members were imprisoned before Rudi came on the scene. Still, there were many sympathizers who got away. Some of them were known to the police and watched.'
'So you're saying that Rudi wasn't actively involved,' said Fitzduane. 'He was more of a terrorist groupie once removed.'
Vreni smiled. 'That's a funny way of putting it, but I suppose it's about right.'
'And where were you in all this?' said Fitzduane.
She looked at him without answering, and then she turned away and stared at the floor, her hands clasped around her knees. 'I prefer to be an Aussteiger. I don't want to hurt anyone,' she said quietly.
'What's an Aussteiger? '
'What in English you call a dropout,' said Vreni. 'Actually it's funny. The German word means more like a ‘climb-out.’ Here you can't just drop out like in America. You have to make the effort – to climb.'
She yawned. It was past midnight. Her voice was beginning to slur from the combined effects of tiredness and grass. He had many other questions to ask, but most would have to wait until morning. He doubted she would speak so freely in the light of day. Few people did.
He had the sense that what he was hearing was true, but only part of the truth; it was a parallel truth. Something else had been happening at the same time, something that, perhaps, Vreni did not know – or was only partially informed about. He yawned himself. It was pieces, feelings, vibes, guesswork at this stage.
'I'm sleepy,' she said. 'We can talk some more in the morning.'
She uncurled herself from the floor and knelt on her haunches in front of him. Her blouse was unbuttoned, and he could see the swell of her breasts and the tops of her nipples. She brought her face close to his. He could feel her breath, smell her body. She slid an arm around his neck and caressed him. She kissed him on the lips, and her tongue snaked into his mouth for a moment before he pulled back. Her hand flickered across the bulge in his trousers and then withdrew.
'You know, Irishman,' she whispered as if to herself, 'you know that they're going to kill you, don't you?' Then she vanished through he round hole in the ceiling. In his exhaustion Fitzduane was unsure that he'd heard her correctly.
Small sounds woke him. The room was empty, and the lamp, almost out of oil, sputtered as it quietly died. He saw her legs first, then the V-shaped patch of fawn pubic hair as she slid down from her room onto the warm stone of the choust. The gold bracelet on her left wrist caught the last flickers of light. Then her naked body was shrouded in darkness.
He could hear her moving slowly across the floor toward him. She was sobbing quietly. He could feel the wetness of her cheek against his outstretched hand. Without speaking, he drew her into the bed beside him and held her in his arms. Her tears wet the hair on his chest. He kissed her gently as one would kiss a child, and after a long while she fell asleep.
He remained awake thinking for several hours until the first faint light of dawn eased its way through the curtains. Vreni slept easily, her breathing deep and even. Very slowly he unclasped the bracelet from her wrist, moving it only slightly so he could see what was there. It was hard to discern in the minimal light, but he could see enough. There was no tattoo. Vreni stirred slightly but did not waken.
Across the breakfast table she was silent and subdued. She did not look at him as she made him coffee and placed a bowl of muesli in front of him. To break the silence, he asked her who did the milking. The milk he was pouring was still fresh and steaming.
She looked up at him and laughed a little humorlessly. 'Peter arranged it,' she said. 'We have a neighbor. He lives in the village, but his cow byre is close to ours. We take turns to do the milking.'
'You're not completely alone then.'
'Willi is good with the cows,' she said, 'but he's over sixty, set in his ways, and to given much to conversation.'
'So you get lonely.'
'Yes,' she said, 'I do. I really do.' She sat without speaking for a few moments and then stood up and began busying herself around the kitchen. Suddenly, leaning against the sink, her back to Fitzduane, she started sobbing, a violent, unstoppable outpouring.
Fitzduane stood and went to put his hands on her shoulders to comfort her. Her back was corded with tension. He made as if to take her in his arms, but she shook him off angrily. Her hand clenched the edge of the sink, the knuckles white with the force of her grip.
'You don't know what you're dealing with,' she said. 'I was a fool to talk to you. It's none of your business. You don't understand, this whole thing is too complicated. It's nothing to do with you.'
He started to say something, but she turned on him, screaming. Her face was distorted by anger and fear. Her voice broke as she shouted at him. 'You idiot! Don't you know it's too late? It's gone too far! I can't go back, and no one can help me. No one!' Vreni rushed out of the kitchen into the main room, slamming the door behind her. A bag of brown rice balanced on one of the kitchen shelves thudded to the floor. He heard the phone ring and then Vreni answer. She did not seem to speak much. Once he heard a single word when she raised her voice; it was repeated several times. It sounded like nay , Swiss-German dialect for no. He went back to the kitchen table to finish breakfast.
Some minutes later Vreni walked slowly back into the kitchen. Her face was ashen. He could scarcely hear her as she spoke.
'You'd better go,' she said. 'Now.' She pressed a small package into his hand. It was wrapped in paper and was about the size of a screw-top coffee jar. She held her lips to his cheek for a few moments and clasped him tight.
'Thank you for trying,' she said, 'but it's too late.' She turned and left the room. She had scarcely looked at him while she was speaking. Her face was streaked with tears. Fitzduane knew that to push her further would be worse than useless.
He walked back down the track to Heiligenschwendi. The snow and slush had frozen in the night and crackled underfoot. There was ice on the mountain road, too, so he drove slowly and with particular care. He checked his mirror often and several times stopped to admire the view. Once he broke out a telephoto lens and took some photographs of the twisting road and of a motorcyclist demonstrating his skill gliding around a corner. The biker accelerated when he saw Fitzduane's camera and did not acknowledge the Irishman's wave.
Fitzduane had lunch in Interlaken, did the things that tourists do, and drove back sedately to Bern. When the biker turned off at the outskirts of the city, Fitzduane was almost sorry to see him go. Still, It might be a good idea to find out who was following him. He was beginning to be sorry he had left his Kevlar vest back in Ireland. Switzerland was turning out to be rather different from what he had expected.
He thought he might just buy himself a gun.
13
Fitzduane was interested in weapons – training in them had formed part of his upbringing – and in the isolation of his castle and grounds he interpreted the restrictive Irish gun laws rather liberally. In Ireland a permit was needed for something as relatively nonlethal as an air rifle, and obtaining a license for a handgun was almost impossible. Also, there were few gun shops in Ireland, and the selection of weapons in them was limited.
He was intrigued by the Swiss approach to firearms and had already found out that the Swiss just loved guns, all kinds of guns from black-powder muskets to match-precision rifles. They also made them and shot them with impressive skill and consistent application.
Fitzduane found the gun shop by the simple expedient of following a respectable middle-aged burgher in a
