'It's our standard How-to-get-on-in-Switzerland kit,' said Kilmara.
Fitzduane looked up at him. 'How did you know about the shotgun?'
'Von Beck told me you were lugging one around in your tripod bag,' said Kilmara. 'Besides, I remember your taste in weapons from the Congo.'
'I gather you think I'll need this stuff.'
'Haven't a clue, but it's no use running out with your Visa card when the shooting starts.'
Fitzduane picked up one of the shotgun rounds. It was stenciled with the marking “XR-18.”
'What's this?'
'It's an experimental round,' said Kilmara, 'that we've cooked up ourselves. As you know, a shotgun pattern is useless against a man above fifty yards – and if you've any sense, you'll fire at less that half that distance. A solid slug has more range but poor accuracy. Well, we ran across a new discarding-sabot slug that will enable you to hit a torso-size target at up to two hundred yards. We combined it with some of the characteristics of the Glaser slug by filling it with liquid Teflon and other material. It works' – he paused – 'rather well.'
'Any good against dragons?' said Fitzduane.
Kadar held a flower in his hands. He plucked the petals one by one and watched them flutter to the ground. Already they have begun to decompose, he thought. Soon they will be part of the earth once more, and they will feed other flowers. More likely some developer will grab the location and stop the cycle with a few tons of concrete. Even beautifully preserved Bern was being nibbled at around the edges. But the old town, he was delighted to say, maintained it charmed life.
He decided he would make a donation to ProBern. Just because he was a terrorist didn't mean he couldn’t be concerned about the environment. Good grief, Europe was in danger of becoming an ecological desert – everything from mercury in the water to acid rain killing the trees. Half the men in the RuhrValley area were said to be sterile. There were too many people wanting too much in too small a space. Really, killing a few people was for the long- term good. Mother Earth needed some supporting firepower. He decided to send some money to Greenpeace, too. He had no desire to spend his retirement building up his radioactivity level so that he could read at night by the glow. Besides, he liked whales.
'It's tidying-up time,' he said. 'You know I like neat projects. Well, I want Geranium to be especially neat.'
'How long do we have?' asked one of the five people sitting in a semicircle before him. He was a Lebanese who had freelanced for the PLO until the Mossad blew up his contact and two bodyguards and their armor-plated, totally untamperable-with Mercedes in Spain. He knew Bern well – they all did – and he traveled on a false Turkish passport. He had developed a strong bias against German cars and flinched inwardly every time a Mercedes taxi went by. He liked Bern because you could walk to most places or take a tram if time was pressing. You could kill to a schedule. Working for Kadar you soon learned to meet your deadlines.
'You each have your own timetable,' said Kadar, 'but the whole operation must be completed inside two weeks. Then we will rendezvous in Libya and finalize preparations for Geranium. By the end of May you will all be quite rich.'
Kadar opened his rucksack and a large carryall and removed five packages. He gave one to each of the terrorists. 'Each package contains your weapon, a and the envelope contains details of your targets, travel arrangements, tickets, and so on. I suggest that you read these details here so that I can answer any questions.'
There was the rustle of paper as the envelopes were opened. One of the two women present used a switchblade that she wore strapped in a quick-release mechanism on the inside of her left forearm. Her name was Sylvie, and she had trained with Action Directe in France. Sylvie read her operations order and looked up at Kadar. His face was expressionless. He looked at the group.
'Perhaps you would like to examine your weapons,' he said.
Each terrorist bent forward and began to open the package. Inside the external wrapping was a layer of polyethylene followed by waxed paper. Sachets of silica gel had been added to absorb any surplus moisture. The weapons were free of protective grease and, though unloaded, were otherwise ready for use. Soon one Czech-made VZ-61 Skorpion lay exposed, then two more. Sylvie had a 9 mm Ingram fitted with a silencer. She clipped a magazine into place and cocked the weapon.
The remaining terrorist – a Swiss who operated under the name of Siegfried – sat looking at the jagged half-meter splinter of polished stone he had unwrapped. Letters had been cut into it. His face was ashen. He looked up at Kadar. 'You're playing a joke with me?'
'Well, yes – and then again, no,' said Kadar. 'It's not just any piece of stone, though I admit it's not the size it should be. I couldn’t carry the whole thing. Still, I'm sure you can work out the point.'
Siegfried felt a fear he had never thought possible. It penetrated every fiber of his being. He knew he was shaking, but he was no longer able to control his body. His vision blurred; his mouth went dry. He thought of the people he had killed. He had always wondered what it felt like to be a victim. What did they think and feel when they looked down the barrel of his gun and knew that there was no way out, that nothing they could do or say would make any difference? Then he thought of all the work he had done for Kadar, and a wave of anger restored in him some slight ability to act.
'What – what do you mean?' The words came out in a jerky whisper so quiet they were almost drowned out by the sound of buzzing insects. Shafts of sunlight penetrated the treetops and flooded the clearing. 'Why?' he said. 'Why, why?'
'I pay well, as you know,' said Kadar, 'but I do demand obedience. Absolute obedience.' He stressed every syllable.
'I haven't disobeyed you,' said Siegfried.
'I'm afraid you have,' said Kadar. 'You were questioned two days ago by the Kripos. You were held for twenty-four hours and then released. Under those circumstances you should not have come to this meeting. You might have led the police to us.'
'It was only a routine investigation. I told them nothing. They know nothing.'
'You should have reported being held. You did not. A sin of omission, as Catholics would say.'
'I wanted to work for you,' said Siegfried. 'Geranium is so close.'
'Well, we can't have everything we want. Didn't they teach you that in nursery school?' Kadar looked at Sylvie. 'In about thirty seconds.' He looked back at Siegfried. 'I thought you'd have recognized it,' he said, indicating the polished stone. 'It's a piece of gravestone. There wasn't time to have it properly inscribed.'
The Ingram fires at the rate of twelve hundred rounds a minute – roughly twice the speed of the average hand-held automatic weapon. Sylvie blew her victim's head off with half of the thirty-two-round magazine in a fraction of a second.
Kadar was already on his feet. He pointed at the envelopes and wrapping paper that littered the ground in front of the four remaining terrorists. 'As you know, I am concerned about the environment. I would take it kindly if you would remove this litter when you go.'
'What about him?' asked the Lebanese, looking at Siegfried's splayed body.
'Not to worry,' said Kadar, 'he's biodegradable.' With that Kadar vanished into the wood.
Ivo was still in Bern, no great distance from police headquarters, in fact, but the Kripos and Berps of the City of Bern could scarcely have been blamed for failing to recognize him: plain Ivo no longer existed. He had been replaced by someone much better suited to the task at hand, a figure of legendary courage and valor who would pursue his quest to the ends of the earth. What had started as a pleasing notion while waiting for the Monkey in the Hauptbahnhof had metamorphosed, in Ivo's drug-blasted mind, into fact. He was Sir Ivo, noble knight and hero.
In keeping with his new status, Sir Ivo had adopted a new mode of dress. Since armor and other knightly accoutrements were not readily available in downtown Bern, he had to improvise with a little judicious pillaging. In
