could find the ammunition. Somewhere in the house there would be twenty-four rounds in a special container, but where? Regulations said ammunition should be stored separately from the weapon. He checked the bedroom closet just in case, but in vain. Peter Haag might have been a terrorist, but he was Swiss, and he would have followed regulations.
Clasping the assault rifle, Fitzduane wriggled down through the choust to the living room below. He found the Bear lying on the floor, semiconscious and muttering in Bernese dialect. The heavy metal stove seemed to have protected him from the full force of the blast, but it hadn’t done him much good either. 'For the love of God, Heini,' Fitzduane muttered as he searched through the living room, 'this is no time to try to teach me your bloody language.'
No ammunition.
Heavier-caliber fire started to rip through the farmhouse walls from the direction of the barn, and Fitzduane realized that the terrorists must have concealed some backup weaponry there. One of them had something like a heavy hunting rifle. Obviously he was no expert with bolt action, but the slowness of his fire was compensated for by the fact that the wooden walls gave no protection at all against the new weapon. It was only a matter of time before he or the Bear or Vreni got hit. The sniper was methodically quartering the farmhouse, and it wasn't too big a building to cover. He pulled the Bear further behind the wood stove and tried not to think of Verni's frail body totally exposed to the rifle fire. The desecration of the dead. Did it really matter?
Desperately he scoured the shelves and cabinets for the ammunition. He wondered if it would be hidden behind the marmalade, as it had been at Guido's. Did followers of the Steiner philosophy even eat marmalade? If he didn't strike pay dirt soon, he might get the chance to ask the long-dead Steiner personally.
A rifle bullet plowed into a second jar of mung beans, filling the air with organically approved food mixed with less friendly shards of broken glass. Brown rice was blasted into the air like shrapnel. He reached out for the lethal locally distilled spirit he remembered. Behind the rear bottle lay the ammunition. He ripped open the sealed container and fed in the rounds one by one, hoping that the rifle's mechanism wasn't jammed up with brown rice or lentils or the like. Crouched low, he went out the kitchen door. He found a firing position by the wall facing the barn. He extended the assault rifle's bipod and activated the night sight. His front was substantially protected by a bag of some sort of organic manure; whatever it was, it wasn't odorless.
The firing from the barn ceased. A single figure appeared, moving cautiously but somehow conveying the impression that it didn't expect any more opposition – scarcely surprising after the grenade and the barrage of heavy-rifle fire and the lack of response from the defenders.
Fitzduane waited. The figure was close now and moving more confidently. Fitzduane tried to figure out where the backup sniper would be and had just settled on the most probably location when the barn doors opened and a powerful motorcycle emerged. They were going to check out the farmhouse and make their getaway. The remaining question was, were there only two of them left or were there more surprises?
Fitzduane supposed that legally he should probably shout, 'Police,' or 'Hands up,' or some such crap, but he wasn't feeling either legal or charitable. He shot the walking terrorist four time through the chest, sending the body spinning off the track and then down the mountainside like a runaway sled.
The motorcycle engine roared, and submachine-gun fire sprayed the farmhouse. The bike's headlight blinded him. The machine leaped toward him, but it hit a rut and flew through the air, skidding past him before the rider expertly corrected.
He shot the motorcyclist as the bike was approaching the security guards' Mercedes. The machine barreled into the car, flinging the wounded terrorist into the snow. Fitzduane fired again very carefully at the flailing figure until there was no sign of movement.
Fitzduane was holding Vreni in his arms when the villagers arrived minutes later, assault rifles at the ready. She was limp and still, and her body was cold, but the Irishman was smiling.
He felt his shoulder being shaken, but he didn't want to leave the warm cocoon of sleep. His shoulder was shaken again, this time less gently. 'Chief,' said a familiar voice. 'Chief,' we've got a name.'
The Chief Kripo reluctantly reentered the real world. He'd already forgotten what he'd been dreaming about, but he knew it had to have been better than the maelstrom that his waking hours had turned into. On the other hand, perhaps he was being too pessimistic. He recalled being agreeably surprised at the progress being made by Project K, so much so that there would be some kind of breakthrough. And it was a legitimate way of avoiding the flak he knew awaited him on his return to the office.
'A name?' He opened his eyes, blinked, and then opened them wider. 'My God,' he said to Henssen. 'You look terrible.'
'My circuits are fucked,' said Henssen. 'After this is over, I'm going to sleep for a month.'
The Chief Kripo unraveled himself from the couch and sipped at the black coffee Henssen had brought him. He could hear computer sounds in the background. He looked at his watch.
'It's tomorrow,' said Henssen. 'You've been out only a few hours, but there have been some developments. It's kind of good news and bad news.'
The Chief remembered something had been nagging at him before he fell asleep. 'The Irishman and the Bear,' he said. 'Are they back?'
'Not exactly,' said Henssen, and he told the Chief what they'd heard through the local canton police.
The Chief shook his head. He looked dazed. 'Incredible. I must still be dreaming. Is that the good news or the bad news?'
'It depends how you look at it.'
'With a jaundiced eye,' said the Chief, who actually wasn't quite sure of his reaction. He put down his coffee and stood up. 'You mentioned a name,' he said to Henssen. 'You mean your machine has stopped dithering? You've found the Hangman?'
Henssen looked mildly uncomfortable. 'We've got a couple of strong possibilities. Come and see for yourself.'
'The Chief Kripo followed Henssen into the main computer room. Only one terminal was live, the one with a special high-resolution screen that Henssen found was a little easier on his eyes when he was tired. There was a name on the screen followed by file references. The Chief looked at it and felt he was going crazy.
The name on the screen read: VON GRAFFENLAUB, BEAT.
'You're all loopy,' said the Chief. 'Your fucking machine is loopy.'
Henssen, Kersdorf, and the other bleary-eyed men in the room were too exhausted to argue. Henssen played with the keyboard. There was a brief pause. Then the high-speed printer started spitting back the machine's reasoning. The computer wasn't too tired to argue. It outlined a formidable case.
He'd forgotten about the radiophone. By reflex he picked it up in answer to its electronic beep. Erika lay there lifeless, her blood congealing. He had no idea of the time or of what he was going to do next. He merely reacted.
'Herr von Graffenlaub,' said a voice. 'Herr Beat von Graffenlaub?'
'Yes,' said von Graffenlaub. The voice was tense, anxious, and familiar. It was not someone he knew well but someone he had spoken to recently.
'Sir, this is Mike Findlater at ME Services. I regret to say I have some very serious news to report, very serious indeed.'
Beat von Graffenlaub listened to what the security man had to say. Initial fear turned to relief and then absolute joy as he absorbed the key fact that Vreni, little Vreni, was alive. Tears of gratitude poured down his cheeks.
He didn't hear the other entrance open.
