business suit who was carrying an assault rifle with much the same nonchalance as a Londoner might carry an umbrella. Passersby were equally unmoved by the sight. It did occur to Fitzduane that the good citizen might be returning to his office to shoot his boss or taking a midafternoon break to perforate his wife's lover. Both these options, on reflection, seemed to promise a certain entertainment value.
After only a few minutes – and it was a fine afternoon for a stroll – the burgher led him to a shop in Aarbergasse. The facade bore the words SCHWARZ, BUCHSENMACHER, ARMURIER, and the window was nicely decorated with a display of firepower that would have done credit to a South American dictator's personal arsenal.
'I'd like to buy a gun,' said Fitzduane.
The man behind the counter nodded in agreement. Nothing could be more sensible. Fitzduane looked around the shop. There were guns everywhere, a quite astonishing variety: revolvers, automatics, muskets, shotguns, army rifles, carbines. They hung from racks, stared at him from display cabinets, leaned casually against the walls. Any unoccupied space was filled with ammunition boxes, crossbows, books on guns, even catapults. It was terrific. He wished he had come there when he was fourteen. Still, he wasn't quite sure of the ground rules for this sort of thing.
'What are the gun laws in Switzerland?'
The man behind the counter was unfazed. It was clear that the Swiss legal system was not going to stop him from making a sale.
'For a foreigner?'
Fitzduane thought that speaking in English must be a dead giveaway. 'It depends where I am,' he said. 'I feel quite at home in Bern.'
The shopkeeper seemed to have scant interest in repartee. His business was guns. He picked a Finnish Valmet assault rifle off a rack behind him and idly mowed down half a dozen passersby through the plate glass shopfront. He made a “tac-tac-tac” sound: three-round bursts, good fire control.
The Valmet was replaced. A Colt Peacemaker appeared in the man's hand. He held it, arm outstretched, in the single-handed shooting position that was all the rage for handguns before a California sheriff called Weaver started winning all the shooting competitions in the 1950s by shooting with two hands like a woman.
'The laws vary from canton to canton,' he said. 'In Bern, for instance, you can carry a pistol without a permit. In Zurich it is not so.'
There were twenty-six cantons and half cantons in Switzerland, Fitzduane recalled. He wasn't quite sure of the difference between a canton and a half canton, but considering the gun law variations, it sounded as if it might be a good idea to carry something a little less vulnerable to local complications than a handgun.
'But it is not difficult to buy a gun,' the shopkeeper continued. 'It depends on what you want. There are some restrictions on automatic weapons and pistols. Otherwise it is easy.'
'Without a permit?'
'Except for the restrictions I have mentioned, no permit is required,' said the man. He twirled the Peacemaker expertly and returned it to the showcase. He selected a small. 32 Smith amp; Wesson, looked at Fitzduane, and then put it back. Somehow the Irishman didn't seem the. 32-caliber type.
Fitzduane reluctantly abandoned the idea of buying an M-60 machine gun and towing it around Bern on roller skates. He looked at his camera tripod case, which was resting on the counter while he talked, and little wheels started turning in his brain.
He pointed at a Remington folding shotgun in a rack behind the man. It was a short-barreled riot gun and was stamped, in large, clear letters: FOR LAW ENFORCEMENT ONLY.
'But of course,' said the shopkeeper, offering the gun to Fitzduane. The weapon was a folding pump-action shotgun equipped with a pistol grip. Fitzduane had used a similar weapon on special operations in the Congo. With the appropriate ammunition, up to a maximum of forty meters, though preferably at half that distance, it was an effective killing machine with brutal stopping power. With the metal stock collapsed, the gun fit neatly into the tripod case, leaving room for spare ammunition in the zippered accessory pocket where Fitzduane normally kept his long remote extension cord.
The man behind the counter placed a box of twelve-gauge 00 shells beside the holstered gun. Each shell contained nine lead balls, any one of which could be fatal at close range. It was clear he didn't think Fitzduane might need birdshot. As an afterthought the man added a tubular magazine extension. 'We take credit cards,' he said. Fitzduane smiled and paid cash. The bill came to 918 francs 40.
He left the gun shop and went looking for a photography store where he could have some film developed and some enlargements made in a hurry. He was successful and arranged to make the pickup the following morning.
There was a cafe called the High Noon off the Barenplatz, just next door to the prison tower. It seemed like the right place for a beer after buying a gun. Afterward Fitzduane strolled back to his hotel. As far as he could tell, he was no longer being followed, though it was difficult to be sure. The streets were crowded with evening shoppers and the arcades made concealment by a tail easy. As he neared the Hospiz, the crowds thinned, and he noticed a keffiyeh-shrouded skater detach himself from an arcade pillar and glide after him. He changed direction and entered a small bar called the Arlequin. He had another beer and wondered what had happened to the “H.”
Outside, the skater glided, twirled, and, finally fatigued, adopted a storklike position, supported on one leg with the other drawn up and looped behind the knee. So positioned, the skater watched the Arlequin door. He was gone, apparently, by the time Fitzduane left. This is all very fucking weird, thought Fitzduane.
Back in his hotel room, Fitzduane loaded the shotgun. With the magazine extension fitted, it held seven rounds. He checked the safety catch and replaced the weapon in its carrying case.
He had almost forgotten about the small parcel that Vreni had pressed into his hand. He borrowed a pair of scissors from reception and carefully cut open the package. Inside was a glass jar containing gingerbread. He unscrewed the top, and the rich aroma brought him back to the old farmhouse on the side of the hill and a girl with flour on her cheek. He ate one of the gingerbread men. It broke crisply as he bit into it. There was a hint of butter and spices.
Wrapped around the jar was an envelope. The letter inside was short, the handwriting round and deliberate. The letter was written on the squared paper used throughout the continent for notepads.
Dearest Irishman I am writing you this as you lie asleep in the next room. I have lit the fire again, so it is warm, and I feel safe and cozy and loving toward you. I wish you could stay with me in Heiligenschwendi, but of course it is not possible. Please do not contact me again – at least for a few days. I need to think and decide what is best to do. I know you will want to ask me more questions when you awake. I don't think I will be able to talk to you. If you stay in Bern – and you should not, but I hope you do – Rudi and I have a friend you could talk to. His name is Klaus Minder. He is from Zurich and lives in different places in Bern with friends. When I last heard, he was staying in the Youth House at Taubenstrasse 12. I suppose I shouldn't have talked to you at all – but I was so lonely. I miss Rudi. Much love, Vreni
He placed the letter beside the gingerbread and the shotgun on the table. He felt like a schnapps. He sat there without moving, an ache in his heart for the mixed-up young Vreni. He reached out for the phone to call her, but then his hand fell away. If time to think was what she wanted, then maybe she should have it.
When the phone rang, it was Beat von Graffenlaub's secretary. Could Herr Fitzduane meet Herr von Graffenlaub for lunch in the Restaurant du Theatre tomorrow at twelve-thirty precisely? She repeated the “precisely.”
'I'll be there,' he said. 'Who's paying?'
Frau Hunziker sounded as if she were strangling. Fitzduane hoped she wasn't. Things were complex enough already.
Ivo was still asleep when the two detectives called at the Youth House. They were courteous. They didn't
