The Devil's Footprint (3 page)

"The word
also has it that though Fitzduane is a reluctant warrior he has proven to be
very
good in combat.
 
One of the best."

"The
Hangman affair," breathed Maury.

Cochrane
nodded.
 
"It was a classic
counterterrorist operation, and during it our friend Hugo Fitzduane began to
lose his amateur status.
 
He was to find
out the hard truth that once you enter the game, it is nearly impossible to
leave it alive.
 
A few years later, when
he thought the whole Hangman thing had blown over, a hit team of Japanese
terrorists bent on revenge landed on his island and shot up both him and his
young son.
 
Both recovered, but it was a
close thing.
 
After he had sorted out
that little affair, he realized if he was going to be forced to be a permanent
player he had better become a good one."

"I've got
it!" said Maury, rising to his feet and beginning to prowl around the
office.
 
"This is the same man who
set up that counterterrorism think tank.
 
We trade information, but I deal with a man called Henssen, a German, I
think."

"Yeah,"
said Cochrane, "Henssen runs the show on a day-to-day basis, leaving
Fitzduane time to pursue his various other interests, which include an
involvement with the Rangers,
Ireland
's
special forces
.
 
Hugo Fitzduane is a reserve colonel with them and still very close to
Kilmara."

Maury suddenly
paused in his pacing and froze, his back hunched.

Cochrane
sighed.
 
Maury was remembering again that
he had not been consulted.
 
It was time
for diplomacy or Maury would suddenly make a break for it.

"It was
your idea, Maury," said Cochrane, lying, his blue eyes guileless.
 
"Since we're blocked from using
U.S.
forces,
let's find someone else to do the job.
 
So while you were away, we looked and came up with Fitzduane.
 
He thinks he's coming here on a routine
courtesy visit, but I think we can persuade him.
 
That is why I want him to meet
Patricio."

Maury's
interest was engaged again.
 
He picked up
Fitzduane's file and studied it intently,
then
he read
Cochrane's notes.

"There is
no report here from Patricio," said Maury accusingly.

"Patricio
did not like to go into any detail over a Mexican phone," said Cochrane,
"nor any
U.S.
phone, given the currently political climate."
 
He grinned and looked at his paranoid
friend.
 
"That is something you
understand, Maury.
 
Anyway, relax.
 
Patricio has made it out of
Mexico
.
 
He rang from National half an hour ago.
 
He'll be here any minute."

"Did he
say anything?" said Maury.

"He
sounded immensely relieved to be out of
Mexico
in one piece, and he said he
had brought some physical evidence."

"Evidence
of what?" said Maury.

"I have
absolutely no fucking idea," said Cochrane cheerfully.
 
"He just said that the whole thing was
more serious than we had thought, and he added it was the luck of the devil
that Rheiman had made it down there.
 
Rheiman meant diddly to me, but Patricio was anxious to get over here,
so I figured it could wait."

Maury crashed
back into his swivel chair, and rotated it a few times, his legs stretched
straight out in front of him.
 
Suddenly,
he dropped his feet as he centered on Cochrane, bringing the chair to an
immediate halt.

He leaned
forward to emphasize his words.

"Why
should
colonel
Hugo Fitzduane, this good-natured Irish
aristocrat with his island and his castle and his think tank, go on a mission
for us?
 
According to what I read here,
he's recently married and he has a young son by a previous arrangement.
 
Why would he risk his life to do the Task
Force's dirty work?"

"Well,"
said Cochrane, "that's the beauty of it.
 
Fitzduane doesn't know it yet, but there's a problem down there he won't
be able to walk away from.
 
Remember a certain
someone who was reported as being very dead but reappeared in Tecuno?
 
A Japanese connection?
 
A certain Reiko
Oshima?"

Maury thought
for a few seconds,
then
a look of perfect
understanding came over his face.
 
"A brilliant plan, Lee," he said.

"Entirely
your concept, Maury," said Cochrane tactfully.

2

The landing
was not one of the
airline's
finest.

It belonged to
the ‘any landing you can walk away from is good’ variety by a slim margin, but
Patricio Nicanor was so relieved to be on U.S. soil that he felt like hugging
the pilot and then kissing the world-weary face of the Washington National
Airport immigration official who queried him.

Patricio's
only baggage was a shoulder-slung carry-on one-suiter.
 
