"Anyway, the Trogs have proposed setting up a small unit here. All they want is a couple of rooms, good communications, and a computer terminal or two. They'll supply the secure modems to link with the Kommissar and the rest of the gear."
He looked around Fitzduane's borrowed apartment and smiled.
"You devious son of a bitch," said Fitzduane. "Where do the Bernese cops come into all this?"
"It's an unofficial operation with unofficial blessing," said Kilmara. "Chief Max Buissard is skeptical. Examining Magistrate von Beck is enthusiastic. The deal is that von Beck heads it up with your friend the Bear. The one proviso is that we row in with an official representative. That way, if anything goes wrong, the forces of law and order of three countries — Switzerland, Germany, and Ireland — will be in the shit together and the fallout will be better dissipated. It's an old bureaucratic trick."
"So who are you assigning? Günther? He likes computers."
"A newcomer would take time to get acclimatized," said Kilmara.
"Anyway, von Beck and the Bear want you in on this thing. The Chief Kripo says you've brought a crime wave with you and is muttering about your screwing up his statistics but will support your involvement if you have official status. The Federal Police are kind of morbidly curious to find out what you're going to come up with next. A bit of terrorism does wonders for their funding, and the Feds think they're deprived if they don't' have Porsches and this year's chopper to run around in.
"I want you in — officially now — because I think we're all holding on to different bits of the dragon without knowing quite what we've found. I want a man on the spot who already knows his way around and whom I can trust. Besides, I don't have anyone else who isn't gainfully employed. So what do you say? You'll have official status, which may prove handy the way the bodies are piling up."
Fitzduane sighed and spread his hands in resignation. There was a glint in his eyes.
"This all started with a morning constitutional," he said. "It's turning out like Vietnam."
"Don't complain," said Kilmara. "Vietnam was a photographer's war. Now, will you do it?"
"Why not?" said Fitzduane. "I've never worked with a Bear and an intelligent computer before."
"We'll call the operation Project K," said Kilmara, "on account of your upmarket location."
He tossed Fitzduane a bulky package.
"An Easter present," he said.
The package contained a bottle of Irish whiskey, fifty rounds of custom-loaded shotgun ammunition, and a lightweight Kevlar bulletproof vest.
"It's our standard How-to-get-on-in-Switzerland kit," said Kilmara.
Fitzduane looked up at him. "How did you know about the shotgun?"
"Von Beck told me you were lugging one around in your tripod bag," said Kilmara. "Besides, I remember your taste in weapons from the Congo."
"I gather you think I'll need this stuff."
"Haven't a clue, but it's no use running out with your Visa card when the shooting starts."
Fitzduane picked up one of the shotgun rounds. It was stenciled with the marking “XR-18.”
"What's this?"
"It's an experimental round," said Kilmara, "that we've cooked up ourselves. As you know, a shotgun pattern is useless against a man above fifty yards — and if you've any sense, you'll fire at less that half that distance. A solid slug has more range but poor accuracy. Well, we ran across a new discarding-sabot slug that will enable you to hit a torso-size target at up to two hundred yards. We combined it with some of the characteristics of the Glaser slug by filling it with liquid Teflon and other material. It works" — he paused — "rather well."
"Any good against dragons?" said Fitzduane.
* * * * *
Kadar held a flower in his hands. He plucked the petals one by one and watched them flutter to the ground. Already they have begun to decompose, he thought. Soon they will be part of the earth once more, and they will feed other flowers. More likely some developer will grab the location and stop the cycle with a few tons of concrete. Even beautifully preserved Bern was being nibbled at around the edges. But the old town, he was delighted to say, maintained it charmed life.
He decided he would make a donation to ProBern. Just because he was a terrorist didn't mean he couldn’t be concerned about the environment. Good grief, Europe was in danger of becoming an ecological desert — everything from mercury in the water to acid rain killing the trees. Half the men in the RuhrValley area were said to be sterile. There were too many people wanting too much in too small a space. Really, killing a few people was for the long-term good. Mother Earth needed some supporting firepower. He decided to send some money to Greenpeace, too. He had no desire to spend his retirement building up his radioactivity level so that he could read at night by the glow. Besides, he liked whales.
"It's tidying-up time," he said. "You know I like neat projects. Well, I want Geranium to be especially neat."
"How long do we have?" asked one of the five people sitting in a semicircle before him. He was a Lebanese who had freelanced for the PLO until the Mossad blew up his contact and two bodyguards and their armor-plated, totally untamperable-with Mercedes in Spain. He knew Bern well — they all did — and he traveled on a false Turkish passport. He had developed a strong bias against German cars and flinched inwardly every time a Mercedes taxi went by. He liked Bern because you could walk to most places or take a tram if time was pressing. You could kill to a schedule. Working for Kadar you soon learned to meet your deadlines.
"You each have your own timetable," said Kadar, "but the whole operation must be completed inside two weeks. Then we will rendezvous in Libya and finalize preparations for Geranium. By the end of May you will all be quite rich."
Kadar opened his rucksack and a large carryall and removed five packages. He gave one to each of the terrorists. "Each package contains your weapon, a and the envelope contains details of your targets, travel arrangements, tickets, and so on. I suggest that you read these details here so that I can answer any questions."
There was the rustle of paper as the envelopes were opened. One of the two women present used a switchblade that she wore strapped in a quick-release mechanism on the inside of her left forearm. Her name was Sylvie, and she had trained with Action Directe in France. Sylvie read her operations order and looked up at Kadar. His face was expressionless. He looked at the group.
"Perhaps you would like to examine your weapons," he said.
Each terrorist bent forward and began to open the package. Inside the external wrapping was a layer of polyethylene followed by waxed paper. Sachets of silica gel had been added to absorb any surplus moisture. The weapons were free of protective grease and, though unloaded, were otherwise ready for use. Soon one Czech-made VZ-61 Skorpion lay exposed, then two more. Sylvie had a 9 mm Ingram fitted with a silencer. She clipped a magazine into place and cocked the weapon.
The remaining terrorist — a Swiss who operated under the name of Siegfried — sat looking at the jagged half-meter splinter of polished stone he had unwrapped. Letters had been cut into it. His face was ashen. He looked up at Kadar. "You're playing a joke with me?"
"Well, yes — and then again, no," said Kadar. "It's not just any piece of stone, though I admit it's not the size it should be. I couldn’t carry the whole thing. Still, I'm sure you can work out the point."