SNAIL ISLET E-Book

Marcus Brian Vladimir Townend

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 456

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Urs Gipser, the Minister of Defence, reads the message and immediately ends his hike. He rushes to the Turrenhuis, in front of which a helicopter is landing. What is happening right now? Is Switzerland being attacked by a foreign power? Politicians, the media and the civilian intelligence service assume an Islamist attack. Colonel König from the military intelligence service and his Dutch friend Hendrik, known from "STEINGLETSCHER", follow their own trail. But then the suspected perpetrators are kidnapped

Leseprobe

SNAIL ISLET

Blast. Nuclear. Lucerne.

Thriller

Marcus Townend

Inhaltsverzeichnis

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

End

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Curriculum vitae of the author

More books

Second, revised edition in German: Townend Marcus (2021): Unter dem Bootshaus, Thriller, ISBN: 978-3-7531-7629-1

Translation:    © 2023

    Marcus Townend

    Sagenriedli 1

    CH-6062 Wilen

Cover photo:   Marcus Townend

Cover:    Margrit Naef

Printing and distribution:  epubli - a service of neopubli GmbH, Berlin

ISBN:   

Links:     www.townend.ch

www.epubli.de

Snail Islet

Wyss Hans

Owner of the island, member

WG 91

Finn

House technician, martial artist

Goran

Gardener, Pilot

Mila

Wife of Goran and

Mustafa

Son

Yasin

Refugee from Iraq

Eye Clinic

Chief

physician

Head of the clinic

Apollonia

Clinic Manager

Gwendoline

Secretary

Milone Dr.

Senior physician

Federal Government

Gipser Urs

Federal Councillor, Minister of Defence

Leibacher B.

Head of the Federal Crisis Unit

Lieb Hugo

Head of Civilian Intelligence

Blatter A.

Chief of the Armed Forces

Wehrgemeinschaft 91 (WG 91)

Wyss Hans, Stähli Georg, a Journalist, a Civil servant, a Lawyer, an Arms manufacturer, Divisional officer von Boltigen (was murdered, see: 'Steingletscher')

Military Intelligence Service (MND)

Brigadier Rochat

Head of Military Intelligence (MND)

König Pirmin

Colonel, Deputy Head of MND, friend of Hendrik, wife, daughters: Cordelia, Gioconda and Isotta.

Ball Helene

Captain, deputy

Berisha Kadri

Lieutenant, staff

Milone Henrietta

Sergeant-at-arms, staff member

More

Dorpeind

Hendrik

Engineer, friend of Pirmin, Katharina, wife

Egger Karin

Head of CID Obwalden

Gasser, Hptm

Chief Cantonal Police

Obwalden

Kaya Arda

Kurdish hero

Mühlenmann Beat

Divisional officer, commander Alpnach airfield, pilot

Father Gerhard

Prefect

Tarek

Head of Intelligence Us-al-Bin

Valdrim

Neighbour of Hendrik and Kath.

Sascha Walker

Neighbour of Hendrik and Kath.

"What kind of disturbed people are these who develop a weapon that kills people but doesn’t damage their weapons?"

Pirmin König, College Student

"Only when we are ready to condemn all acts of war, including defensive wars, can there be no more wars."

Hendrik Dorpeind, College Student

Prologue

Mid-August 1976

"That same evening, the two schoolmates Pirmin and Hendrik were sitting under the chestnut trees of a restaurant drinking a beer. The first day of school after the big summer holiday at the Kollegi seemed far away and they didn't lose any words about their verbal argument during the German lesson.

Hendrik's thoughts were with a schoolmate, a beautiful girl, who had given him something today, the first day after the holidays, which he now clasped with his left hand: a small, homemade scroll made of green marbled soapstone."

Townend Marcus (2019): STEINGLETSCHER, Nuclear Power Switzerland

ISBN: 978-3-7565-47-30-2

1

They drove along the Sedelstrasse. It was Wednesday, 6 July at 05:00 in the morning. It was slowly getting light. There was little traffic at this time of day. The driver looked out the window of the van, pointed to a massively built building and laughed:

"This used to be a prison. For people like you and me." Then he looked back at the road and added: "Today the former cells are used as practice rooms by jazz and rock musicians." The driver was 28 years old and named Yasin. He wore short-cropped black hair with fringes across his forehead and a three-day beard. His passenger looked at the colourful tattoo of the elongated spindle-shaped White Tower Snail that Yasin wore on his right forearm. The mollusc depicted was oversized, he thought, and therefore did not seem to fit the lanky physique. He lifted his gaze and looked disinterestedly at the massive structure. Then he turned his head and looked out the window on the right at Mount Pilatus, towering over 2,000 metres. On the other side of a narrow valley, the multi-storey main building of the hospital appeared. He was half a head shorter and four years younger than the driver. He had tied his dark hair behind his ears into a tight horse tail. He wondered about his partner's knowledge. Then he answered in a pressed voice:

"No one ever locks me up". Yasin did not respond. They wore casual clothes and name tags with made-up names on their chests. Both looked slightly tense.

 They drove down into the Rontal. On their left was the Rotsee lake, where World Cup rowing regattas were held every year. After a climb, they turned right into Friedentalstrasse, which led to the cemetery. Just before the bus stop, the driver put the indicator on the left. They drove up to a barrier. Yasin opened the window and pressed a button. He took the ticket and put it between his lips. The barrier lifted and they continued in first gear. They climbed slowly, as if they were transporting delicate medical equipment, up the steep driveway, past various houses of the Centre Hospital. Then they reached the building that housed the hospital for dermatology and allergology. The passenger knew the hospital from his visits in connection with his skin disease, which he had suffered from since childhood. In front of the building there was a car park for patients with a disability. Here they parked their white truck. On both sides it said in big letters: DILLIERS MEDIZINISCHE TRANSPORTE GmbH.

