Rules of the Hunt (24 page)
"Why did you allow this person" — he pointed at Kathleen —
"near the phone at all?" he said to McGonigal.
He needed time to think.
McGonigal shrugged.
"I've
been through this hostage business before," he said.
"The thing is to keep things as normal
as possible from an outsider's perspective.
Anybody who knows these people would have expected the phone to be
answered.
Secondly, I didn't want some
neighbor calling round because she couldn't get through."
He looked squarely at the Japanese.
"Anyway, man, my hide is on the line, too, and I'm telling you —
she didn't say anything.
There was no
keyword, no password,
no
unusual phrase.
I'm sure of it."
His northern accent became more pronounced as
he emphasized his words.
There was a
noticeable increase in tension in the room.
"Why didn't you use the mother?" said Sasada, indicating Mary
Fleming, who sat motionless on the sofa, her face a blank, her eyes unfocused.
"Jaysus, Sasada, just look at her," said McGonigal.
"She would have sounded like shit on the
phone.
There was no way she could have
come across normal."
Sasada was convinced by McGonigal's denial.
The reality of the situation was that the
IRAP were vastly more experienced at this kind of thing than he was.
The latest wave of IRA violence had been
operating without a break for the best part of a generation.
The younger members had grown up in a culture
of violence.
They had never known
anything else.
They learned about the
techniques of terrorism in much the same way as the young in a normal society
learned to drive.
He drew a knife from under his coat.
Its blade was very slightly curved and the tip was angled.
The shape, though much smaller, was very like
that of a Japanese sword.
He is going to kill me, thought Kathleen.
Sasada:
I now know his name:
I know what he looks like; I can identify
them all.
There is no way that they will
let us live.
A terrible sadness and
feeling of regret swept over her, so strong that it dominated even her fear.
She thought of all the things in life she had not done and wanted to
do.
She thought of Fitzduane and his
smile and his injured body that she so wanted to love and be loved by.
She thought of her mother, who would now need
her more than ever.
She thought of the
pain of dying at the hands of these terrible people, and suddenly felt weak
with terror.
She closed her eyes to try
to mask her fear.
If she was going to
die, it would be with some dignity.
She felt the knife at her throat and then the warm trickle of her own
blood.
*
*
*
*
*
Studying a map in one of the empty private rooms on Fitzduane's floor,
Kilmara silently cursed the British and their road-building sins of the past
centuries — most of their bloody little roads were narrow, winding things, but
there were too many of them to block — and reviewed his options.
He was in an isolated hospital in an isolated part of the country with a
target that was undesirable to move, and no safer location to move him to
anyway.
His defensive manpower was
decidedly limited, particularly if unarmed police were factored out.
There were too many roads and back lanes to
block.
He did not know how and when the
opposition would strike.
He did not actually
know
anything.
He suspected a great
deal.
Still, in the counterterrorism business
you mostly worked with bits and pieces.
You rarely had the luxury of complete intelligence.
If you fucked up, well, you fucked up.
People might die, but the world went on.
One had to be philosophical.
People killing each other
was
not globally threatening, like destroying the ozone layer.
It was actually quite normal.
But it was inconvenient for those involved.
Kilmara did not like to involve Fitzduane, who was supposed to be
recovering from serious wounds and resting, but it was hard to deny that he had
a vested interest in the outcome of what was happening.
Also, Hugo had an excellent tactical
sense.
He had fought his own wars and
covered others for twenty years.
He had
seen it done right and he had seen it done wrong, and he had learned from this
experience in a way few people did.
As he reentered Fitzduane's room, Kilmara looked at his watch.
It was a few minutes after ten in the
morning.
Fitzduane was being examined by
a doctor and two nurses, and the Ranger general was peremptorily asked to wait
outside.
Ten minutes later, the doctor
emerged.
Kilmara tried to enter but was again shooed away by the nurses.
Eventually, they emerged.
One held a partially covered kidney basin
containing something bloodstained
.
The other held a similar basin in
which there was a syringe.
It crossed his mind that Fitzduane, though now lucid and apparently
recovering, was still a very sick man.
He hesitated by the door.
It then
occurred to him that his friend could be a very dead man if they didn’t come up
with something pretty soon.
Fitzduane was propped up in his amazing new bed, eyes closed, looking
disconcertingly pale.
He had looked much
better before his recent visit by the medical team.
His bed, on the other hand, was beautifully
made.
The corners were a joy to
contemplate.
The sheets were crisp and
smelled of starch.
The blankets — taut,
tucked, and without blemish — would have made a marine drill instructor's lip
tremble.
Fitzduane opened his eyes.
He no
longer looked dead, which was reassuring.
"Anything new?"
"We've had more intel in," said Kilmara.
He hesitated.
"Want to tell me about it?" said Fitzduane.
"I'm not overburdened with good news," said Kilmara.
