Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

"Herr Fitzduane, who's been to several of these buffet lunches, says that people normally don't turn up until about 1220. It's our intention, therefore, to have the whole thing wrapped up before then. We don't want any innocent burghers caught in the crossfire.

"Let's go through the sequence. One – just after 1200 hours Paulus von Beck will arrive in a delivery van with the picture in a packing case. He'll have two deliverymen with him. If we're in luck, they'll be allowed into the studio with the picture, and they'll grab Balac there and then. However, most likely – this is Balac's normal routine – they'll be asked to leave the packing case inside the first door. You will recall that he has an extensive security system that involves a three-door entrance hall. Only one door is opened at one time. It's a kind of double air lock, a classic installation in secure buildings and a bitch to overcome since all three doors are of armored steel. It was because of the entrance problem that we came up with this Trojan Horse idea.

"Two – a couple of minutes after Paulus's arrival Fitzduane will turn up. If the deliverymen aren't allowed in, as we expect, he will offer to give Paulus a hand, and together they will move the packing case into the studio and lean it against the wall. According to Paulus, there is one particular spot that Balac normally used to hang pictures he's assessing – something to do with the right lighting – and that's marked on the diagram here.

"Three – we are now into the area of discretion, but the basic plan is for Fitzduane to neutralize Balac and blow the shaped charge. The we come storming in as rehearsed and instantly remove Balac into custody. Any questions?"

The second-in-command of the assault unit, an intelligent-looking police lieutenant in his late twenties, spoke. "Will Paulus von Beck be armed?"

"No," said the Bear. "He has been associated with Balac in the past. We aren't suggesting serious criminal involvement, but we don't want to run any risks."

"Supposing people arrive before Herr Fitzduane is going to have to use his discretion. He'll have to pick his time. It's not a perfect plan, merely the least objectionable."

The questions continued, double- and triple-checking aspects of the plan. The fact that the assault team members were intelligent and well trained gave Fitzduane some degree of comfort, but he still had to face the stark reality that they would be outside the building when he made his move, and for a vital few seconds – he'd be on his own with Paulus, unarmed and unproven, and a multiple killer. It didn't promise to be a fun lunch.

The question and answer session had finished. The assault unit filed past Fitzduane, the commander of the unit bringing up the rear. He held out his hand. "Herr Fitzduane, my men – and I – we wish you well."

"A drink together when it's over," said the Bear. "I'll buy."

Fitzduane smiled. "It'll cost you."

The unit commander gave a small salute and left the room.

Anxiously Paulus von Beck supervised the loading of the packing case containing the Picasso collage. He was less concerned about the safety of the painting itself -although that was a factor – than he was about Balac's noticing something unusual about the moving men. The overalled policemen weren't used to the finer touches involved in handling a painting worth about as much as the average policeman would earn in a lifetime. The exercise was repeated several times until they looked like trained moving men – at least to a superficial glance.

He was thinking that every job has its own visual style in addition to expertise. You'd imagine anybody in the right coveralls could look like a deliveryman, but it just wasn't so. A man who carries things for a living soon works out certain ways of lifting and carrying that make even difficult jobs seem easy.

To his critical eye, the policemen didn't look quite right. They were using too much muscle and not enough brains to lift the heavy case. Well, what else could you expect from policemen? he said to himself. He walked back to his office briskly. There was barely enough time for him to get ready. My God, in a matter of minutes he might be dead or horribly wounded.

He could feel his heart pound, and sweat broke out on his forehead. He looked at the Valium on a saucer beside a glass of water. The Chief Kripo had left it, and it was sorely tempting. He picked up the pill and held it between his thumb and forefinger. So that's how you get addicted, he thought. Physiological dependency. Was that what they would call his sexual needs? Was that at the root of his relationship with Balac?

Angrily he flung the Valium away from him. What was done was done. Now he must keep his brain as clear as possible and do what was necessary. He unlocked his briefcase and removed a compact. 45-caliber Detonics automatic pistol. The weapon closely modeled on the U.S. Army Colt. 45 and fired the same effective man-stopping ammunition, but it was smaller and lighter and had been specifically designed for concealment.

He slid a round into the chamber and placed it, cocked and locked, in the small of his back, where it was held in place by a spring-clip skeleton holster. He knew from past experience that the flat weapon wouldn't show. He had carried it many times when transporting valuable works of art – art collectors liked their security to be there but discreet – and he knew how to use it. This was Switzerland. Paulus von Beck, art expert and sculptor, was also a captain in the Swiss Army and was being groomed for the general staff.

Charlie von Beck came into the room and closed the door behind him. He leaned back against it. He was remembering a time when he and Paulus had been as close as brothers. "You know, Paulus," he said, "I've been thinking some rather unkind thoughts about you recently."

Paulus smiled slightly. "I've been thinking some rather unkind thoughts about myself."

"You love somebody – you trust somebody – and then you find he's flawed in some way that offends you," said Charlie von Beck. "Suddenly you feel betrayed, and you start asking questions. The loved one becomes someone you hate – you want to hurt – to compensate for the hurt you feel."

"It's a natural reaction," said Paulus. He prepared to leave the room. Charlie still leaned against the door as if unsure what to do. "I've got to go," Paulus said. "Relax, I don't need a speech. I know what has to be done."

"You fucking idiot," said Charlie. He embraced Paulus in a bear hug and then stood back as if embarrassed. "I guess blood is thicker than-"

"An errant penis," aid Paulus with a rueful smile. "Don't worry. I won't let the von Beck's down."

"I know that." Charlie stepped back from the door. Through the window he watched Paulus get into his car and drive away, the delivery van containing the two policemen and the Picasso in its packing case following close behind.

He wondered if he should have done anything about Paulus's carrying a gun. The Chief's view was that Paulus should not be armed, and Fitzduane wasn't expecting him to be. And supposing he was wrong about Paulus?

He hoped Balac wasn't in the habit of embracing his guests. The gun didn't show, but in a bear hug it could certainly be felt. He looked at his watch yet again. Whatever the outcome, it should be over within the hour. He left the museum and headed toward Waisenhausplatz.

"How much time have we got?" The Chief Kripo's nostrils flared in anger, and his whole body radiated rage, but his voice was controlled – barely. He held a message slip in his hand.

"Five or six minutes," said the Bear. "Charlie has called in. Paulus has already left. In fact, he should be almost there by now."

The Chief thrust the message at the Bear. "Something about a new man in the Operations Room taking a shit and – well, this is no time for a postmortem."