They got out, lifted the tailgate and took a bag loader from the hold. Then they stacked some cardboard boxes, which were labelled in large letters, on the bag loader. On the top box was: "Used medical equipment". This was their way of signalling to people who came along that the boxes were contaminated with infectious substances, instruments or equipment. They pulled their slider caps down over their faces and entered the building by pressing a button. The wide glass door, which was next to the revolving door, was for people with a walking disability. It opened automatically. They crossed the entrance area to the lift doors. The younger one touched the touch display and stroked the down arrow. The lift door slid aside, and he pressed the 2 minus. Each time he wiped the surfaces he had just touched with a cloth handkerchief. When they reached the second basement floor, they turned left and opened a double door, which was not marked. Then they entered the brightly lit underground corridor of the hospital, pushing their bag loader in front of them. The corridor connected the dermatology and neurology departments with the ophthalmology clinic. The latter was one of the largest and most modern eye clinics in Switzerland, with over 50 000 patient contacts and around 15 000 surgical procedures per year. The choice of this clinic and the fourth floor was random. They would not meet anyone here and there were no cameras. From a distance they looked like two delivery men, from close like building technicians who had been sent here to freshly lay some cables for the computers. After about 150 steps, they reached a bed lift for the recently extended five-storey building. Next to the lift door, at eye level, was written in large blue letters on a white background: "Our credo: We care for you as we would like to be cared for ourselves." The younger man pressed button four.

The room for the building services and the server was directly opposite the lift doors. The light in the corridor was dim. There were no people in the corridor. The night nurse was sitting in the wardroom, Yasin guessed, because the door was ajar and he saw a narrow strip of light. As long as his colleague was busy installing the goods in the housekeeping room, he paced along the corridor and fixed a row of fist-sized devices to the ceiling. Before the first staff members arrived for their day shift, they had finished their work and left the clinic the same way with their bag loader and three empty boxes.

After they had loaded their empties into the hold, the younger one asked, "Are you sure you want to stay here?" Yasin laughed softly and reassuringly:

"Yes, of course, I promised you that I would accompany your project scientifically!" Then he smiled, and dimples appeared on his cheeks, "besides, there's a surprise I'll have in store for you!" Without saying goodbye to his colleague, he returned to the clinic. At 07.00 he would treat himself to a non-alcoholic green smoothie made from dried beans and kiwi at the Vitamins restaurant.

The younger man got into the van and drove on the A2 to the Neuenkirch motorway service area. There he removed all the stick-on lettering from the van. He steered the van over the bridge to the other side of the motorway and returned to Lucerne. From there, he chose the route into central Switzerland, crossed the Brünig Pass and continued in the direction of Interlaken, Thun. After the Giessbach tunnel, he took the exit towards Iseltwald, a tourist village on the left bank of Lake Brienz. Shortly before entering the village, he turned right again and drove over the Geisswägli down to the lake. He then followed the Seefeldweg in a north-easterly direction until he reached a landing stage and a boat hut. He parked the van on the right side of the building where it could not be seen from the lakeside path. The van would be disposed of later by Finn, the man for everything. He used an electronic key to get inside the building. From there, Mustafa took a small motorboat across to the islet of the snails, about 220 metres from the shore.

***

The small island belonged to an industrialist from the Bernese Oberland. Hans Wyss was a rich man. Through clever planning and thanks to a market that favoured him, he had succeeded in turning his father's company for mechanical engineering parts into a group of international importance. His fortune amounted to several billion. In 1986, he acquired the small island in Lake Brienz from a Protestant community of sisters. In the twelfth century, Augustinian monks from the Interlaken monastery, which had been under the protection of Emperor Lothar III, ran a snail farm on this islet. Since snails were not counted as meat at that time, their consumption was also permitted on church feast days and thus coveted. And so today the island bears the name Schnäggeninseli (snail islet).

On the shore of the island stood a boathouse, which was larger than the one on the mainland and had a flat above the boat room. From the landing stage, a slightly ascending path led through a garden to a two-storey villa built in the French style and covered with a hipped roof.

Four years after acquiring the island, his wife died of cancer. Their marriage had remained childless. Hans Wyss, soon to turn 43, decided to retreat and move his art treasures to the island. Thanks to his business connections, he found a 25-year-old Scandinavian security expert. He commissioned him to propose measures that would protect him and his valuable collection of paintings and sculptures from theft and natural hazards. Finn only wanted to be addressed by his first name. He suggested to his employer that he would build an underground facility with various chambers. The island owner put him in charge of the construction, including the renovation of the mansion. From then on, Finn lived in a small flat in the villa. The highlight of his multifaceted work was the realisation of an exhibition room under the boathouse, or more precisely: underneath the building's flat. The boat room, where boats were previously hung, was given a watertight shell and a glass wall on the lake side. Finn named it the lake room. It was up to half in the water and presented some sculptures of the island owner. Later it was taken up by Mustafa as a planning room. If you stood in front of the fixed-glazed window wall, you could see below the lake level through one half of the pane and above it through the upper half. With specially made privacy glazing, the degree of light transmission and privacy could be changed.

