hand, wine poured, in what seemed like seconds.
'Aagh!' said the Bear as he surveyed the menu and then swiveled his eyes toward the antipasti cart. 'So many choices and so little time.' He mused for a while, brows creased in an agony of alternatives. Finally the choice was made – a meal of restraint, one might almost say moderation: antipasto misto all’italiana, for starters, paillarde di vitello con broccoli al limone, to keep momentum up, and only half a liter of Chianti (each) before skipping dessert and going straight to coffee.
Fitzduane was mildly shocked. 'Surely not a diet.'
'Certainly not.' A look of pain crossed the Bear's face. 'It is just that too much food can dull the mind and we have some serious thinking to do. Now what was I talking about?'
'Terrorism and Switzerland,' said Fitzduane, 'and some ideas of your own on the subject.'
'Ah, yes. My point is that here in Switzerland we don't have a terrorist problem as such, or at least not in the sense that we suffer to any significant extent from terrorist attacks. Oh, we have the odd incidents, to be sure, but they are few and far between.'
'So if I understand you right,' said Fitzduane, 'you are suggesting that not only is there very little terrorist activity in Switzerland, but even such few incidents as have occurred were either accidental or directed at someone or something outside the country.'
The Bear nodded. 'I'm not suggesting for a moment that these few incidents are the limit of terrorist activity here. That would be naive and ridiculous. No, what I am saying is that Switzerland has much the same role in terrorism as it has in business and world affairs, except that in this case it's involuntary and mainly initiated by foreigners. I'm referring to our role as banker, head office, communications point, middleman, and haven. As far as those roles are concerned, I personally believe that there is considerable terrorist activity here. Perhaps we should spend less time on shooting practice and more on detective work because if we don't, sooner or later some terrorist will find he doesn't like commuting and then the blood will start to flow here.'
'And what about the youth movement?'
'Any disillusioned kid can be manipulated,' said the Bear. 'I've seen it often enough on the drug squad. But to suggest that the youth movement is an embryonic terrorist grouping is going too far. Most of the kids who demonstrate on the streets go back home to Mommy and Daddy afterward and have hot Ovalmaltine in the bosom of the family before they go to bed.'
Fitzduane laughed, and the Bear's resolve weakened. He ordered the piattino di formaggio italiano; the Gorgonzola, Taleggio, Fontina, and Bel Paese surrendered gracefully.
'I'll tell you something else,' said the Bear. 'I think most people have the wrong idea about terrorists. They think of terrorists as being a bunch of fanatics motivated by idealism. In other words, however reprehensible their methods, their eventual goals are pure and noble, at least if seen from their point of view. That may be true for some, but for many I think the objective is simpler and more basic: money.'
'So you are saying that many so-called terrorist incidents are actually crimes committed solely for personal gain?'
'‘Solely’ might be going too far,' said the Bear. 'Let me just say that I believe decidedly mixed emotions may be involved. I mean, do you have any idea of the sheer scale of money a terrorist can make? It's one of the fastest tax-free ways going to make a million dollars.'
'And one of the most dangerous,' said Fitzduane.
'I'm not so sure,' said the Bear. 'If you examine a list of incidents in which money was involved – money for the cause -' he added sardonically, 'you'll be surprised by the scale. After the OPEC hijack of Yamani and the other oil ministers,' said the Bear, 'Carlos received a personal bonus of two million dollars from Qaddafi. And that was a bonus on top of his other takings. Another small Arab group supported by Qaddafi receives five million dollars a year, but that pales in comparison with the sums raised by terrorists from kidnapping.'
'Few details are available because secrecy is often part of the agreement between kidnappers and victim, but consider the activities of just one group, the ERP, the People's Revolutionary Army of Argentina. They got a million dollars for kidnapping a Fiat executive; they got two million for Charles Lockwood, an Englishman who worked for Acrow Steel; they got three million for John R. Thompson, the American president of the local subsidiary of Firestone Tires; they were paid over fourteen million for Victor Samuelson, an Exxon executive. But get this: In 1975, the Montoneros, another Argentinian group, demanded and received sixty million dollars in cash and another million plus in food and clothing for the poor in exchange for the two sons of Jorge Born, chairman of the Bunge y Born group.'