"You stand a good chance of being cut
off in your bullet-ridden prime."
"As in killed?" said Fitzduane with a faint smile.
"These people are obsessive."
"I would guess that to be the intention," said Kilmara.
"I'd like to move you, but where?"
"Tell all," said Fitzduane, and there was no humor in his
voice."
"We heard a rumor a day or so ago that the IRAP were in the
area.
No big deal, though these are
nasty people.
Early this morning the
guards picked up two of their local sympathizers with a scanner.
They haven't talked yet, but a list of
keywords was found on them — and you feature.
Add to that, there is Kathleen.
It's a standard ploy to suborn someone from the inside — the IRA have
been doing it for years — so I arranged for all staff who entered this zone to
ring in with a keyword when they went home and before they came back on
duty.
And Kathleen didn't ring this
morning."
"You didn't tell me about this," said Fitzduane.
"You were supposed to be kept free of hassle," said
Kilmara.
"It was a procedure,
nothing more.
I didn't want you worrying
about things you could do fuck-all about."
"Kathleen could have forgotten," said Fitzduane.
"People don't forget these things," said Kilmara.
"This is life-and-death stuff, and I
know how to get their attention.
And
they are reminded every time they go off duty.
Anyway, we made a check call.
She
was very subdued — and no keyword."
"So that's how you knew," said Fitzduane.
Kilmara nodded.
"Well, we
still don't
know
.
Strong suspicion is the phrase."
"Shit," said Fitzduane.
"The IRAP don't have anything against you?" said Kilmara.
"Not that I know," said Fitzduane.
"I have never run across them before in
any shape or form, and I steer well clear of the North."
Kilmara slid a piece of fax paper across to Fitzduane.
"I faxed
back."
The paper showed
a Japanese
getting into a taxi outside a familiar-looking
"You're losing me," said Fitzduane.
"This is a small country and an island," said Kilmara,
"with a small homogenous population and a terrorist problem right on our
doorstep.
Accordingly, the security
services can — and do — watch the comings and goings of our visitors fairly
closely, and we keep a particularly keen eye on the big hotels."
Fitzduane nodded.
Terrorism was
normally associated with ideology, but it was surprising how often money
entered the picture.
Many terrorists
liked to live well, arguing that since they put their lives on the line they
deserved a good standard of living.
A
further justification for frequenting large expensive hotels was their supposed
anonymity.
In point of fact, these
patterns of behavior allowed the security forces to focus closely on such
well-frequented habitats.
Luxury hotels were particularly easy to monitor.
They wanted to keep on the right side of the
authorities.
Rooms could be bugged, the telephone
system could be tapped, and television cameras could be emplaced with relative
ease.
Finally, the reception
staff were
easy to reach an accommodation with.
And hotel staff notice things.
They are trained to.
That is how they respond immediately to a
guest's needs and it is how they ensure that they are well-tipped.
And the security services tipped even better
for the right information.
"A man with a Northern accent inquired at the
a Japanese.
The accent rang bells and
the combination was sufficiently unusual to get security to photograph the
Asian.
The Northerner was subsequently
identified as Paddy McGonigal, the leader of the IRAP.
The Japanese is a guy calling himself
Sasada.
He is actually a member of —
guess
who?
Our old friends, Yaibo."
Fitzduane was silent, trying to absorb these latest developments.
The thought of Kathleen's plight made him
feel helpless and guilty.
Physically, he
felt weaker than normal.
The doctor had
lectured him on taking it easier and had not been happy with his self-imposed
work routine.
He spoke again to
Kilmara.
"Any news of the
Bear?" he said.
"Nothing," said Kilmara.
"And he's out of radio contact, thanks to these hills.
He's got one armed detective with him and two
unarmed uniformed cops.
He'll do a
reconnaissance.
If it's a hostage
situation, he won't be able to do much more except contain the situation until
reinforcements arrive.
Unfortunately,
that's not going to be for some time."
"How long?" said Fitzduane.
"Two to three hours at least," said Kilmara, "possibly
longer.
And then only after we're sure
they are needed.
The problem is, the
serious crime boys have a major operation on and the nearest army unit is
tied-up with a search on the border.
There was a shooting there last night.
We're not high on the list of priorities.
We've got suspicion.
They are dealing with ongoing
operations."
Resources were a constant problem for the Irish security services.
The mainly unarmed police and army together
totaled not much more than twenty
thousand,
and only a
small percentage of these were equipped to deal with heavily armed
terrorists.
Not unnaturally, they were
concentrated in centers of population and likely trouble spots, like the
border.
The poor quality of the road
system hindered fast vehicle deployment.
Helicopters, the obvious solution, were in chronically short
supply.
And to further exacerbate the
helicopter shortage, they were often monopolized by politicians visiting their
constituencies.
In the real world,
chasing votes got a higher priority than hunting down terrorists.