To get from the island to the mainland, its inhabitants used various boats. These were pulled up to the moorings next to both boathouses. One of the security measures Finn had implemented was that there were no other moorings on the whole island. This made it almost impossible for visitors to get onto the small island unnoticed. All traffic took place on the water, from pier to pier. At the northern end of the island, Finn had a clearing cut into the forest to build a small landing pad for helicopters. To avoid possible delays and restrictions by the building authorities or environmental organisations, Finn hired a Nordic company. Their employees were used to working unobtrusively. One of the construction workers was a young man of Turkish origin named Goran. He caught Finn's eye with his knowing eyes and his small but strong build. Before Finn left home, he had been a master of Kyokushin-Kaikan, a full-contact Asian martial art, for two years. He was able to distinguish a fighter from an amateur boxer. He recognised in Goran someone he had to treat with respect. One evening, he pulled him aside and asked, looking at his well-trained body:

"You were in the armed forces?" Goran looked at him in surprise for a moment. Then he nodded and answered:

"Mineboat"

Finn nodded with satisfaction, then Goran was able to dive, like himself. He remembered that the Turks, after the US, employed the most active soldiers within NATO and had a powerful navy in addition to the army and air force. Finn did not know if the naval force commanded minesweepers, which had shipboard helicopters for mine detection, but it was possible. Goran seemed to be able to read Finn's mind, because after a while he added:

"I can fly helicopters too". Finn nodded with satisfaction.

"Are you going back home after this?" Goran shook his head but said nothing. His face remained motionless. The Scandinavian decided not to ask him his reasons.

"Would you be interested in a permanent position here on the islet?" Without hesitation, the other nodded.

  A year later, Hans Wyss, on Finn's recommendation, offered Goran and his wife Mila a job as house servants. Since the work paid well and the Turk did not want to return to his homeland, they moved together into the flat of the boathouse, above the lake room. Hans Wyss moved into the meanwhile renovated villa in the same year.

Finn's main task was to maintain the extensive security system and always keep the helicopter ready for take-off. In addition, the Scandinavian was butler and chauffeur. Goran was responsible for the maintenance of the property with its numerous plants, paths and water features. Hans Wyss did not like the taciturn, shy and emotionless man. His wife Mila was different. Her face was expressive and attractive. She took care of the household, cooked for him and his rare guests and tended a productive herb and vegetable garden. He observed her sometimes when she moved without her headscarf. Then she had braided her thick, black hair into a plait.

In the spring of 1994, Mila became pregnant against her will. She gave birth to a boy, who was named Mustafa according to her wishes. Mustafa was the title of an oriental folk song she had often heard in her youth. The name came from Arabic and meant "chosen one".

***

A few weeks before Yasin and Mustafa travelled to Lucerne in the van, Hans Wyss sat in the back of his limousine. He asked Yasin to drive him to the airport. The industrialist looked briefly at the tattoo of an oversized snail the young man wore on his right forearm. He did not like his driver's feminine voice, but he respected him. Through diligence and ambition alone, he had managed to study at a world-leading university, although as a refugee and orphan he must have had miserable conditions. For this reason, he did not object to Yasin’s frequent visits to his islet as a guest. Sometimes he offered him the opportunity to drive him to important meetings or to do other things for a fee. Unlike Mustafa, the latter seemed willing to finance his studies himself. Yasin looked in the rearview mirror. His passenger was wearing a black suit with vertical white stripes, a checked salmon-coloured shirt and a wine-red tie. His large, slightly bloodshot eyes had a penetrating look that did not disappear even when he smiled. With his prominent nose, high forehead, and white three-day beard, he looked more like a light-skinned Arab than a native of the Bernese Oberland. The industrialist disappeared from his field of vision as he bent down on his side and took out of his leather bag some newspaper articles that his right hand had printed out and given him.

Hans Wyss had been interested in the works of art of painters, architects and sculptors since his youth. He could never get enough of them and so he acquired numerous works just to be able to look at them, smell them and touch them in peace. This was not possible with permanently installed, architectural or horticultural treasures. Therefore, a few years ago, he had asked the Bavarian state to allow him to clean the interior of Herrenchiemsee Palace, or at least parts of it, on some working days. He had chosen this place of interest because no one would recognise him there. Never else would he be able to take a close look at the treasures that hung or were exhibited there during a regular visit. For once, he planned to be close to the works of art. For a week, he was allowed to wave a small feather duster over the stuccowork in the dining room and take time to look at the mirror gallery. His wife had enjoyed mingling with a group of visitors. When they entered the parade bedroom, she caught him lying motionless on the king-size bed, looking deeply at the embroidery on the bed canopy. Hans Wyss had spotted his wife among the visitors when they entered, thanks to her hair colour, her height and with the help of a magnificent wall mirror. He grinned and let her believe that he had not noticed her.

***

She had worked as a secretary for the industrialist for more than 25 years. She was taken with him, she trusted him, and he trusted her. When she thought of him, she saw the expression in his eyes, not his visual organs. These were blue-grey. It was his gaze, the expression of his eyes, how he eyed her, how he looked at each person. But also how he looked at objects. When she looked into his eyes, she recognised astuteness and alert interest. When her boss entered a room in which someone was present, he acquired an overview of the people present within a few seconds. At the same time, he seemed to grasp the current atmosphere. The outer mood, which was influenced by the brightness of the lights, the size of the room and the furniture. More important to him was the inner aura, which seemed to be shaped by the living beings present. Sometimes all he needed was a brief panoramic view. Often, he got this primary overall view by focusing nowhere and leaving his eyes blurred for a moment. This initial impression, this first overview was important for him because it helped him to decide: Was there enough positive subtle energy to create sympathy? Was it sufficiently peaceful, even festive, to initiate or cultivate exchanges with potential clients or partners? Was it a good time to do business?

