Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

The door of Fitzduane's car was open. A convoy of police cars and trucks was lined up behind, ready to seal off Balac's warehouse as soon as Fitzduane was inside. Army units were on call. Airborne surveillance was minutes away.

"Who or what are the Lestonis?" asked Fitzduane.

The Chief shook his head. "You can't go in. We'll have to do this the old-fashioned way, with the assault unit."

"The Lestonis," explained the Bear, "are professional bodyguards who tend to be hired by distinctly unpleasant people, the Libyan People's Bureaus and the Syrian Secret Service being two examples. The Lestonis' approach to their work might best be termed preventive. Nothing has been proved, but the consensus of several police forces and rather more intelligence agencies is that they have been responsible for some eleven hits that we know of."

"Pick them up for indecent exposure," said Fitzduane. "Is there a warrant out against them?"

"There's an Interpol ‘Observe and Report’ notice out on them," said the Chief, "but no warrant. That kind of animal we sling out of Switzerland for illegal parking, and the Israelis terminate them in some dark alley. But that's not the point. It's too late. The Lestonis are already there. They arrived at Balac's nearly an hour ago."

"They're probably art collectors," said Fitzduane wryly. His mind wasn't entirely on the conversation. He was doing a last-minute check of his weapons and equipment. The remote detonator for the shaped charge was strapped to his left wrist above his watch. Another miniature transmitter would broadcast sound to the police outside. He had his SIG 9 mm loaded with Glaser bullets in an upside-down shoulder holster together with two spare clips of ammunition. In addition, he had a backup five-shot Smith amp; Wesson. 38 in a holster on his right leg, a razor-sharp Stiffelmesser knife was slipped inside his waistband in the small of his back, and he had a miniature of CS gas in his left jacket pocket and a set of disposable nylon handcuffs in his right. To top it off, he wore a Kevlar bullet-resistant vest designed to look like a T-shirt worn under his shirt. Everything was there where it should be. It seemed like a hell of a way to dress for a lunchtime drink in a city that had been at peace since Napoleonic times.

"I'm going in," he said. It was clear that some reckless moron had hijacked his voice; he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

The Chief held up four fingers. He spaced each word.

"There – is – no – fucking – way that you can go up against four people of the caliber of the Lestonis and Balac. Forget about getting the drop on them. It isn't possible. You're dealing with professionals. Killing people is what they do – and they're very good at it. They've had lots of practice. They like what they do. They've got motivation, and the Lestonis, anyway, are younger than you. They've got faster reflexes. It's a matter of biology."

The Chief grabbed a clipboard off a passing Berp and reversed the printed form that lay on it. He rested the clipboard on the top of the car and drew on the paper with a ballpoint.

"Look" – he indicated the three X's he had drawn – "if you do get close to Balac, you'll find that you'll always have one of the Lestonis at hand ready to intervene. The others" – he drew two more X's – "will be so spaced that one will be at the edge of your peripheral vision and the other will be in your blind spot. No matter how skilled you are, and even given the diversion of blowing the wall, I don't see how you can get out of this alive. Remember, you are also going to be affected by the stun grenades, even if you are prepared. The best you could hope to do would be to get who or at the most three. That still leaves you dead. I ask, is the game worth the candle? Don't answer. You can't win. If you say yes, it merely proves you're crazy, or worse, stupid."

"It isn't four to one. You're forgetting Paulus."

"Paulus is irrelevant. That pederast isn't armed, and we don't know which way he'll jump anyway. The Lestonis will swat him like a fly if he even thinks of intervening. These people kill like you shave. It's a matter of mind-set; they have no scruples. That's what gives them the edge."

As Fitzduane got into his car, he was thinking, did Balac know he'd been discovered? He thought it unlikely. Outside the car the Chief was listening to a walkie-talkie. He held the small loudspeaker close to his ear. Engines were starting up all around, and hearing was difficult. He barked an acknowledgment into the radio. "The packing case has been delivered," he said. "As expected, my men didn't get inside. Two people came out and lugged it in. Paulus went with them."

"The Lestonis," said the Bear.

"Looks like it," said the Chief.

"I've got to go," aid Fitzduane thought the open car door. "I can't leave Paulus alone for too long. I'll think of something." He slammed the door shut.

"No," said the Chief, reaching for the handle and half opening it. "I won't have it. It's too damn dangerous. Paulus will have to take his chances." He reached across for the keys.

The Bear leaped forward and took the Chief by the arm. "For God's sake, Max," he said, "this is silly. We don't have time to argue – least of all among ourselves."

"He isn’t going," repeated the Chief stubbornly.

"Compromise," said the Bear. "Fitzduane goes in, checks out the lay of the land, doesn't stay for lunch, says his good-byes quickly, and leaves. We don't blow the wall until he's out. That way we get confirmation that Balac is there and some up-to-date reconnaissance, but Fitzduane is clear before the shit starts to fly."

The Chief and Fitzduane glared at each other. "Do you agree?" asked the Chief. "No heroics. You arrive, you look around, and you get the hell out."

Fitzduane smiled. "Sounds reasonable."

The Chief closed the car door. "You're an idiot," he said. "Good luck, idiot."

"Stay close," said Fitzduane. Then he left the big police parking lot next to Waisenhausplatz and drove toward Balac's studio.

Balac rather enjoyed his informal lunchtime get-togethers. He was able to relax in the security of his own territory, on his own terms, and within limited time parameters. From twelve to two he was at home to a chosen few – although it looked casual, no one who had not been specifically vetted turned up – and he was able to delude himself that he was living a normal social existence. Of course, he knew he was deluding himself, but that was part of the pleasure.

It was convenient being an artist. You could behave in a somewhat eccentric way, and nobody gave a damn. If anything, it was good for business. Many people, in fact, thought his apparent obsession with security – triple steel doors, indeed, and television monitors – was a brilliant marketing ploy. It made him more mysterious. It made his paintings seem more valuable. It contributed to a sense of occasion leavened with a whiff of the dramatic. Anyway, getting the right price for his work, it seemed to Balac, had more to do with theater than with painting. Look at Picasso and Salvador Dali. How much more theatrical could you get? There was no doubt about it: art was a branch of show business. So was terrorism, on reflection.

"I am," he said to himself, "a man of parts." He was pleased with the thought. He uncapped a bottle of Gurten beer and drained half of it in true hell-raising chugalug fashion. The Lestonis were puffing across to the viewing area with Paulus's carefully cased Picasso. Paulus was hovering anxiously.

Balac half regretted having called the Lestonis in. They wouldn't do much for the tone of the gathering. Unfortunately they looked like what they were – professional killers. The Lestonis actually did wear snap-brim fedoras – incredible! They had even wanted to wear them inside, but Balac had drawn the line at that. The hats had been removed and now hung form three picture hooks like a surrealist sculpture. An aroma of perfumed hair oil filled the room. "Fuck me," said Balac to himself, and drained the rest of the beer. He was in a hell of a good mood.