The end of the studio erupted in a sea of flame. Members of the assault unit grabbed Fitzduane and hurried him out of the building and into a waiting ambulance. Paulus, paramedics working on him furiously, lay in the other bunk.
He heard noises, more explosions, and the sound of heavy gunfire. He felt a pinprick on his arm and a brief glimpse of a man in a white coat standing over him and the Bear behind him wearing some kind of helmet.
And then there was nothing.
Book Three
The Killing
"The Irish are loose, untamable, superstitious, execrable, whiskey swilling, frank, amorous, ireful, and gloating in war."
—Giraldus Cambrensis (of Wales), thirteenth century
23
Unwisely — but thinking his stay in Switzerland would be a matter of weeks rather than a couple of months — he had left the Land Rover in the Long Stay Car Park of Dublin Airport. Somewhat to his surprise it was still there on his return, though sticky with a thick deposit of unburned aviation fuel mixed with Dublin grime.
He reached out his hand to open the befouled door with reluctance. A sudden gust of chill north wind angled the rain into his face, drenching his shirt. He suppressed his squeamishness and yanked the door open, threw in his bags, and climbed into the vehicle. A rush of wet cold located around his right foot informed him he had just stepped in a puddle. He slammed the door shut, and the wind and rain were excluded from his cold, damp aluminum and glass box.
A rat biting at his nerve endings inside his skull reminded him that he had a hangover. God damn the Swiss and their going-away parties.
Why the hell did he have to live in such a miserable, wet, wind-swept place as Ireland? It was May, and he was bloody freezing.
* * * * *
"I thought you were dead," said Kilmara cheerfully, "or dying at least — surrounded by nubile nurses in Tiefenau's intensive care unit." He rubbed his chin and added as an afterthought, "but I've prepared dinner anyway." He led the way into the big kitchen. "I've sent Adeline and the kids away for a while."
"There was fuck all wrong with me," said Fitzduane dryly, "thought I guess I was a bit dazed by the pyrotechnics. It was the paramedic who put me out — determined to have his moment of glory."
"Have a drink and relax," said Kilmara, "while I fiddle with pots and pans. You can tell me everything after you've eaten." He handed Fitzduane a tumbler of whiskey. "I assume you're staying the night. You'd better; you look terrible."
"Swiss hospitality," said Fitzduane. He slumped in a chair beside the fire. "It feels weird being back, weird and depressing and anticlimactic — and damp and cold."
"You're always going away to sunnier climates," said Kilmara, "but still you come back; you should know what to expect by now. What's so different this time?"
"I don't know," said Fitzduane. "Or perhaps I do." He fell asleep. He often did in Kilmara's house.
* * * * *
It was five hours later.
The plates had been cleared. The dishwasher had been loaded. The perimeter alarms had been rechecked. The dogs had bee let loose to roam or shelter as they wished. Kilmara had received a brief report over a secure line from the Ranger duty officer. The day was nearly done.
Sheets of rain driven by an unseasonable gale-force wind lashed the darkness. Double glazing and heavy lined curtains muted the sound of the storm except for the occasional eerie shriek echoing down the chimney. They sat on either side of the study fire, coffee, drinks, and cigars at hand.
Fitzduane was still suffering from reaction to events in Bern. His fatigue was deep and lasting, and he felt only marginally refreshed after his sleep despite the fact that Kilmara, seeing his friend's torpor, had delayed eating until very late.
He could hear the sound of a clock chiming midnight. "Hell of a time for a serious discussion," he said.
Kilmara smiled. "I'm sorry about that. I'm tight for time, and it's important I talk to you."
"Fire away."
"The Hangman," began Kilmara. "Let's start with his death."
"The Hangman," repeated Fitzduane thoughtfully. "So many different names; but it's funny, you know, I'll always think of him as Simon Balac."
"Different aliases and personas are still coming out of the woodwork," said Kilmara. "Whitney seems to have been another of them. Best guess is that that particular name was inspired by his late-lamented blond CIA boyfriend in Cuba. Still, it does look as if Lodge was his real name. The background fits, took or at least the psychiatrists seem to think so. You read the stuff that was prized out of the CIA?"
Fitzduane nodded. He remembered the clipped sentences describing Lodge's upbringing in Cuba: a brilliant, scared, lonely little boy maturing into a psychopath of genius. Fitzduane doubted that they had been supplied with the full story. The CIA didn't like to talk too much about Cuba.
"We'll call him the Hangman," said Fitzduane. "The press seems to have picked up on the name anyway. ‘Death of a Master Terrorist. Major success for joint Bernese / Bundeskriminalamt task force. The Hangman slain.’"
"The Bernese cops had to say something," said Kilmara. "they couldn't turn part of the city into a war zone and then burn down a complete block and say nothing. So tell me about it. I need to get a feel of the situation. The Hangman may be dead, but do his various enterprises live on? A friend of mine in the Mossad has suggested a few things that make me uneasy."
"The Mossad?" said Fitzduane.
"You go first," said Kilmara.
Fitzduane did.
"So you didn't actually see the Hangman killed?" said Kilmara.
"No," said Fitzduane. "Things happened very fast after Paulus shouted ‘Sempach!’ and shot Julius Lestoni. It was all over in a matter of seconds. The last I saw of Balac he was headed toward the end of the studio. I got off a couple of rounds, but I don't think I hit him. Then the assault group and the Bear's fucking tank took over. When I woke up in the Tiefenau, they told me the rest. The assault team had seen the Hangman through a door at the end of the studio. They blasted him with everything short of things nuclear, and then some kind of embedded thermite bombs went off and the whole place went up in flames. The entire block was sealed off, and when things were cool enough, they went in and dug through the wreckage. They found various bodies. The Hangman was identified by his dental records. Apparently he had tried to destroy them and had succeeded, but the dentist kept a duplicate set in his bank vault.
"Anyway, that, according to the powers that be, was the end of the Hangman. I stayed on a week to answer a whole lot of questions a whole lot of times and get drunk most nights with the Bear. And now here I am."
"Why did Paulus von Beck shout, ‘Sempach’?" asked Kilmara, puzzled.
Fitzduane smiled. "Love, honor, duty. We're all motivated by something."
"I don't follow."
"The von Becks are Bernese aristocracy," said Fitzduane. "Paulus felt that he had besmirched the family honor and that he was redeeming it by facing up to the Hangman. The Battle of Sempach took place when Napoleon's troops invaded Switzerland. The defending Bernese lost, but the consensus was that they had saved their honor. One of the heroes of the battles was a von Beck."