The secretary experienced daily how successfully he ran his company. His basic gaze was stern and highly concentrated. His mind then seemed to her to be turned inwards. When he was satisfied, his eyes shone kindly. She would have liked to join him on his islet. But his two servants lived there, that cold-looking Scandinavian scoundrel and that frowning gardener, as well as that repulsive boy. She shuddered at the thought.

***

Today, the industrialist was sitting in the passenger plane of an Arab airline on a flight from Zurich to Doha. Before settling in for the six-hour journey, he ordered a non-alcoholic signature cocktail. He made himself comfortable in first class, on an armchair designed by Giorgio Armani, and read the International Women's Day column of a Sunday newspaper. The journalist was outraged that hundreds of millions of Islamic women around the world were being belittled and disenfranchised. Is it because of Islam? the industrialist pondered. Surely there are Muslim countries and regions where women have equal rights? In Kosova, for example, in Morocco and in Turkey. Or was he too gullible or too little informed? Shiite, Sunni and Wahhabi women who did not wear headscarves and who were treated with respect by their husbands worked in his factories. The aubergine-clad maître de cabine brought him a yellowish sparkling drink in a tall glass, decorated with a lemon spiral and a sprig of mint. He thanked him, took a sip and continued reading. The journalist went on to support his thoughts with striking examples from Turkey, Saudi Arabia and Qatar. He denounced Islam as a cover for a medieval male ideology that oppresses women.

Hans Wyss put the article on the shelf in front of him for a moment and stretched his legs. He disapproved of business friends who spent their holidays in countries where women were discriminated against. He despised acquaintances of his who lounged lazily and uselessly on beaches sipping cocktails while their hosts chastised their own wives. Yet he was forced to do business with these offenders, he had his jobs to think of! And what could he do in these countries with their millions of men! Then a paragraph caught his attention in which the author explained the fear according to which Salafist ideas about the role of women would also spread in Switzerland.

 He did not read the rest of the essay, which dealt with left-wing female politicians and their failures. It satisfied him that the author, like him, was concerned about Swiss society and its culture about an Islamist conquest and warned against it. He stretched out on the comfortable bed and closed his eyes. He remembered his idealistic and financial commitment back then, after he had become a member of the hidden Wehrgemeinschaft 91 (WG 91/defence fellowship) in 1975:

The secret exchange of nuclear warheads from the then Soviet Union for confidential operational plans of the Swiss army in 1976 had been a mistake! None of the members of WG 91 realised at the time that they had made their government and thus their homeland vulnerable to blackmail. Equally foolish was the storage of nuclear weapons in the cavern next to the Steingletscher. The danger of unintentional and negligent use by power-hungry politicians, megalomaniacal military officers or exorbitant business representatives had been too high. People, as Hans Wyss had experienced even with level-headed business friends, often did not act sensibly and appropriately. Particularly when they were moved, hurt or in love. The final storage of the nuclear warheads at the Susten pass seemed to be secured under tons of granite for the next thousand years. It had been the Swiss military itself that had caused the huge explosion at the Steingletscher, wiping out seven lives. On the instructions of the then Federal Councillor Georg Stähli, his companion and a founding member of WG 91, Divisionaire von Boltigen had been the only one of their secret alliance to know where the warheads were located. Why and how he disappeared, he had never learned. He also never knew whether Georg Stähli was right in his assumption. Stähli had once expressed to him the enormous suspicion that the divisional commander had not brought all the warheads to the same place, to the Susten pass. This could mean nothing other than that there was a nuclear weapons depot in central Switzerland that nobody knew about. Terrible, that idea! Hans Wyss pushed this thought aside and went on with the story:

The threat situation for Switzerland had changed fundamentally since then. The Cold War was over. The secret meeting place in the rock bunker on the pond belonged to a young Russian millionaire who celebrated his lavish parties there with loud music. The valuable paintings that had hung in their meeting place now hung in his villa on Schnäggeninseli (Snail Islet) in Lake Brienz. The perennial confrontation between communism and capitalism, between East and West, was over. Nevertheless, the now outdated group that had implemented their then idea of trading nuclear weapons from the Soviets for Swiss military secrets still met. Would they support his new idea? In two days, he would meet his comrades again. He was curious about their reactions to his project. This time it was about something different. Not about self-reliance, patriotism or the cult of arms, but about something more valuable: the protection of works of art. Ultimately, it was about saving and preserving Western culture. For this, he needed information. And he hoped to get it at the destination of his journey. After these reflections, he sank into a restless sleep.

***

He had been in Doha, the capital of Qatar, for a few hours. Here he would meet with a senior official from Us-al-Bin. Until recently, this small Muslim kingdom on the Persian Gulf had worried many governments because it supported the terrorist militia Islamic State. Then the newly elected head of state, the Sultan, had done a U-turn and declared that from now on there would be no form of terrorism in his country. Probably, Hans Wyss mused, because the latter had recently invested a lot of money in Switzerland. As the new owner of a mountain in central Switzerland, he must have changed his mind.

Soon he would meet the head of the intelligence service of this sultanate. At this, he felt reluctance as well as a sinking feeling in his stomach. What would it be like to shake hands with a person who regularly, and legitimised and encouraged by the state, made people scream? This encounter was important. For him, his country and its culture. The cultural products of the past and the present must be protected at all costs!

