Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

Fitzduane held up a Glaser round. "Do the good guys have a monopoly on these things?"

"Their sale is restricted," said the Bear.

Fitzduane raised an eyebrow.

"No," said the Bear.

The Chief Kripo was talking on a secure line to Kilmara in Ireland.

Kilmara sounded concerned. "Is there no other way? Hugo isn't twenty-two anymore. One's reflexes slow up with age."

"It's Fitzduane's idea," said the Chief. "You know what's happened when we've gone in the conventional way. We've taken casualties. Hugo believes half the battle is getting in. Then, if Balac is present, his own safety will prevent him using his gadgetry. It becomes a conventional arrest – mano a mano."

"Supposing Balac isn't alone?"

"Fitzduane won't move until he's blown the shaped charge," said the Chief. "We've added stun grenades to the mix. That should buy Fitzduane the time he needs and will enable us to get help to him fast. We're using our best people for this."

"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 Ireland?" 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 amp; 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 Bern. 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 Bern, and he decided a margin of extra 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.