Fitzduane rose early, and the Bear drove him to Waisenhausplatz. He spent ninety minutes practicing unarmed combat with a remarkably humorless police instructor. Toward the end of the session, bruised and sore, Fitzduane dredged up a few moves from his time with the airbornes. They carried the instructor out on a stretcher.
The Bear looked a little shaken. 'That's a side of you I haven't seen before.'
Fitzduane had calmed down. 'I'm not proud of it; only rarely is it a good way to fight.' He smiled grimly. 'Mostly you fight with your brain.'
They spent a further hour on the pistol range, firing only Glaser rounds and concentrating on close-quarters reaction shooting. Fitzduane shot well. His clothes reeked of burned cartridge propellant. After he showered and changed, the smell had gone.
The examining magistrate looked down at his cousin. Paulus was white-faced with fear and lack of sleep. A faint, sweet aroma of vomit and after-shave emanated from him, but his tailoring was as immaculate as ever. Without doubt Paulus was the weakest link in the plan. Fortunately his appearance and nervousness could be attributed to another cause: his apparent attempt to deceive both the owner and the museum over a painting. It was a good story, but whether it was good enough – well, time would tell.
Looking at Paulus with new eyes since he had heard his confession, Charlie von Beck wondered whether their contrived art fraud wasn't a rerun of the truth. Paulus had always seemed to live better than either his salary or private resources would seem to justify. But perhaps he was jumping to conclusions. He would have trusted Paulus with his life until the tape. Why should he change his mind so drastically because his cousin's sex life had gotten out of hand? He was family after all.
The radio crackled as the various units reported in. Charlie von Beck looked at his watch. Not yet quite time to make the call.
Paulus dropped his head into his hands and sobbed. He raised his tear-stained face to his cousin. 'I… I can't do it. I'm afraid of him. You don't know how strong, how powerful, he is. He senses things. He'll know there is something wrong.' Paulus's voice rose to a shriek. 'You don't understand – he'll kill me!'
The Chief Kripo pushed two pills and a glass of water across to Paulus. 'Valium,' he said, 'a strong dose. Take it.'
Obediently Paulus swallowed the Valium. The Chief waited several minutes and then spoke soothingly. 'Relax. Breathe in deeply a few times. Close your eyes and let your mind rest. There is nothing really to worry about. In a few hours it will all be over.'
Like a docile child, Paulus did as he was told. He lay back in his swivel chair listening to the Chief chatting on inconsequentially. The sound was pleasant and reassuring. He couldn't quite make out the words, but it didn't seem to matter. He dozed. Twenty minutes later he woke refreshed. The first person he saw was the Chief, who beamed at him. He was drinking tea. There were spare cups on the table, and Charlie had a teapot in his hand. 'Milk or lemon?' said the Chief.
Paulus drank his tea holding the cup with both hands. He felt calm. He knew what to do.
'Let's do a final run-through.' The Chief smiled. 'Practice makes perfect.'
Paulus gave a half-smile back. 'You needn't worry. I'm all right now.'
'Let's run through it anyway.'
Paulus nodded. 'I'm going to call Balac and tell him that I have a picture in for evaluation on which I would like a second opinion and that I would appreciate it if he could take a look at it right away. I will tell him it's very important, and I shall imply that I have the opportunity to purchase it for much less than its real value. I shall suggest that I am bypassing the museum and dealing for myself. I shall tell him I don't want to move on this until I have my own judgment confirmed because the risks are too great. I shall tell him he can come in with me if he confirms the painting's value.'
'Balac won't find anything unusual in this,' said the Chief. 'You’ve asked for his opinion before, haven't you?'
'Many times. He is a brilliant judge of technique. But this will be the first time I have suggested dealing on the side, though he has dropped hints – always as if joking.'
'I think he'll swallow it,' said Charlie von Beck. 'We need some believable explanation for the critical time element. I think he'll be amused. He seems to enjoy corrupting people.'
'I shall stress the urgency and will ask that he come around to the museum today since I daren't keep it here longer in case someone else sees it.'
'Who is the owner supposed to be?' asked the Chief.
'The owner is a diplomat who had gotten a girl in trouble and needs some quick cash to hush the whole thing up. He thinks his painting is worth useful, but not big, money.'
'What is the painting supposed to be?' asked Charlie von Beck.
'I'm not going to say over the phone. I want to whet Balac's appetite. He will be intrigued; he likes games.'
'Don't we know it,' said Charlie, looking at his watch again.
'It's a Picasso collage,' said Paulus. 'The question is, is it a genuine Picasso or from the school of?'
'Well, is it?' said Charlie.
'Yes.'
'What's it worth?' asked the Chief.
'About half a million dollars. It's not mainstream Picasso, and not everybody likes collages.'
'Half a million dollars!' exclaimed the Chief. 'I hope there's no shooting or the Swiss franc gets stronger. Where did you get it?'
'I'd prefer not to say.'
'And you're sure Balac has never seen it?' said Charlie.
'It's been in a vault for the past twenty years. There was a small matter of avoiding British inheritance taxes.'
'Ah,' said the Chief, who liked clear-cut motives. 'So much money. I used to make collages myself as a child. I've still got some, too.'
'Pity your name's not Picasso,' said Charlie von Beck. His watch started to beep.
'You're on,' said the Chief to Paulus. Paulus lifted the phone.
The man on the third floor of the warehouse that overlooked the entrance to Balac's studio spoke into his radio. His partner emerged from the freight elevator as he completed his call. He was still tucking his shirt into his pants. 'Anything?'
The man with the high-power binoculars nodded. 'A Merc with Zurich license plates dropped off three men and drove away. One of them said something into the door loudspeaker, and Balac let them in. They were all carrying sports bags. I've got it on video.' He pointed at the prefocused video camera mounted on a heavy-duty tripod.
'Odd,' said the arrival. 'I thought they told us that Balac had some special painting regimen whereby he locks himself away all day except during lunchtime.'
'They did,' said the watcher. His companion completed rewinding the tape. He pressed ‘play’ and stared intently at the video images. There were impressions, but the faces could not be clearly seen. Then the last man turned and looked around before the steel door closed behind him. The arrival grunted. 'What do you think?'
'Same as you,' said the watcher. 'The last man is Angelo Lestoni, which makes the other two his brother Pietro and his cousin-'
'Julius,' said the other man. 'You radioed it in?'
'Affirmative.'
The other man replaced his bulletproof vest and started checking his tripod-mounted sniper rifle. It was a self-loading model from Heckler amp; Koch, designed for both high accuracy and rapid follow-on fire. It occurred to