In spring 2003, Iraq was invaded by the belligerent USA and a coalition of companioned allies. During and for many years after the illegal war of aggression, war crimes were committed against soldiers and civilians. At this thought, Hans Wyss inwardly shrugged his shoulders: "That's no surprise! The clean war, in which there is neither torture, rape nor humiliation, is a pipe dream. The destruction of the National Library and the looting of the National Museum hurt him. Evidence of the millennia-old cultures in Mesopotamia was lost in the process. The chaos created in society by this war allowed various extremist groups such as the Islamic State (IS) to expand. And today it was to the point that these terrorists began to smash cultural assets not only in Iraq, but all over the world.

His desire for this meeting was triggered by reports of the recent destruction of the limestone lion statue from the Alltat Temple in Syria. It was a sculpture of Alltat, a pre-Islamic goddess of the Arabs. An Assyrian gatekeeper figure that was more than 2,600 years old. He shook his head in disgust as he imagined the bulldozers of these barbarians used to ransack archaeological sites in search of antiquities. And he felt disgust and rage at the thought of the 14,000-year-old rock paintings in the Tadrart Acacus mountains, which had been stripped away by criminals using chemicals. The terror knew no bounds. Recently, there were rumours that western museums, exhibitions and art collections were being targeted. He feared that his homeland could become the target of such destroyers because of misguided policies on foreigners, borders and refugees. That is why he decided to make this trip to the Middle East. His former comrade-in-arms, former Federal Councillor Stähli, had arranged the contact for him on the Arabian Peninsula. Here he hoped to find answers to his questions.

They had arranged to meet at the Museum of Islamic Art. Hans Wyss intended to arrive at the meeting point only after sunset so that he could see the hall of art illuminated from the outside. He strolled through the Pearl Quarter, whose colourful collection of villas, luxurious flats and expensive shops he barely noticed. Then he sat down on a bench along the palm-shaded waterfront, the Corniche. A young man strolled past him. He wore beige western clothes and looked strained towards the harbour, so that the industrialist could not make out his face. Was he being shadowed? When darkness fell, he looked at his watch, picked up his jacket, stood up and followed the waterfront path along the harbour. Evening prayer was over. Slowly the promenade filled with people from all over the world. Suddenly he caught sight of the sensational building. He stopped and marvelled. The light reflections in the water created a mystical atmosphere. He entered the building. The museum housed an extensive collection of artifacts from the entire Arab world of the Middle Ages from India to Spain. He had an hour before his meeting on the upper floor. He wanted to use this time to look at a painting of which he had seen a small photograph. It was a portrait of a Kajar woman. The Kajars were a Turkmen dynasty from Persia that traced back to the Mongol ruler Hülegü and ruled Iran alone in the early 19th century. When he found it, he held his breath for a moment. He put on his rimless, rectangular glasses. The portrait of the kajar woman enraptured him. He stood motionless in front of her, his breathing shallow, his eyes shining: The graceful beauty sat on a cushion, her legs crossed. Typical were her somewhat elongated body forms, the thick and traced eyebrows above her almond-shaped eyes, and her toned hands. He knew: the reddish yellow colouring was obtained from the crushed leaves and stems of the henna bush. With her fingers she played a tar, a plucked instrument from Iran. In contrast to the long-necked lutes on other portraits that Hans Wyss knew, this one had only a simple resonating body. He listened to the imaginary sounds of this lute and carefully observed the interested gaze of the woman, the magnificent, densely packed patterns on her filigree leg dress, her blouse as well as the ornaments on the thin and lighter cloak. Then he turned his attention to the young cat next to her left foot and the tray with the carafe as well as the glass of water on the backrest against which she sat leaning. The industrialist had sensed some time ago that someone had come to stand beside him and share his admiration. He did not let himself be taken in by it for a long time. Like someone who has woken up from slumber but doesn't want to open his eyes to savour the transition between sleep and wakefulness for a while.

When he finally managed to detach himself from this grandiose painting, he let out a loud sigh, took off his glasses and turned to his neighbour. The latter looked at the lute player for a while, giving him the opportunity to examine him. Hans Wyss was amazed to see the profile of a young person with fine features, well-groomed and perfectly shaven, in front of him. The young man was wearing an Arab suit buttoned up to the top. His head was covered with a white shimagh, a square cloth held in place by a black igal, a head ring made of wool. His feet were in light-coloured running shoes, which explained why the industrialist had not heard him coming.

"Good evening. Your reputation as an eminent art lover and sound connoisseur of Arab culture has preceded you, my welcome guest," the young man began with admiration in his voice, making a small bow as he turned to face him, "but I have never seen anyone stand there for a whole hour without moving to look at a work of art!" His perfect English pronunciation indicated that he had spent several years in an upmarket British public school or university. Hans Wyss held out his hand to him and replied:

"As-salaamu aleykum", peace be upon you, to which the Arab shook his hand loosely, smiling as he did so, and replied:

"Wa aleykum as-alaam". As they moved towards the exit, the industrialist took in the spectacular interior architecture of the museum. He would return the next morning to explore more treasures. Also to admire in daylight the steel dome in which, he had read, the sunlight flooding in during the day refracted thousands of times.

"Be my guest," the intelligence chief of Us-al-Bin said and led him towards the restaurant.

***

When they entered the restaurant, the first thing that struck the industrialist was the inspiring lighting. The arrangement of open and concealed light sources made the high, bright room seem multi-dimensional: wherever he looked, different perspectives opened, as it were. The colours were coordinated, which influenced the harmonious mood. They were led to a table by a man who, except for his footwear, was dressed similarly to his companion. The intelligence chief let him have the seat overlooking the room. The industrialist counted about a dozen normal height dining tables with western wooden chairs and about the same number of low round tables with a few stools covered with brown leather. Between them were so-called poufs, comfortable seat cushions decorated with yellow stars. On some white walls wall hangings with small mirrors and oriental embroideries hung in the most beautiful colours. They were attached to brass rods. Hans Wyss assumed they were old and hand-knotted tapestries. After they had both ordered tea, the Arab turned to his guest:

"I am very impressed by your calm and strong charisma. Your serious features tell me that you have thought a lot in your life and your eyes tell me that you have seen a lot, even less beautiful things." The industrialist was silent and looked intently at his host, who had a gentle smile on his face.

