wounded. Lost as in dead. The Chief was scratched, but he's okay."

Kersdorf was silent, shocked. Then he spoke. "So Lodge is our man. Did they get him?"

"They don't even know whether he was there when the assault began," said Henssen, spreading his hands in a gesture of frustration, "but he certainly wasn't by the time they secured the house. Their best guess is that he wasn't there at all. They sweat that nobody got through their cordon and that the house was empty."

"So how come the casualties?"

"A variation on a theme. Explosives concealed in the floors and ceilings were triggered by a series of independent but mutually supporting automatic sensors: heat, acoustic, and pressure. The explosives were wrapped in some material that neutralized the sniffers."

"What about Claymores?" said Kersdorf. "We warned them to expect Claymores."

"It seems that our people just weren't good enough," said Henssen, "or at least the Hangman was better. Of course, he's had more practice, God rot him." He paused and massaged his temples. He felt acutely depressed, and light-headed from lack of sleep. He continued. "Oh, they found Claymores as expected and defused them. They followed our briefing in that respect, but then they thought they were safe – and boom."

"He's a creature of habit," said Kersdorf. "There is always a surprise within a surprise: the Chinese doll syndrome."

"Russian doll," corrected Henssen. "Those doll-within-a-doll-within-a-doll sets are Russian. They call them matrushkas; there can be three, four, or five, or six, or even more little surprises inside."

Kersdorf sighed. There was silence in the room before he spoke. "Let's get some sleep." He gestured at the computer. "At least we now know how he operates. It won't be long before we get him."

"But at what cost?" said Henssen.

The Bear was in a private room of the Tiefnau. Ten days of first-class medical care and the special attentions of one particular ward nurse with a gleam in her eye had left him, if not as good as new, at least in excellent secondhand condition. He pushed aside his tray with a satisfied sigh and split the last of the Burgundy between them..

Fitzduane picked up the empty bottle. "Hospital issue?"

"Not exactly," said the Bear, "though I suppose you might call it medically selected."

"Ah," said Fitzduane. He looked at the label. "A 1961 Beaune. Now what does that suggest to you about the lady who bought you this? This is real wine. You don't use ‘61 Beaune to take the paint off your front door."

"Hmm," said the Bear, growing a little pinker. "Do you mind if we don't talk about Frau Maurer?"

Fitzduane grinned and drained his glass.

"What's been happening?" asked the Bear. "Rest and relaxation are going to be the death of me. I'm not allowed near a phone, and the news I'm being fed is so scrappy that if I were a dog, I'd be chasing sheep."

"Don't exaggerate."

"Any progress with Vreni?"

"None. She's alive, she's physically almost recovered, but her mind is the problem. She talks little, sleeps a lot, and any attempt to question her has proved disastrous. It sends her into a fit each time. The doctors have insisted that she be left alone."

"Poor kid," said the Bear. "What about Lodge?"

"Vanished – not that he ever appeared, now I think about it. The house has been taken apart by the army and made safe, which was no small task itself. There were booby traps everywhere. Afterward the forensics people had a field day. There is no doubt that Lodge is the Hangman, but the question is, is Lodge really Lodge?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Questioning of the neighbors hasn't yielded much," explained Fitzduane. "He is a recluse. He comes and goes at irregular intervals. He is absent for long periods. It's consistent with what we expected. We have had some small luck in terms of physical description, though few people have seen him up close. Mostly quick glimpses through a car window."

"I thought all his various cars have tinted windows."

"Sometimes, on a hot day, a window might be wound down," said Fitzduane. "He has also been seen walking on a couple of occasions – both times while it was raining so he was huddled under an umbrella."

"Blond, bearded, medium build, et cetera," said the Bear.

"Quite so," said Fitzduane. "And that tallies with the photo and other personal details filed with the Bern Fremdenpolizei."

"So what's the problem?"

"We've traced some of Lodge's background in the States," said Fitzduane. "We haven't been able to lay our hands on a photograph – his father was a senior CIA man and apparently for security reasons didn't allow either himself or his family to be photographed – but the physical descriptions don't tally. Hair and eyes are a different color. Lodge in his youth had dark brown hair and brown eyes."

"A good wig and contact lenses are all you need to solve that problem."

Fitzduane shook his head. "Not so simple. Normal procedure for an alien coming to live in Switzerland involves the Fremdenpolizei, as you know. In Lodge's case, he was interviewed several times by an experienced sergeant who swears that the man he spoke to – for several hours in all – had naturally blond hair, was not wearing contact lenses, and is the man in the photo in his file, which in turn pretty much tallies with the neighbors' description."