'Sixty million dollars!' exclaimed Fitzduane.
'Sixty,' said the Bear. 'Hard to credit, isn't it? And I'm quoting only from the cases we know about. God knows how many hundreds of millions are paid each year by companies and the rich in secret. Either as ransom or else to avoid being kidnapped – in other words, protection.
'Terrorism is a business. The publicized hijackings, bombings, and killings create the required climate of fear. They from the terrorist promotional budget, if you will, and then the serious business of extracting huge sums of money goes on steadily behind the scenes. The iceberg parallel comes to mind again – one-tenth exposed, nine- tenths hidden. Terrorism is a one-tenth composed of highly publicized outrages with an accompanying nine-tenths of secret extortion and terror, and a profit orientation in most cases that would put Wall Street to shame.'
'You know,' said Fitzduane, 'the figures on terrorism in Northern Ireland make the point that Switzerland hasn't a terrorist problem worthy of the name – at least in terms of violence. Over the last decade here you seem to have had only a handful of incidents of any significance; during the same period in Northern Ireland well over two thousand people have been killed, tens of thousands have been injured, and damage to property has cost hundred of millions.'
'That isn't terrorism in the Continental sense,' said the Bear. 'It's a war.'
Bern was nearly asleep. Cafes and restaurants were closed and shuttered. Windows were dark. The streets were empty. Only an occasional car disturbed the quiet.
Fitzduane leaned against the railing of the KirchenfeldBridge and smoked the last of his Havana. He knew he should dictate a few notes on the evening's developments, but he felt mellow from several hours' drinking with the Bear, and the miniature tape recorder remained in his pocket.
The night air was pleasantly cool. Below him the black waters of the Aare flowed invisibly except for the reflection of a car's headlights as it drove along Aarstrasse and then vanished past the Marzili. Another late reveler returning home, or perhaps a journalist retiring after putting the newspaper to bed, Fitzduane speculated idly.
To his right he could see the impressive mass of the Bellevue Hotel, with its magnificent view of the mountains during the day from both its windows and its terraces. The Bear had told him that during the Second World War the Bellevue had been the headquarters of German intelligence activities in neutral Switzerland; the Allies had been in the less grandiose but friendlier Schweizerhof only a few blocks away.
The lights were still on in several of the Bellevue's bedrooms. As he watched, the rooms went dark one by one. Fitzduane was much take by the Kirchenfeldbrucke, though he didn't quite know why. It wasn't the highest bridge in Bern, and it certainly wasn't the oldest. It had none of the drama of the Golden Gate in San Francisco or the storybook appeal of TowerBridge in London. But it had a quality all its own, and it was a good place to think.
The Bear had offered him a ride back to the apartment, but Fitzduane had declined, preferring to walk. He enjoyed the feeling of the city asleep, of the sense of space when the streets were empty, of the freedom of the spirit when there were no other people around to distract. The Havana was coming to an end. He consigned the remains to a watery grave. He turned from the railings and began walking along the bridge toward home. He heard laughter and a faint, familiar hissing sound. He looked back. Two lovers, arm in arm on roller skates, were gliding in perfect time along the pavement toward hi. There were moving deceptively fast, scarves trailing behind, body movements blurred by loose-fitting garments. As they passed under a streetlamp, they looked at each other for a second and laughed again. Fitzduane stepped back to let them pass. For a moment he thought of Etan and felt alone.
The force of the blow to Fitzduane's chest was savage, reinforced by the momentum of the skater. The knife fell from the assailant's grasp and clattered to the ground several meters away. The assailant turned neatly on his