"But I can also read something else in your gaze," the Arab continued. "You are suspicious of me. You suspect you are sitting opposite someone who, professionally, and permitted by my Sultan, has to make other people talk by torturing them. And that makes you uncomfortable." The Swiss tried not to show his surprise at his host's straightforward opening and remained quiet. He waited for his counterpart to continue. The latter took a sip of water, then his expression became serious:

"I have learned sixteen ways to kill someone without making a sound and twelve different ways to inflict immeasurable pain on people so that they report everything I want to hear." The industrialist noted the emphasis on "anything I want to hear." .... The host paused for a moment and looked around the restaurant to see if he had caught anyone's attention. He registered several groups of two and three, all men, at different tables. They seemed to be engrossed in conversation. After a while, he continued in the same soft voice and cultivated pronunciation:

"All methods were taught to me in the Christian West!" At this, he examined his counterpart's face for signs of incredulity or resistance. When he saw that his guest was still looking at him intently and without emotion, he continued: "In countries with which your government is friendly, in countries with which you do business!

Hans Wyss felt a lump in the pit of his stomach. Was this the end of his encounter? Did the other person want to confront him or even provoke him and then send him home? But he was mistaken, because when his host noticed what was going on with his counterpart, he hurried to continue:

"But I have never, not once, hurt anyone here, physically or mentally, even though I have met a lot of scumbags and, as head of intelligence, would have had permission to do so." At that moment, tea was served to them.

The host stirred in his cup and seemed lost in thought for a moment, then he spoke without looking up:

"Do you know what the bad thing about torture is?". Without expecting an answer, he continued, "It's not the physical or psychic pain, nor the prospect of permanent damage." He took a sip, then raised his head and looked his guest in the eye:

"The tortured person loses his dignity." He let his sentence sink in for a moment, then continued: "The victim loses control over his feelings, his thoughts and his body. He can, he must accept all this, but he can later understand, excuse and perhaps come to terms with it. But what no person who is tortured can ever come to terms with: he has to say goodbye to his internalised values, let go of the images he has had of himself, Allah and people. He loses his self-esteem, his self-respect, his pride, indeed he loses the highest thing: his dignity as a human being! He feels less worthy than an animal. And animals, by the way, do not torture, do not wage wars, never kill for lust, greed or revenge." After a moment he added, "I would rather kill ten people with my bare hands than watch someone lose his dignity!" He spoke softly and seemed to be saying this more to himself as he looked past his guest into a world he never wanted to return to.

The Swiss could not place what he felt at these words of his host, but he could understand what was said. He nodded but said nothing. He tried hard not to show any reaction, because he did not want to create any doubts in his counterpart. He was here to get information and for nothing else. But his host understood his silence as disbelief and added:

"My first vacation in Europe, it was a two-week break in Majorca", here his gaze turned upwards to the right and a pained smile showed, "I earned it with an assignment from the Africa section of the Deuxième Bureau". The industrialist knew: that was the old name for the French secret service. "My task was to find out, under scientifically supervised conditions, how often, at what intervals and for how long in all, simulated drowning could be carried out on various men and women without their losing their lives." The secret service man lowered his serious gaze to the table.

"Later I used the empirical findings for my doctoral thesis, in which I show that torture neither yields new, useful information nor confirms old information." He heaved a long sigh and concluded by saying, "Nevertheless, the Americans and many others use ...", he left the sentence incomplete. After they had both been silent for a while, the Swiss frowned and looked at him questioningly:

"But how, dear Sayyid, do you get people to cooperate with you?" The host registered that he was addressed with the Arabic form of address and hurried to catch up:

"Call me Tarek, just Tarek!". This was his first name, and the real one, but he preferred it that way. Hans Wyss nodded. Tarek thought. He had judged his guest correctly: you are an ambitious businessman, representative of a greedy capitalism, you would join forces with Iblis, the supreme Satan, if it would bring you closer to your goals. He smiled:

"We make them an offer. For example, we say: >You know about terrible crimes, and we want to solve or prevent them. If you help us, we will make sure that your sick mother goes to a very good hospital and gets the best therapies. < Or: >Your brother wants to be a real estate agent, doesn't he? We will give your brother the best studies at a university in the West if ...<" the industrialist nodded.

 "This also works in other cases. For example, we have the lowest rate of muggings, murder and manslaughter, theft and so on. We are considered one of the safest countries in the Orient!" Hans Wyss listened with fascination but scepticism. He felt a certain disappointment spreading through him. He knew for sure that terrorist attacks could not be eliminated with this kind of reward system. Tarek wanted to come back to the point and remove any doubt from his guest's mind:

 "Look, we struggle to unconditionally accept some Western achievements, such as freedom of expression and belief or gender equality. But I have never understood, even before my military, police and intelligence training, why people are tortured. We have known for a long time, and I was able to prove this with my own studies, as I mentioned earlier, that statements made under torture cannot be used. Because people lie when they are intimidated. Torture is also no good as a deterrent. So, what is the point of inflicting pain on people just like that? They lose face, their dignity, their identity, and that is reprehensible even in the Muslim world!" Hans Wyss did not understand his insistence on this issue. Now he needed answers to the questions for which he had made this journey: "So you make possible perpetrators, accomplices and informants an offer before they carry out their planned deeds and which they cannot refuse. A kind of prevention of minor crimes. But how is it that in your country there are no more serious attacks, no more acts of terrorism, no more suicide bombings? Surely your, admittedly impressive, system of offers cannot be enough? Has your Sultan issued a fatwa, a death sentence, against all possible assassins as a precautionary measure, as a deterrent, so to speak?" Tarek was prepared for this enquiry; he took his time with his answer and had a sip of tea:

"Before I answer your question, let me point something out: The Occident often makes the mistake of looking at things exclusively from its perspective, on the background of its laws ..."

