in the garage that you may use. It is a small BMW. Do you accept?'
Fitzduane nodded. It was a qualified nod, but he didn't want to interrupt the lawyer for the moment. He sensed there was more.
'Good,' said von Graffenlaub. 'When I become involved with something, I like it to be done well.' He smiled. 'The Swiss passion for efficiency, it's bred into us.' He tapped the briefcase. 'In here I have assembled as much information as I could think of that may be useful to you. There are photographs, school and medical reports, the names and addresses of friends, contacts in the various police forces, letter of introduction, and money.'
'Money isn't necessary,' said Fitzduane.
'I know,' said von Graffenlaub. 'I gather from reports I have received that you earn a most respectable income from your profession and in addition have other resources. My agents were unable to determine either the extent or the nature of this other capital. They were surprised at this, as was I. My contacts are normally successful in these matters.' There was an unspoken question in his remarks.
Fitzduane grinned. 'The Swiss are not the only people with a basic distrust of central government and a preference for confidentiality. But let me repeat, I do not need your money – though I do appreciate your offer.'
Von Graffenlaub flushed slightly. They were not talking about money. The real issue was control. He realized that the Irishman had no intention of allowing himself to be manipulated in any way. He would be agreeable, cooperative even, but he would remain his own man. It was not a situation the lawyer was used to. Fitzduane's gaze was steady. There was steel in those green-gray eyes. Damn the man. Reluctantly von Graffenlaub nodded.
'I accept your offer of the apartment,' said Fitzduane. 'I find it hard to resist a good wine cellar.' His tone was mollifying and friendly. 'Tell me,' he added, almost as an afterthought, 'is the phone tapped and the place bugged?'
Fitzduane's tone and manner had lulled the lawyer. Von Graffenlaub was disconcerted and visibly embarrassed. Momentarily he was speechless.
'Yes,' he said finally.
'Specially for me?' said Fitzduane, 'or are bugs part of the decor – sort of companions to the house plants?'
'They were installed to record you. I gave the order before my investigations into your background were completed. I did not know with whom I was dealing.'
'People in the electronics business call it a learning curve,' said Fitzduane. 'Tell me, who normally uses this place?'
'I have had this apartment for many years. I use it from time to time when I want to be alone, or to work on something particularly confidential.'
'I see,' said Fitzduane, 'sort of an adult tree house.'
'The recording devices will be removed immediately,' said von Graffenlaub. He went to the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses of whiskey. He gave one to Fitzduane. Fitzduane tasted it. It was Irish, a twelve-year-old Jameson.
He thought he might shoot the potted plant in the hall.
14
Fitzduane had decided he would take a break from female von Graffenlaubs for a while. Vreni would answer the phone but then not speak except to say things like 'Take care, Irishman,' which he did not find either helpful or reassuring; Marta, the eldest, was away in Lenk for a fortnight's skiing; and Erika, on the basis of precedent, was going to give him an erection just as she did poor young Andreas. He didn't mind having the erection; it was what it might lead to that posed the problem. And that brought him back to Andreas.
Andreas wasn't straightforward either. Lieutenant Andreas von Graffenlaub was on active duty in the army camp at Sand, training a new batch of recruits. He could not leave his duties, but if Fitzduane didn't mind coming over, they could talk between maneuvers. A few minutes and a phone call from Beat von Graffenlaub later, and it had all been arranged. If Fitzduane could present himself at the General Guisan Kaserne at the ungodly hour of 0700 precisely, the army would provide transportation to Sand. He could get to the Kaserne on the number 9 tram.
It took them well over an hour to locate Andreas. After checking a series of combat groups waging their own little wars, they found him standing on top of an overgrown concrete bunker awaiting an attack by his platoon. He wore the forage dress cap of an officer with his camouflage fatigues, and there was a heavy service automatic in a holster at his waist. Hands on hips, his bearing confident to the point of cockiness, he looked down at Fitzduane.
'So, Herr Fitzduane,' he said, 'how do you like Swiss Army life?' He smiled politely and held out his hand to help Fitzduane up. The corporal saluted and receded into the trees.
'These are all new recruits,' said Andreas, indicating the forest surrounding them. Not a figure was to be seen, although there were occasional noises as recruits, laden down with automatic rifles and blank-firing rocket- launchers, crawled into firing position. 'Only a few weeks ago they were university students or wine makers or mechanics or waiters. Now they are beginning to be soldiers, but there is still a long way to go. Don't judge the Swiss Army by what you see here today.' Andreas smiled again. He had great charm and none of the tension and insecurity of Vreni.
Privately Fitzduane was impressed by what he was seeing at Sand. He knew from his own experience just how difficult it was to turn civilians into soldiers. In this case there was an air of seasoned professionalism about most of the officer corps he had run into so far, and the training programs seemed to be comprehensive and imaginative. Still, recruits in their earlier stages were seldom a pretty sight. Andreas winced when a dead branch broke nearby with a loud crack followed by a highly audible expletive.
'I'm sorry about your brother,' said Fitzduane. He found a seat on the trunk of a fallen tree. Andreas remained standing, his eyes scanning the surrounding forest, notebook now ready to record the performance of his men.
'You ask the questions,' said Andreas, 'and I'll tell you what I can.'
In contrast with Vreni, who knew more but would not tell, Andreas, having already heard about Fitzduane's involvement from his father, was helpful and forthcoming. Unfortunately he did not appear to know much, or if he did, Fitzduane was not asking the right questions. The Irishman was tempted to be discouraged, but then odd facts and details began to emerge as Andreas relaxed and devoted at least part of his mind to Fitzduane's mission.
Andreas looked at the symbol of the 'A' circled with flowers. 'The inner symbol I know of course,' he said. 'In a plain circle you see it in every city of this country. It's the badge of the protest movement, of the youth movement, of the small minority of idiots who don't know when thy are well off.' He looked at the photocopy in Fitzduane's hands. 'What are the flowers?' he asked. 'This is from a tattoo?'
Fitzduane nodded. 'That photocopy is a blowup.'
'The detail is not bad for such a small mark as you have indicated,' said Andreas. 'It is drawn well by a skilled hand. The flowers look like geraniums, but it is hard to be sure.' He looked up at Fitzduane. ' Les Fleurs du Mal,' he said, ' The Flowers of Evil . You know Baudelaire?'
'In translation for the most part,' said Fitzduane. 'Let me see if I remember any.' He paused and then recited:
'Folly and error, sin and avarice Work on our bodies, occupy our thoughts, And we ourselves sustain our sweet regrets As mendicants nourish their worms and lice.'
Andreas laughed. 'Very good,' he said, 'but it sounds better in French.'
