Kersdorf looked at Henssen, who cleared his throat before he spoke. "Within forty-eight hours at the outside, but possibly as soon as twelve."
"What are the main holdups?" asked the Chief. "I thought your computers were ultrafast."
"Processing time isn't the problem," said Henssen. "The main delays are in three areas: getting the records we want out of people, transferring the data to a format the computers can use, and the human interface."
"What do you mean by the human interface? I thought the computer did all the thinking."
"We're not to of a job yet," said Kersdorf. "The computer does the heavy data interpretation, ‘thinking,’ if you will, but only within parameters we determine. The computer learns as it goes, but we have to tell it, at least the first time, what is significant."
The Chief grunted. He was having a hard time trying to assess to what extent the damn machines could actually think, but he decided that the balance, at this stage, between man and machine was not so important. What he had to decide was the effectiveness of the full package. Was Project K worth the candle and likely to deliver, or should he do a Pontius Pilate and wash his hands while the Federal Police or a cantonal task force took over the whole thing? "Let's talk specifics," he said. "Have you considered that our candidate is almost certainly known by the von Graffenlaubs?"
The Bear nodded. "We asked the von Graffenlaub family to list all friends and acquaintances, and they are now entered into the data base. There are several problems. Beat von Graffenlaub has a vast circle of acquaintances; Erika is almost certainly not telling the whole truth, if for no other reason than she doesn't want the extent of her sex life to end up on a government computer. Life being the way it is, none of the lists will be entirely comprehensive. Few people can name everyone they know."
"Have you thought of narrowing down the von Graffenlaub list by concentrating on who they know in common?"
The Bear grinned. "The computer did — but gave the result a low significance rating because of the inherent unreliability of the individual lists."
"I remember the days when you talked like a cop," said the Chief. He looked down at his notes again. "How do we stand on the tattoo issue?"
"Good and bad," said the Bear. "The good news is that we finally traced the artist — a guy in Zurich operating under the name of Siegfried. The bad news is that he'd disappeared when the local police went to pick him up for a second round of questioning. He reappeared in walking boots, full of holes."
"The body found in the woods? I didn't know it had been identified yet."
"An hour of so ago," said the Bear. "You were probably on your way here at the time."
"Did Siegfried leave any records?"
"He had a small apartment above his shop," said the Bear. "Both were destroyed in a fire shortly after he did his vanishing act. A thorough case of arson with no attempt to make it look accidental; whoever did it was more concerned about carrying out a total destruction job. They used gasoline and incendiary devices. On the basis of analysis of the chemicals used in the incendiaries, there is a direct link to the Hangman's group."
The Chief frowned. "What about Ivo's package?"
"That's still with forensics," said the Bear. "They hope to have something later on today, but it could be tomorrow. About eighty percent of it was destroyed by Fitzduane's shotgun blasts, and the rest of it was saturated in blood and bits of our unlamented killer. That shotgun load he's using is formidable."
"Not exactly helpful in this situation," said the Chief.
"I'm not used to shooting people wearing roller skates," said Fitzduane. "It confused my aim."
"What you need is a dose of Swiss Army," said the Chief. "We'd teach you how to shoot."
"We're particularly strong on dealing with terrorists wearing roller skates," said Charlie von Beck.
"Which reminds me. I really would like my shotgun back," said Fitzduane. "Your people took it away after the Bärenplatz."
"Evidence," said the Chief. "Democratic legal systems are crazy about evidence. Consider yourself lucky you weren't take away, too."
The Bear looked at Fitzduane and stopped him as he was about to reply. "Be like a bamboo," he suggested, "and bend with the wind."
"That's all I need," said Fitzduane, "a Swiss Chinese philosopher."
* * * * *
Sangster would have been flattered by the meticulous planning that went into his death. Sylvie had been assigned the task of tidying up Vreni von Graffenlaub. With her were a technician of Columbian origin known as Santine and two Austrian contract assassins, both blond and blue-eyed and baby-cheeked, whom she immediately dubbed Hansel and Gretel.
She still felt sore about the Bärenplatz shootings. Certainly the target had been killed, and a policeman for good measure, and losing the Lebanese had been no loss — she had become extremely bored with his alligator shoes — but she wished she hadn't lent the incompetent idiot her Ingram. It was the weapon she was used to, and now here she was carrying out an assignment it would have been ideal for, and she was reduced to one of those dull little Czech Skorpions.
They considered bypassing the bodyguards by approaching the farmhouse cross-country. That would have worked if Kadar had ordered just a quick kill, but he wanted something more elaborate, so it became clear they'd have to take out the bodyguards prior to the main event.
The killings would have to be silent. Vreni's farmhouse was situated outside the village, but noise travels in the still air of the mountains, and although the immediate police presence might not be significant, this damned Swiss habit of every man's having an assault rifle in his home had to be considered.
In the end it wasn't too difficult to come up with an effective plan. It hinged up Santine's technical capabilities and close observation of the bodyguards' routine. For at least twenty minutes out of every hour both bodyguards were out of the car patrolling, and for at least half that time they were out of sight of the car.
The first move was to bug the bodyguards' car. The rented Mercedes was not difficult to unlock, and within seconds Santine, almost invisible in white camouflage against the snow, had concealed two audio transmitters and, under the driver's seat, a radio-activated cylinder of odorless, colorless carbon monoxide gas. Silently he relocked the car and slithered away into the tree line, cursing the cold and swearing that he would confine his talents in the future to warmer climes.
The audio surveillance was instructive. Sylvie was glad that she hadn't given in to her initial impulse to bypass the bodyguards. The farmhouse, it turned out, was bugged. Vreni von Graffenlaub might not have allowed her father's security people inside her house, but they still had the ability to monitor — if not actually see — her every movement. There were microphones, they learned, in all the main rooms.
Further surveillance revealed that the bodyguards' reporting procedures, their code words, their routines, and the interesting gem that their vehicle was shortly to be replaced by an armor-plated van that was at this moment making its way to them from Milan. Sangster had learned something from the Moro experience. He had put in a requisition, and it had been approved. Beat von Graffenlaub had deep pockets, and his family was to receive the most effective protection the experts thought necessary.
The armored van could make things difficult. It would be relatively immune to Skorpion fire. There was only one conclusion: the hit would have to be made before its arrival. Just to complicate things, Sangster and Pierre reported in every hour to their headquarters by radio and checked upon in turn on a random basis about once every three hours. The only good news about that was that radio transmission quality seemed to be poor. It should be possible for Sylvie's team, armed with knowledge of the codes and procedures, to fake it for a couple of hours.