"... and disregards the cultural, historical and religious background of the assassins," Hans Wyss interrupted him.

"Exactly! Our Sultan is something like our political and military leader, but a fatwa is usually pronounced by a religious leader. A fatwa is a legal opinion. But I know you mean by this a judgement, a death sentence." The Swiss nodded and wondered how far he was allowed to question his host on religious issues. He decided to inquire further:

"But not all religious communities follow its orders." The Arab recognised that his guest had come to terms with his faith and nodded with satisfaction:

"Exactly, although the Shari'a, the totality of our Islamic laws, applies to all citizens of my country, a fatwa, a decree which must be obeyed, is not observed by all, depending on their origin."

"So, the Sunnis," added the industrialist, "would not recognise a fatwa from a Shia cleric."

"Right. But that's not why we haven't considered a fatwa, but because recent history shows that fatwas against suicide bombers are neither effective nor sustainable." The industrialist turned his gaze to the ceiling to ponder this. The Arab continued: "The fatwa that the Shia leader Khomeini issued in 1989 against the writer Salman Rushdie for blasphemy was never followed.

"But with our topic, the attacks ...", the entrepreneur insisted.

"Look, it is forbidden in Islam to kill innocent people." The Swiss sighed inwardly and objected, this time with a slightly sharper tone:

"It is also forbidden in Islam to deny women their rights!" and watched to see how his counterpart would react. But, in case this interjection annoyed him, he did not make a face, his gaze remained fixed on his guest, and he continued in a calm voice:

"As I said, the Arab world has some catching up to do. But what I wanted to say: Before Saudi Arabia joined the US to fight the terrorist militia Islamic State, high-ranking religious scholars spoke out against terrorism in a fatwa. All over the world, imams, the Al-Azhar University in Cairo, the Council of Scholars as well as the Grand Mufti of Saudi Arabia have endorsed the fight against the terror militia in numerous fatwas. At the end of 2015, 70,000 Islamic clerics in India issued a fatwa saying that organisations like the Taliban, al-Qaida and IS are not Islamic!"

"And why has this done nothing so far?"

"This is very difficult to answer," Tarek replied after thinking about this question for a long time. "The main reason is certainly that the terrorists do not actually have religious reasons for their actions, but political ones." He avoided pointing out that the West, with its wars in the Middle East, its attitude towards the Palestinians and all Muslims, must share the blame. Hans Wyss was impressed by the course of the conversation so far; he discovered a remarkable openness of his interlocutor towards him and his questions. But he had not travelled here to discuss the current world situation with his host. He wanted answers to his specific question:

"So, if the fatwa is not your remedy, how have you managed to be the only country in the Middle East that has not had an assassination for three years?" Before Tarek could answer him, the meal was served. They ate without resuming the conversation. After the meal, Tarek explained to his attentive guest why Us-al-Bin was the only country in the world that had found an effective and sustainable way to prevent Islamist terror. Hans Wyss listened to him with growing interest. What Tarek described, he could not adopt one-to-one. But he understood in a flash: There was a way to stop terrorist Islamists from destroying people and culture in his home country, Switzerland, too. A procedure that was admittedly outside the possibilities of a constitutional state. A procedure that, with the help of WG 91, he would be able to implement in a short time.

As the highly satisfied Swiss said goodbye to his host, he noticed his host's questioning look. The industrialist put on an engaging expression and said in a friendly voice:

"Was there something else you wanted to tell me?" Tarek hesitated, then asked:

"Have you noticed that you are being followed?"

"No," Hans Wyss laughed, but then he remembered the young man on the Corniche who had turned his face away from him for a conspicuously long time. "But honestly, it doesn't scare me!" Then he made the mistake that all the observed made: He turned around and tried to make out if he could spot his shadow. The Arab smiled at this reaction and continued:

"Your pursuer is not here in the room. He is probably waiting at the corner of a house until you come out and order a taxi. I will therefore take the liberty of taking you to the hotel in my car." Hans Wyss was grateful, but somewhat taken aback by the offer. His host guessed his train of thought and therefore explained:

"They are not my people!" And before his guest could ask the next obvious question, "They're not Qataris either. Otherwise, I would know!" The Arab did not want to frighten his guest anymore. Therefore, he suggested to him to end the meeting, which had been successful for both sides.

When they said goodbye in front of the hotel entrance, Hans Wyss knew what he had to do. In the hotel room, he sketched out a concept in broad strokes, including budget, timetable, and logistics. With the help of his project, future acts of terrorism aimed at destroying cultural assets could be prevented. He would worry about the fact that he had been shadowed later. He worked late into the night. The next morning, he forgot about his plan to visit the Museum of Islamic Art again. He booked an earlier flight and, without eating breakfast, headed for Hamad International Airport. He paid no attention to the young man in beige western clothes who followed him. On the return flight, he made three phone calls, the first to Yasin, who was supposed to pick him up, then to former Federal Councilor Georg Stähli and finally to an arms dealer. The latter were members of the former Wehrgemeinschaft 91, now the chess club.

