A Death in Geneva (21 page)

“None.”

“None last week.” Pitsch contemplated the pencil rolling between his thumb and forefinger. “Until her death, I had been enjoying a quiet period—six weeks since Bader-Meinhoff claimed credit for—the destruction of your consul's vehicle in Hamburg, minus, thank
God, the consul. Two, two-and-one-half weeks before that, a US/ NATO munitions convoy was hijacked outside of Naples, loss of American lives, an extremely damaging theft of munitions. It has been kept out of the press to a certain extent. The terrorists claimed a victory, but they didn't release their inventory—75-foot lethal-radius grenades, a dozen crates of rifles and machine guns, ammunition, mortars and mortar shells, special unit arms, including your new swimmer mines—”

“Yeah, the SEAL mines.” Sweetman cursed: “we hand it to them on a platter!”

“The Carabinieri's Gruppo Intervento Speciale has the action, without results so far. There has been a scrap between your authorities and the Italians.”

“The Grabner factor.”

“Maybe not completely—some smart work going on behind the scenes down there.” Sweetman recounted the Israeli's investigation, adding “Ze'ev's wired up to us, wired up through the net Lancaster's established for this operation. He'll keep us posted.”

“Smart people, capable people. We had all better know where that cargo is destined. That said, Hanspeter, Pierce, if there is a link between the events in Hamburg and Naples it is yet to be evident; if there is a link between either and your ambassador's murder it is not yet evident. Herr Grabner will tell you that it is the Federal Republic, period. He will then walk you once gain around the course and tell you that if it is not Germany, there is a fifty-to-one shot that it is the Italians . . . and if it is either. . . .” He paused, looked at the two Americans. “We've made a good start here, good lines of inquiry developing, good lines of support in place, and a good future agenda. There is a door we still cannot see, but we are heading toward it. I am confident—one door, and behind it lies our solution.”

He went to the sideboard, opened a liter of mineral water, and poured it slowly into three glasses. “It is a rich hunting grounds.” He placed the drinks on a tray which he brought to the table. “We have our RAF; we have the RZ, a curiously vicious cell of bombers, the Revolutionary Unemployed Cells, RZs; we have Haag-Meyer. We keep them, their satellite groups, and their disciples under the closest watch.

“Last week before you two arrived, my colleagues made an important arrest, RAF, in Frankfurt. You probably got wind of it. A landlady had
become suspicious about a carpentry truck with carpenters who did not carpenter. A significant phenomenon, the value of custodians in penetrating the seemingly innocent exterior of these terrorists who, however virulent, must still sleep, eat, and attempt to find security in the faceless numbers of the city. Her suspicions were confirmed when we received word and placed the vehicle under twenty-four-hour surveillance.

“Last week, these woodpeckers chose to travel to a wooded site some three kilometers from the main runway. We observed. They would remain in their vehicle, with lookouts spaced up and down the road. With the sound of a flight, they would emerge with dummy GRAILs, fitted with sights, and they would track the aircraft—excellent training, we would all agree.

“We allowed them to complete this work of theirs. When they were safely home, our commando made its entry in a simultaneous strike through every door and window in their flat . . . no injuries. The carpenters were in possession of one SA-7 surface-to-air missile launcher, in three suitcases, with six rounds and the usual assortment of arms and documents. Rigorous interrogation is continuing. They haven't revealed anything of significance yet; and they may not. The papers in their possession point to a logistics link with the PLF—the missile. But, there was nothing in the direction of Switzerland.”

“That's the second GRAIL this year.”

“Correct, and as Herr Grabner will confirm with his wagging finger, the first was also seized in the Federal Republic.”

Indignation, indigestion, and chronic fatigue deepened Minister Franz Grabner's slow speech. He glowered at Sweetman and Bromberger, dabbed with a handkerchief at the sweat on his forehead, and, with a heave of his shoulders, turned his back on them in his swivel chair. He studied the row of amber pills on the shelf behind his desk, swiveled to face them again.

“You are the experts; all the way across the Atlantic, my, my. Did you know that I have never paid a formal visit to your country?” He dabbed again with the rumpled handkerchief, extending the operation to the moist gray hairline at the back of his neck. “Tell Ernest that I would be agreeable to his invitation, later this year, perhaps. Tell him that.” He settled deeper in the chair, a look of contempt on his face, and studied them in silence.

“Now then, my American experts, would you think that the murder of your ambassador is an indigenous crime of the wicked Swiss? Is that why you have come to Bern to my family apartment to help me while away an otherwise empty evening?” Grabner had insisted on the night meeting. He wanted no American investigators calling at his office, visible to the Swiss press, adding to his burdens.

“If the killers were Swiss, Mr. Minister, we would have already received your report of their capture. We would not be here.” In the heavy silence, Bromberger waited for a flicker of satisfaction, but Grabner only slouched further, his body a dead volcano sloping down and outward with a fine sprinkling of dandruff ash on the upper slopes.

“When you convey my response to Ernest Lancaster's invitation, tell your director of Central Intelligence how wise I found both of you to be.” The Swiss minister continued to hammer home the point that they had been admitted to his presence only because of the high-level intervention from Washington. His fat fingers reached for a brown cardboard box, the size of a double deck of playing cards. There was the sound of metal, empty shell casings. He examined the contents and again closed the lid. “And, your friend Major Pitsch—the chalet valet”—Grabner's lips rose slightly then fell in a failed effort at a smile—“does GSG-9 believe Ambassador Burdette's demise is the product of Swiss treachery?”

