The Bear was drinking coffee and eating gingerbread in the kitchen when Fitzduane entered, and the sweet, sharp aroma of baked ginger reminded the Irishman of Vreni. The Bear looked up. Fitzduane sat across from him at the kitchen table, lost in thought about a scared, lonely, vulnerable girl hiding in the mountains.
'Thinking about the girl?' said the Bear. One piece of gingerbread remained. He offered it to Fitzduane, who shook his head. Instead, he spoke. 'She was so bloody scared.'
'As we now know, with excellent reason,' said the Bear. 'But she won't talk, and there's not much else we can do now except see that she has security and try to find the Hangman.'
'Henssen was building in some slack when he spoke to the Chief. He now thinks he might be ready to do a final run in about four hours.'
'A name,' said the Bear, 'at last.'
'A short list anyway.'
'Any candidates?' The Bear was checking through various containers. A morsel of gingerbread couldn’t be termed a serious snack or even an adequate companion to a cup of coffee. His hunt was in vain, and he began to look depressed. 'The people here eat too much,' he said. 'Kersdorf, for instance, has an appetite like a greyhound. The least he could do is bring in a cake now and then.'
'He does,' said Fitzduane, 'and you eat it.' He wrote a name on a piece of paper. 'Here's my nomination,' he said, handing it to the Bear, who looked at it and whistled.
'A hundred francs you're wrong.'
'Done,' said Fitzduane. 'But I've got a proposal. Let's have one last crack at Vreni. You can come along for the ride, and maybe we can find somewhere nice to eat on the way back.'
The Bear cheered up. 'Why don't we eat on the way? Then we'll be fortified for some serious questioning.'
'We'll talk about it,' said Fitzduane. He was suddenly anxious to be on his way. 'Come on, let's move.'
'I'll check out a weapon for you.'
'There isn't time for that,' said Fitzduane. 'You're armed, and that'll have to do.' His voice was sharp with anxiety.
The bear looked up at the heavens, shook his head, and followed Fitzduane out the door.
Vreni summoned every last ounce of resolve.
She fetched a duvet and cocooned it around her body as if it were a tepee. She was sitting cross-legged, and the phone was in front of her. Inside her tepee of warmth she felt more secure. She waited for the warmth to build up, and as she did, she imagined that she was safe, that the Irishman had come to rescue her, and that she was far away from anything He could do. He didn't exist anymore. Like a bad dream, His image faded, leaving an uncomfortable feeling but no more actual fear.
She left her hand on the gray plastic of the phone until the handle was warm in her grasp. She imagined Fitzduane at the other end, waiting to respond, to take her to a place of safety. She lifted up the receiver and began to dial. She stopped halfway through the first digit and pressed the disconnect button furiously. It made no difference. The phone was quite dead.
Her heart pounding, she flung open the door and ran to the back of the house, to where some of the animals were housed. She seized her pet lamb, warm and groggy with sleep, and with him clutched in her arms ran back into the house and locked and bolted the door. She crawled back under the duvet with her lamb and closed her eyes.
Sylvie flung open the door on the driver's side. Eyes open, face distorted, Sangster slid toward her, his face covered in secretions. Sylvie stepped back and let the head and torso fall into the snow. Sangster's feet remained tangled in the pedals.
'Leave the door open,' said Santine. He dragged Pierre's body out of the passenger seat and around to the rear of the car, then opened the trunk.
'Well, fuck me,' he said. 'The bastard's still alive.'
He removed a sharpened ice pick from his belt and plunged it deep into Pierre's back. The body arched and was still. Santine levered it into the trunk. He closed and locked the lid He looked at Sylvie. 'Obviously a nonsmoker.'
They were using Fitzduane's car, but the Bear was driving. They turned off the highway to Interlaken and headed up toward Heiligenschwendi. The road was black under the glare of the headlights but piles of snow and ice still lingered by the roadside. As they climbed higher, the reflections of white became more frequent. They hadn't talked much since leaving Project K, though the Bear had had a brief conversation with police headquarters.
'The Chief isn't too happy that we took off without saying goodbye,' he had said when he finished.
Fitzduane had just grunted. Only when they drove into the village did Fitzduane break the silence. 'Who is running the security on Vreni?'
'Beat von Graffenlaub arranged it,' said the Bear. 'It's not Vaybon Security, as you might expect, but a very exclusive personal protection service based on Jersey. They employ ex-military personnel by and large – ex-SAS, Foreign Legion, and so on.'
'ME Services,' said Fitzduane. 'I know them. ME stands for ‘Mallet 'Em’ – the founder wasn't renowned for a sophisticated sense of humor, but they’ve got a good reputation in their field. Who's in charge of Vreni's detail?'
'Fellow by the name of Sangster,' said the Bear. 'Our people say he's sound, but he's fed up because he has to do this thing from outside the house. Vreni won't allow them within one hundred meters of the place.'
'Consorting with the enemy,' said Fitzduane under his breath. 'Poor frightened little sod.' He pointed at a phone booth. 'Stop here a sec. I'm going to ring ahead so she doesn't have a heart attack.'
Fitzduane was in the phone booth five minutes. He emerged and beckoned the Bear over. 'Her phone's dead,' he said. 'I've checked with the operator, and there is no reported fault on the line.'
They looked at each other. 'I have a number for ME control,' the Bear said. 'The security detail checks in regularly, and there are spot checks as well. They should know if everything is okay.'
'Be quick,' said Fitzduane. He paced up and down in the freezing air while the Bear made the call. The detective looked happier when he had finished.
'Sangster reported in on schedule about fifteen minutes ago, and there was a spot check less than ten minutes ago. All is in order.'
Fitzduane didn't look convinced. 'Do you have a backup weapon for me?'
'Sure.' The Bear opened the trunk and handed Fitzduane a tire iron.
'Why do I suddenly feel so much safer?' said Fitzduane.
The room was in almost total darkness, the light from the dim streetlamps of Junkerngasse excluded by thick purple hangings. Beat von Graffenlaub could hear nothing. The security windows and door combined with the thick walls to produce a soundproofed otherworld. He felt disoriented. He knew he should switch on the lights and try to get a grip on himself, but then he would have to look at the photographs again and face the sickness and the perversion and the graphic images of death.
He tired to imagine the mentality of someone who would torture and kill for what appeared to be not other reason than sexual gratification. It was incomprehensible. It was evil of a kind beyond his ability to grasp, let alone understand. Erika – his beautiful, sultry, sensuous Erika – a perverted, sick, sadistic killer. He retched, and his
