Games of the Hangman (79 page)

They ate,
then
Fitzduane talked.

"Hmm,"
said the ambassador when he'd finished.
 
"Do you mind if I'm blunt?"

"Not at
all," said Fitzduane.

"Lots of
gut feeling and not much fact," said the ambassador, "and your law
enforcement authorities have been informed of your suspicions.
 
It seems, on the face of it, most unlikely
that anything at all will happen.
 
You're
probably jumpy because of your recent experiences in
Switzerland
."

Fitzduane
nodded.
 
"A reasonable
reaction," he said, "but I run on instinct — and it rarely lets me
down."

Murrough went
to a cabinet and removed a bolt-action rifle equipped with a high-power
telescopic sight.
 
It was a .303 Mark IV
Lee-
Enfield
customized for sniping, a version of the basic weapon of the Irish Army until
it was replaced by the FN in the early sixties.
 
He had used one just like it in combat in the
Congo
.
 
He stripped down the weapon with practiced
hands.
 
Noble noticed that he didn't look
at what he was doing, but his touch was sure.

"Mr.
Noble," said Murrough, "sometimes we don't know how things work even
though they do."
 
He indicated
Fitzduane.
 
"I've known this man a
long time, and I've fought with him — and I've been glad we were on the same
side.
 
I've learned it pays to listen to
him.
 
It's why I'm alive."

The ambassador
looked at Murrough's weather-beaten face for some little time.
 
He smiled slightly.
 
"Only a fool ignores the advice of an
experienced gillie," he said.
 
Murrough grinned.

The ambassador
turned to Fitzduane.
 
"Any
ideas?" he asked.

"Some,"
said Fitzduane.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

The Bear had
to admit that his initial reaction to
Ireland
was — to put it mildly —
not exactly favorable.
 
The grim weather
didn't help, of course, but it merely served to exacerbate his views.
 
Even allowing for the depression induced by a
cold wind and a sky the color of lead — it had been warm and sunny in
Switzerland
when they had left — the most
charitable observer of
Dublin
(all he had seen of the country on that first evening) would have to agree that
it was — he searched for the right word — ‘scruffy’.

On the other
hand, the city had
a vitality
and a bounce that were
not so apparent and energy and a sense of fun, and the whole place reeked of
tradition and a volatile and unsettled history.
 
Some of the old buildings were still pocked with bullet marks from the
rising against the British in 1916.

Their first
evening out was marked by friendly and erratic service, excellent seafood,
music that aroused emotions they didn't even know existed — and too much black
beer and Irish coffee to drink.

They got to
bed in the small hours and didn't breakfast until eight in the morning.
 
The Bear woke up confused and decidedly
unsure what a couple of weeks in
Ireland
was
going to do to him.
 
The others said they
hadn't had so much fun in years.
 
It was
all decidedly
unSwiss
.

When they
drove onto the island, pausing by the bridge to look down at the
Atlantic
eating away at the cliffs below,
Fitzduane's
castle lay ahead of them against a backdrop of
blue sky and shimmering ocean.

"Incredible!"
said the Bear as they climbed out of the car to greet Fitzduane.

Fitzduane
grinned.
 
"You don't know the half
of it."

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

"The
thought occurs to me," said Henssen, "that we don't actually have to
do anything even if the Hangman does show up.
 
We start off with two advantages:
 
we're not the target, and we have a castle to hide away in.
 
All we've got to do is drop the portcullis
and then sit drinking poteen until the good guys arrive."

The Bear was
outraged.
 
"Typical German fence
sitter," he said.
 
"Leave a bunch
of kids to a ruthless bastard like the Hangman.
 
It's outrageous.
 
You can't mean
it."

"You've
got a lot of nerve talking about sitting on the fence," said Henssen
cheerfully.
 
"What else have the
Swiss done for the last five hundred years except wait out the bad times eating
Toblerone and then picking over the corpses?"

"Calm
down, the pair of you," said Fitzduane.
 
"Nothing may happen at all."
 
The group fell silent.
 
They were
seated around the big oak table in the banqueting hall.
 
The centuries-old table was immense.
 
Its age-blackened surface could have
accommodated more than three times as many as the twelve who were there
now.
 
They all looked at Fitzduane.
 
"It's only a gut feel," he added.

The ambassador
spoke.
 
His son, Dick, had joined the group
for lunch.
 
The ambassador had not
intention of letting him return to the college until this bizarre situation was
resolved.
 
A small voice privately
wondered if he, the ambassador, could be on the Hangman's list.
 
The head of U.S. State Department's Office to
Combat Terrorism would look good stuffed on the Hangman's wall.

He cleared his
throat.
 
"I speak as an
outsider," he said, "and to me the evidence is not entirely
convincing."
 
There was a murmur of
protest from several of the others.
 
The
ambassador held up his hand.
 
"But," he continued, "most of the people here know you
and seem to trust your instincts, so I say we stick together and do what we
can.
 
Better safe than
sorry."

He looked at
the group.
 
There were nods of
agreement.
 
"The next thing is to
decide who does what," he said.

"Easy,"
said the Bear.
 