“Mister Minister, from the reports we have had, your department is working hand in glove with the Germans. GSG-9 has placed itself at your disposal; we are at your disposal.” Bromberger had ignored Grabner's baiting, responding quietly with a trace of caution in his voice. Sweetman listened impassively, his fingers pressed together, forefingers against his chin.

“Mister Minister, the fact that the murder took place on Swiss territory is regrettable. Nothing we have learned points to a Swiss suspect, which is not surprising. At this point, however, no evidence points usefully in any direction. There is increasing impatience on the part of the American public and government. They want the killers brought to justice. Our director has offered you our services, Mr. Minister. We see this, sir, as a cooperative effort. You are in charge.”

“Nothing Swiss—which is fine—‘increasing impatience' . . .” Grabner's words came more slowly than ever. He smashed his hand down on a foot-high stack of folders, left it there with the uppermost paper twitching beneath his trembling fingers. The handkerchief again
blotted his brow as if to ensure that every square inch of irritation was clearly visible. “If you are at
my
disposal,” the words hissed from his thick lips, “where shall we assign you? Airport security, border inspection? What is your preference? . . . at my disposal!

“No evidence, you say!” The hand rose and again pounded the bruised folders. The chimes of a clock somewhere in the apartment struck 9:00 P.M. Grabner looked at his wristwatch, gave a sigh that rippled downward through the spreading flesh before disappearing behind the desk. He swiveled around to his pharmacy, plucked two bottles from the row, and dumped some pills into his palm. He reached for the water pitcher; it had disappeared. “No evidence . . . umph!”

Grabner pushed himself away from the desk, plodded to the kitchen and returned with the pitcher and a bottle of water. “And, what does the Gruppo Intervento's Lieutenant Colonel Bertucci suggest?” The last word was split in half by a rumbling belch. “And, our Israeli Mossad colleagues, who are giving Switzerland such a population crisis keeping an eye on their Arabs; what do they tell you?”

“Bertucci's out fishing like the rest of us, Mr. Minister. The GIS is deep in the Naples munitions heist—”

“The heist, yes; and was there a message there, Mr. Sweetman?”

“None yet.”

“No, and what does that suggest? Don't answer me, Mr. Sweetman.” Grabner's body recoiled from another belch. “My business, my American colleagues, is people living and dead, and with the former I fancy myself a good judge of when to change tactics, a judge of the moment when patience threatens to wear too thin.” He rearranged the pill bottles. “Good medicine, even though it is slightly explosive.

“Gentlemen,” he swiveled toward them, “your collaboration is welcome. Tell your Director . . . Ernest Lancaster, that I look forward to much closer liaison with him and with his close associates in the future. There is no room for exclusivity . . . exclusivity? . . . Yes, in this growing madness. But,” Grabner continued, more relaxed now, his hands resting on the desk, opening and closing as he spoke, “we must respect the responsibilities of nation, yes, the national responsibilities . . . the national structure, the national sensitivities each of us brings from our different home to countering this madness. Switzerland, you appreciate, is no longer the chocolate house of Heidi and the yodelers.”

Sweetman slid down in his chair and squinted at the pharmacy's labels. The old tub of lard is changing gears, about time.

“We are no saints, my American colleagues, but our hospitality as a nation has been abused violently. It is unhealthy for the national spirit. It is unacceptable for law and order.” His hand went to his mouth. “Do you know the record of operations of the Germans, the Italians, the Palestinians, the entire international cast in Switzerland this year? . . . Last year? It is unacceptable madness! These scum will be made to realize that it is unacceptable, from behind the cold, hard steel and concrete of Swiss prisons!”

Grabner twisted open the top of a small, round tin, rolled his thumb and forefinger in the contents, tucked the ball of snuff between his gum and lip. “You will not know that one hour and one half ago, we arrested three Italians at the border.”

“Four police were shot in Milan yesterday . . .”

“Yes, Mr. Bromberger, so they were, and there is every prospect that the evidence will link these three to that crime—”

“What—”

“We should know soon. And, they will know that Switzerland will no longer be a safe haven for their scum, even if my wretched existence must be claimed in the process.”

The minister's heavy cheeks wiggled as he maneuvered a second ball of snuff into place. “Now then, what do we know about your murder? Two people, killed deliberately by gunfire, the American ambassador and her Swiss chauffeur. Three people, wearing hoods, were involved in the killing according to the eye witness accounts. As it was night and raining, and given the professional execution of the crime, these accounts have been understandably sparse. There may have been three killers, maybe more—a van of undetermined make and origin, which, to my regret, is so far not recovered.

“There was a Lambretta motorcycle, recovered, crushed beneath the American limousine. We know of at least one pistol, a Makarov 9mm, at least two, maybe three submachine guns . . . Heckler and Koch 53s, AK-47, and a Czech machine gun. The evidence at the site would so indicate.”

“HK-53s?”

“Yes, Mr. Sweetman.” Grabner rattled the contents of the cardboard box. “The Kalashnikov was an early favorite of ours, too, but shell
analysis indicated that more was involved.” He pushed the box across the desk to the Americans. “Basically, Soviet and German weapons. We know, my American colleagues, from the blood samples taken from the limousine and the surrounding area, the blood types of two of the killers. Rh Positive, not the dead driver's, was taken from his shattered window, carelessness, apparently, on the part of one of the killers. Type O was taken from the Lambretta. Now, this was your ambassador's type. However, firm evidence points to the fact that she died where she lay in the back seat . . . never left the limousine.