Conventional policing in Bern took a backseat as the special antiterrorist force was assembled and sent into action. The von Graffenlaub premises were surrounded within thirty minutes of his name's flashing up on the screen, but it was more than six hours later before a highly trained entry group gained access. It had taken this long as a result of the most meticulous precautions designed to prevent the kind of surprises the Hangman liked to produce. Scanning equipment of various types was used to locate possible traps, and the entire block was searched to eliminate any chance of the terrorist's escaping through another exit.
Despite protests from some of his most senior officers, the Chief Kripo insisted on leading the entry team on its final push inside. Mindful of booby traps and checking frequently by radio with the Nose, the men entered Erika's apartment not through the door but through a hole cut by a shaped charge in an internal wall – having previously scanned the area with metal detectors and explosive-sniffing equipment that could identify volatile substances in even the minutest volumes. Only traces of small-arms propellant were found by the probes. A second concealed entrance was also located. It led directly into an apartment in an adjoining house.
Inside Erika's sanctum they found what they had been looking for, but not the way they had expected. Beat von Graffenlaub was present, to be sure, but in a fashion that transferred him from the suspect to the victim file of the Nose's memory banks. He lay across his wife, his blood mingled with hers, the point of a fifteenth-century halberd protruding a hand's width from his chest. The handle extended from his back as casually as a fork stuck in the ground.
The Chief was sweaty in his bulletproof armor. 'Loopy,' he said.
The only good news out of this latest fiasco was that they were now down to one name on the computer's primary suspect list. The Chief radioed through for a progress report on his remaining quarry. He tried not to think of the awful tragedy of Beat von Graffenlaub. Mourning would have to wait.
They were now looking for someone called Bridgenorth Lodge. The computer said he was an American citizen living in Bern, with connections to the city from his earliest days. In fact, he'd been born there – which didn't, of course, make him Swiss. One of the heurisitics programmed into the computer was that the Hangman wasn't Swiss. The Chief had asked Henssen for the basis of what seemed to him to be pure guesswork, and he'd been referred to the Bear.
The Bear had just shrugged. 'He isn't Swiss,' he'd repeated. He hadn't been able to give a reason, but the Chief went along with it. The whole business was crazy anyway, and in the Chief's experience, the Bear's hunches were every bit as good as any computer's.
21
Within minutes of his name's flashing up on the Project K computer screen, Lodge's house in the exclusive Bern suburb of Muri had been surrounded by heavily armed police. Only minutes away from both Kirchenfeldstrasse and police headquarters, Muri was a quarter occupied mainly by diplomats, senior bureaucrats, and the ex-wives of successful businessmen. The houses were solidly built and expensive even by Swiss standards and in many cases were discreetly set back from the road in the seclusion of their own grounds.
Lodge's house wasn't just discreet; it was downright reclusive. It occupied a two-acre lot at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac. A thick screen of trees and shrubbery rendered it invisible from either the road or its neighbors on either side, and the grounds at the back of the house not only were similarly screened but led in turn to a private fenced-off wood and through it to the River Aare. Further privacy was ensured by a four-meter-high perimeter wall topped with razor wire – sprayed green for environmental reasons. The wire was electrified. The main gates were the same height as the wall and were made from oak-faced steel plate. There was no doorbell.
The Chief Kripo would have preferred to keep Lodge's place under observation for some days before taking more dramatic action, but practical realities intervened. First, the Hangman was simply too dangerous to leave on the loose any longer than necessary, and second, they had to find out as fast as possible whether they were on the right track. After all, the computer wasn't infallible. Lodge might not be the right man. He might be a totally innocent run-of-the-mill privacy-loving billionaire.
The Chief wished that there were a better way of checking out Lodge, but he couldn’t think of one. Once again he was going to lead the raid, and this time he was sweating under his body armor even before the assault team went into action. His skin felt cold and clammy, and there was an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He had a very bad feeling about what was to happen. He swallowed with difficulty and issued the command. The team started in.
Henssen replaced the receiver slowly and stared into the middle distance. 'What a bloody business.'
Kersdorf's legs were hurting him. 'What happened?' he asked. 'Is Lodge our man?'
Henssen shrugged helplessly. 'The assault team lost two men going in plus another half dozen wounded. Lost as in dead. The Chief was scratched, but he's okay.'
Kersdorf was silent, shocked. Then he spoke. 'So Lodge is our man. Did they get him?'
'They don't even know whether he was there when the assault began,' said Henssen, spreading his hands in a gesture of frustration, 'but he certainly wasn't by the time they secured the house. Their best guess is that he wasn't there at all. They sweat that nobody got through their cordon and that the house was empty.'
'So how come the casualties?'
'A variation on a theme. Explosives concealed in the floors and ceilings were triggered by a series of independent but mutually supporting automatic sensors: heat, acoustic, and pressure. The explosives were wrapped in some material that neutralized the sniffers.'
'What about Claymores?' said Kersdorf. 'We warned them to expect Claymores.'
'It seems that our people just weren't good enough,' said Henssen, 'or at least the Hangman was better. Of course, he's had more practice, God rot him.' He paused and massaged his temples. He felt acutely depressed, and light-headed from lack of sleep. He continued. 'Oh, they found Claymores as expected and defused them. They followed our briefing in that respect, but then they thought they were safe – and boom.'
'He's a creature of habit,' said Kersdorf. 'There is always a surprise within a surprise: the Chinese doll syndrome.'
'Russian doll,' corrected Henssen. 'Those doll-within-a-doll-within-a-doll sets are Russian. They call them matrushkas; there can be three, four, or five, or six, or even more little surprises inside.'
Kersdorf sighed. There was silence in the room before he spoke. 'Let's get some sleep.' He gestured at the computer. 'At least we now know how he operates. It won't be long before we get him.'
'But at what cost?' said Henssen.
The Bear was in a private room of the Tiefnau. Ten days of first-class medical care and the special attentions of one particular ward nurse with a gleam in her eye had left him, if not as good as new, at least in excellent secondhand condition. He pushed aside his tray with a satisfied sigh and split the last of the Burgundy between them..
Fitzduane picked up the empty bottle. 'Hospital issue?'
'Not exactly,' said the Bear, 'though I suppose you might call it medically selected.'
'Ah,' said Fitzduane. He looked at the label. 'A 1961 Beaune. Now what does that suggest to you about the lady who bought you this? This is real wine. You don't use ‘61 Beaune to take the paint off your front door.'
'Hmm,' said the Bear, growing a little pinker. 'Do you mind if we don't talk about Frau Maurer?'
Fitzduane grinned and drained his glass.
'What's been happening?' asked the Bear. 'Rest and relaxation are going to be the death of me. I'm not
