his paintings seem more valuable. It contributed to a sense of occasion leavened with a whiff of the dramatic. Anyway, getting the right price for his work, it seemed to Balac, had more to do with theater than with painting. Look at Picasso and Salvador Dali. How much more theatrical could you get? There was no doubt about it: art was a branch of show business. So was terrorism, on reflection.
'I am,' he said to himself, 'a man of parts.' He was pleased with the thought. He uncapped a bottle of Gurten beer and drained half of it in true hell-raising chugalug fashion. The Lestonis were puffing across to the viewing area with Paulus's carefully cased Picasso. Paulus was hovering anxiously.
Balac half regretted having called the Lestonis in. They wouldn't do much for the tone of the gathering. Unfortunately they looked like what they were – professional killers. The Lestonis actually did wear snap-brim fedoras – incredible! They had even wanted to wear them inside, but Balac had drawn the line at that. The hats had been removed and now hung form three picture hooks like a surrealist sculpture. An aroma of perfumed hair oil filled the room. 'Fuck me,' said Balac to himself, and drained the rest of the beer. He was in a hell of a good mood.
The Picasso, still hidden from view in the packing case, had arrived at its destination. Paulus looked relieved and started adjusting the lighting to create the right effect. The Lestonis resumed their positions, standing well spaced out against the wall so that they could observe the entire room. Balac decided that introducing them to his guests as businessmen interested in his work wasn't going to play. The only commercial activity other than violence that they could credibly be involved in was drug peddling or maybe pimping. Or arms dealing – now there was an occupation the Swiss could identify with. No, he'd say they were bodyguards hired to lend a little pizzazz to his next show and he was rehearsing the effect. The good burghers of Bern would love it.
The door indicator buzzed. He looked at the TV monitors set into the wall: Fitzduane coming to pay his respects before he returned to that dreary, wet country of his. Balac controlled the security doors with a remote unit. He pressed the appropriate buttons in a spaced sequence and watched Fitzduane's progress on the monitors. The last door slid shut behind him, and he entered the room. What a delicious irony – to entertain a man who was scouring the city looking for him. Life was full of simple pleasures.
They shook hands. 'I can't stay long,' said Fitzduane. 'I just wanted to say good-bye. I'm off this evening from Zurich, and I've a hundred and one things to do before then.'
Balac laughed. 'Not the remark of a Swiss. A Swiss would be well organized in advance and would now be going through his travel checklist – for the third time – before leaving for the airport several hours in advance in case he was delayed.'
Fitzduane smiled. Once again he was struck by the magnetism of the man's personality. Even knowing the extent of Balac's sadism and criminality, even remembering the stomach-turning sight of some of his victims, he found it impossible not to be affected. In Balac's presence he easily understood how Paulus had been corrupted. The Hangman was an infectious force of truly formidable power. In his presence you wanted to please, to see that responsive twinkle in his eyes, to bask in the aura he radiated. The man had charisma. He was more than charming; his willpower dominated.
One of the Lestonis – he thought it was Cousin Julius, on the basis of a quick look at the file the Bear had thrown into the car – stood to Balac's left, slightly forward and to one side. If Fitzduane had been left-handed, he would have stood to the right – always the side nearer to the gun hand. It was a reflex for such a man. Fitzduane was beginning to see the Chief's point. Even with the element of surprise, he'd be lucky to get one of them, let alone three – not to mention Balac.
He began to feel like a moron for suggesting such an idiotic plan. It was looking beyond bloody dangerous. Foolhardy didn't even begin to describe it. Now he knew how the twenty Greeks inside the Trojan Horse must have felt while the Trojans discussed whether or not to bring it inside. The Trojan equivalent of the Lestonis had suggested burning the wooden horse. The Greeks inside must have felt great when those encouraging words had floated up into their hiding place.
'Let me introduce Julius,' said Balac, indicating the Lestoni on his right. The gunman nodded. He made no offer to shake hands. Balac waved at the two other Lestonis. 'Angelo and his brother, Pietro.' They stared at Fitzduane, unblinking.
Fitzduane thought he'd have a quick glass of beer – his mouth was feeling sand dry – and fuck off very, very fast. He poured some Gurten into a glass and drank through the froth. It tasted like nectar.
Julius was whispering something into Balac's ear. He had a pocket-size bug detector in his hand, and a small red light on it was flashing. Balac looked at Fitzduane and then at Paulus.
How he realized they were both involved, Fitzduane never fully understood, but from that moment there was no doubt: Balac knew.
One element of the plan that had particularly bothered the Bear was the correct functioning of the shaped charge. Certainly it had worked fine on the range at Sand, but that was a test under optimum conditions. Real life, in the Bear's experience, tended to be something less than optimal, often a lot less. A lot less in relation to the way that meant either no hole or an inadequate hole, and either way that meant the assault team couldn’t get in on time, which promised to be exceedingly bad news for Fitzduane and Paulus. Of course, Fitzduane was supposed to have left before the charge was blown so that he, at least, would be out of the firing line. But deal or no deal with the Chief, the Bear's insides told him that things were not going to work out that way.
All of which meant that if Fitzduane couldn't get out as planned, the assault force was going to have to go in – and that suggested a need for a king-size can opener. He tossed the problem to Henssen and Kersdorf and the Nose, and together they came up with an answer that derived from three of Switzerland's greatest assets: snow, the army, and money.
Strategically placed out of sight of the entrance to Balac's studio, the Bear waited, earphones glued to his head, and listened to Fitzduane drinking beer. Along with a unit of the assault force and an army driver, he was sitting inside the army's latest and most expensive main battle tank. The sharp prow of a military specification snowplow was mounted on the front of the huge machine. The tank's engines were already ticking over. Both coaxial and turret machine guns were loaded.
The Bear had decided it was time to stop pissing around with this psycho. He stood up in the turret and pulled back the cocking handle on the. 50 caliber. One of the huge machine-gun rounds slid into the breech. This time, he thought, he had a big enough gun.
He felt sick at what he heard coming over his earphones. 'Go!' he shouted into his throat microphone to the driver.
The huge machine rumbled forward.
Eyes narrowed, Balac stared at Fitzduane as if reading his mind. The aura of bonhomie had vanished. Implacably Balac's face was transformed into something vicious and malevolent. The features did not change, but the image they projected was so altered that fear struck Fitzduane like a knife in the guts.
Stripped of its mask, the face of the Hangman was diabolical. The man radiated the power of evil. It assaulted Fitzduane's senses like something physical. He could smell the stench of corruption and depravity, of the blood of his many victims, of their flesh rotting in disparate places.
All the Lestonis had drawn their weapons. Julius had a sawed-off shotgun. The other Lestonis both had automatic weapons, an Ingram and a Skorpion. All the weapons pointed at Fitzduane. He raised his hands slowly in defeat and clasped them on top of his head. Through the light material of his jacket, with the forefinger of his right hand, he could feel the button controlling the shaped charge in the Picasso frame. The muzzles of three multi- projectile weapons faced him. Stun grenades or not, they would fire as a reflex, wouldn't they? It was an option he didn't want to check out. He relaxed his finger but kept it in place.
'Where is the wire, Hugo?' said Balac.
'Clipped inside the front of my shirt.'
Balac stepped forward and ripped the microphone from Fitzduane and ground it under his heel. He removed the SIG from Fitzduane's shoulder holster and gave it to Julius, who stuck it in his belt. Balac stepped back, sat