***

The chess club met on the islet. It would only be represented by four members this time. The journalist and the retired civil servant excused themselves for holidays. The first to arrive was the politician. Georg Stähli, former Federal Councillor and professor emeritus of political science, did not miss the opportunity to be picked up by the industrialist's helicopter at Bern-Belp airport an hour before the meeting began.

When Goran landed the helicopter on the island, the politician was expected by Finn and accompanied to the French villa. This time the host made him wait in the foyer of his house because he had important business to attend to. This was not true, but Hans Wyss did not like this power-hungry man with the annoying tic of a brow. Georg Stähli boasted before graduating from high school that he would become a member of the state government. He seemed to have subordinated everything in his life - studies, job, marriage, family - to this goal, Hans Wyss judged He was particularly bothered by the fact that the people's representative had never publicly stood by his political and ideological views. Externally, he represented the line of a bourgeois party. Only within the Wehrgemeinschaft 91 he did dare to express his extreme nationalist thoughts, which questioned some basic democratic principles and Western values.

Georg Stähli sat down. He was wearing a grey suit, a blue shirt and a yellowish tie made of polyester. Since he didn't want to ruin his expensive shoes on the islet, he wore black ankle boots. The pinched face showed that he must have been annoyed many times in his life. The strong lenses of his heavy glasses gave his eyes something sparrowhawk-like. Between the chair in the foyer and the double-door entrance to the drawing room stood a small antique table made of precious wood. The piece of furniture had a hinged top with a chessboard inlaid in light and dark contrasting woods. Hans Wyss was a fast player and detested opponents who either mulled over their next move for a long time or constantly prattled on. That's why he had placed two uncomfortable wooden chairs without cushions from the 15th century at the little chess table. The former Federal Councillor was waiting on one of them. His idea at the time, with the help of WG 91, to make Switzerland an unofficial nuclear power, but one feared around the world, had failed. He was 72 years old, bitter, and frustrated because of all the things he could no longer do, command or manipulate. When he saw the young woman who had just stepped out of the salon, he snapped at her:

"Is there anything to drink here?". The woman stopped in amazement and asked him politely:

"Would you like a cup of tea?". He eyed her sternly from bottom to top and nodded. She was wearing a festive dark blue midi dress with lace inserts and elegant blue suede pumps. Together with her husband, she belonged to a small catering service hired by Hans Wyss for the well-being of his rare visitors. When she brought her grumpy guest the drink he had ordered, Georg Stähli put on his practiced politician's smile and thanked her politely. The waitress had classified him. Into the category of 'false yapper'.

Meanwhile, the arms manufacturer and the former lawyer were brought to the islet by motorboat. The former still made a point of ensuring that no one in the club knew his name. He had contacted the Hungarian arms suppliers working for the then Soviet Union in their biggest venture, the ‘Steingletscher Project', and had organised the logistics.

The lawyer had been retired for several years and indulged in his former pastimes of hiking and bird watching.

Hans Wyss had everyone stand around for a while. Then he greeted them and invited them to his salon, where the table had been laid out for them. After a traditional three-course meal, he gave the floor to the former Federal Councillor to introduce the meeting. Everyone waited impatiently until he, the industrialist, would share his information and his project idea with them and ask for their opinion. Hans Wyss was fully aware that his comrades were more concerned about the criminal foreigners, while he was concerned about the preservation of Western culture. He saw no need to emphasise this distinction. They would insist on their own interpretations anyway, and for the implementation of his idea these were irrelevant. Georg Stähli rose, looked each person present in the eye for a moment and began:

"For some time now, I have been observing how we are being infiltrated by people of Muslim origin. They apply for asylum or refugee status with us, then they bring their relatives and acquaintances from home and nest in our culture. But without adopting it. That is, they keep their religion, their eating habits, their holidays, as if they were still living where they fled from." The former Federal Councillor paused to note with satisfaction that everyone was eagerly waiting to hear what he would tell them. Then he stroked his left brow with his left index finger and continued, raising his voice:

"So far I'm not telling you anything new." Again, he paused, as if searching for suitable words. Yet he had prepared this speech while waiting for them.

"Many of them bring with them unrest, strange customs and high expectations. But some of them, and there are more and more of them, want to destroy us and our achievements, the fruits of our culture and prosperity. In other countries, they started doing this a long time ago. And they will do it here too. I think that is clear to all of us. Theft, looting and destruction will soon be part of our everyday life. So, what now? What do we do?"

 Hans Wyss sighed inwardly. When would this populist get a grip on his delusions of grandeur and finally end this foolish speech? Georg Stähli continued in a gruff voice:

"Nothing! We do absolutely nothing! At least nothing that's of any use. And why is it of no use? I'll give you an example: If an African sells drugs to our young people in Berne, he will be caught at some point by our efficient but restricted police and brought before the judge. Maybe the negro will go to prison at some point. And what will he think then? I will tell you. Then he will tell his cronies: 'I have a good time here, the three meals a day are great and, in the evenings, I can watch TV!'" Georg Stähli let this last sentence sink in for a few seconds, then he took a deep breath and began the final section of his explanations, and his voice became loud and rough:

"In his home country, both his hands would be chopped off and he would be publicly flogged. Then, believe me, he will never deal again. Do you see what I am getting at? We must not condemn foreigners with our highly developed cozy justice system, not punish them with a stay in our hotel prisons. No! We must prosecute and punish their crimes with their own means!"