"This isn't a
situation for democracy.
 
It's
Fitzduane's castle and Fitzduane's island — and he knows the Hangman best.
 
Let him decide what to do."

"Makes
sense," said Henssen.

"Looks
like you're elected," said the ambassador.
 
There was a chorus of agreement.

Fitzduane rose
from the table and went to one of the slit windows set into the outer wall of
the banqueting hall.
 
It had been glazed,
but the slim window was open, and a breeze off the sea blew in his face.

He could see a
ship in the distance.
 
It was a small
freighter or a cattle boat — something like that.
 
It was approaching the headland where the
college was located.
 
The weather was
still superb.
 
He wished he were out on
Pooka with the sun warming his body and the wind in his face rather than
preparing for what was to come.
 
He went
back to the table, and Etan caught his eye and smiled at him; he smiled back.

"There's
one thing before we get to the specifics," he said to the group.
 
"I can only tell you what I feel — and I
feel that what is to come will be pretty bad."
 
He looked at each face in turn.
 
"Some of us may get killed.
 
Now is the time if anyone wants to
leave."

Nobody
moved.
 
Fitzduane waited.
 
"Right people," he said after an
interval.
 
"This is what we will
do."
 
He glanced at his watch as he
spoke.

It was 3:17
p.m. — 1517 in military time.

25

Aboard the
Sabine
— 1523 Hours

Kadar held the
clipboard in his left hand despite the discomfort, as if to convince himself
that his hand was still intact.
 
The
physical pain was slight, and the wound was healing nicely, but the mental
trauma was another matter.
 
The sense of
vulnerability induced by having had part of his body torn away remained as an
undercurrent during all his waking hours.

The Irishman
had been responsible.
 
A shot from
Fitzduane's pistol during those last frenetic few seconds in the studio had
marred what had otherwise been otherwise a near-perfect escape.
 
The round had smashed the third metacarpal
bone of his left hand.
 
Splinters
protruding from the knuckle were all that had remained of his finger.
 
He had been surprised.
 
There had been no pain at first, and he had
been able to follow his prearranged escape routine without difficulty — even
managing the zippers and straps and buckles of his wet suit and aqualung with
his customary speed.

The pain had
hit when he emerged from the concealed chute into the icy green waters of the
Aare
.
 
He had
screamed and retched into the unyielding claustrophobia of his face mask.
 
Just the memory made him feel queasy.

Fitzduane:
 
he should have had that damned Irishman
killed at the very beginning instead of letting Erika have her way.
 
But to be truthful, it wasn't entirely
Erika's fault.
 
He had liked the man,
been intrigued by him.
 
Now he was paying
the price.
 
So much for
the famed nobler side of one's character.
 
It had cost him a finger.

Kadar looked
at the polished brass chronometer on the wall.
 
It was an antique case fitted with a modern mechanism — typical of the
care that had gone into the design of the cattle boat.

The vessel was
perfect for his purpose.
 
Not only did it
attract no attention, but it was clean and comfortable.
 
To his surprise and relief, there was no
smell.
 
Evidently modern cattle, even on
their way to ritual throat cutting in
Libya
, expected — and received —
every consideration.
 
The parallels with
his own operation did not escape him.
 
There would be plenty of space and fresh air for his hostages.
 
There would be none of the discomfort
associated with an airplane hijack — heat and blocked toilets and no room to
stretch your legs.
 
No, the
Sabine
, with her excellent air
conditioning system and spacious enclosed cattle pens, seemed to have been
purpose-built for a mass kidnapping.
 
It
would be equally effective for a mass execution.

Operation
Geranium:
 
it was the largest and most
ambitious he had mounted.
 
He would
finish this phase of his career on a high note.
 
The world's antiterrorist experts would have to do some serious
rethinking after his pioneering work became known.

Kadar enjoyed
planning, but the period just before an operation when all the preparation was
complete was the time he enjoyed most.
 
He savored the sense of a job well done combined with the anticipation
of what was to come.

The trouble
with most hijacks involving large numbers of hostages was that the terrorists
started on the wrong foot and then all too quickly lost the initiative.
 
The first problem was that there were never
enough men involved.
 
Even in the
confined surroundings of an airplane, half a dozen fanatics had a hard time
keeping hundreds of people under guard over an extended period.
 
The most extreme terrorist still needed to
eat and sleep and go to the bathroom.
 
His attention wandered.
 
He looked
at pretty women when he should be on guard — and then bang!
 
In came the stun grenades and all the other
paraphernalia of the authorities, and — lo and behold — there was another
martyr for the cause.
 
Pretty
fucking futile, in Kadar's opinion.
 
The argument that the publicity alone justified an unsuccessful hijack
didn't impress him one small bit.

Another common
difficulty was that hijackers, forced to use easy-to-conceal weaponry like
pistols and grenades, tended to be under-armed.
 
In contrast, the forces of law and order, galvanized into action by the
media and the weapons merchants, had invested in a massive array of
antiterrorist gadgetry and weaponry.
 
The
scales had never been tilted more heavily against the terrorist.
 
Counterterrorism had become a complete
industry.