He stopped at a kiosk and bought two foldaway
nylon shopping bags and a length of strapping, the kind used to bind and
identify a suitcase.
 
He then headed for
the rest room and entered the stall reserved for the physically disabled.

He needed the
extra space to open his suitcase.
 
The
two packages inside, each contained in a thick bubble envelope about the size
of a paperback book,
had
aroused the interest of
customs.
 
"Mining samples,"
Patricio had said, and had opened the retaining clip of one of the packages and
pulled out a plastic bag containing what looked like concrete chippings.

The customs
man had looked at Patricio's profession, which was written into his
passport.
 
"Ingeniero de
Minas," it said in Spanish.
 
Samples
seemed to make sense.

Obtaining the
contents of the two packages had been both difficult and dangerous in the
extreme.
 
Patricio wanted to keep them as
close as possible until he delivered them to his friends in Congress.

Removing his
jacket and working swiftly, he constructed a simple harness that hung each
package securely under each arm like twin shoulder holsters.
 
Both strapping and bags were of strong black
nylon.

He replaced
his jacket.
 
He would look somewhat
bulkier, but nothing could be seen.
 
It
would be safer to have the items actually on his person.

He
reshouldered the carry-on case, made a brief phone call to Cochrane, and found
a cab.

They had a
funny charging system, he remembered.
 
Zones instead of a meter.
 
What you might call a game of chance if you were a tourist.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

Warner started
to emit electronic chirping sounds as they left the elevator on the floor where
the subcommittee offices were located.
 
He made a gesture of apology at Fitzduane and reached under his T-shirt
for the compact mobile phone that was clipped there.

"You got
the Irishman?" said Cochrane cryptically.

"Yo!"
said Warner.
 
"We've just got out of
the elevator and we are down the hall.
 
I
can shout if this thing breaks down."

"Shit!"
said Cochrane.
 
"Wiseass!" he
added.

"Maury?"
said Warner.

"Yeah,"
said Cochrane.
 
"We've still got a
few things to
settle,
and Patricio's not here
yet.
 
Give me fifteen.
 
Maybe prep Fitzduane a little."

"Lee's
schedule is running late," said Warner.
 
"I'll buy you a cup of coffee."

The cafeteria
was nearly empty.
 
Warner picked a quiet
corner.

"The Task
Force," said Warner.
 
"Lee
asked me to prep you.
 
What do you know
about us, Hugo?"

Fitzduane
smiled.
 
"I've read your reports and
traded information with you.
 
I figured
you were worth visiting.
 
Beyond that, I
know little."

Warner
nodded.
 
"The Task Force was started
by Lee.
 
He made a bargain with
Congressman Wayne Sanders.
 
Lee would get
Sanders elected if Sanders would back the setting up of a subcommittee on
terrorism.
 
Lee had come out of
Vietnam
feeling the
U.S.
was selling itself short and
no one in power seemed to be paying any serious attention to dealing with the
threats that were popping up all over the globe."

"Why
didn't Lee run himself?" asked Fitzduane.

Warner
laughed.
 
"Lee Cochrane suffers from
a bad case of integrity.
 
In short, he is
no politician, but he is bright and committed and knows his strengths and his
weaknesses, so he found another way.
 
He
would piggyback right in as close to the center of power as he could get.
 
He might prefer to work in the White House or
the Senate, but he's a realist."

"What got
Lee focused on terrorism?" said Fitzduane.
 
"It's an abstract to most people.
 
Normally, it is only when you are touched personally that you start to
take notice.
 
Then you realize that the
world is a vastly more dangerous place than most people like to believe."

Warner
nodded.
 
"Lee had a commanding
officer in
Vietnam
he much admired.
 
The guy went on to work
for the CIA, got kidnapped by fundamentalists in
Lebanon
, was tortured over many
months and then hanged.
 
That incident
set him off.
 
He also believed various
agencies of the
United States
government did little about it."

"So how
do you guys really operate?" said
Fitzduane.
 
"Congress is there to legislate, not go
hunting down bad guys.
 
The media would
have a field day if a bunch of armed staffers started invading sovereign
nations and taking out terrorists.
 
Look
at Ollie North, and he didn't shoot anyone.
 
Well, not that I know of, anyway."

Warner
laughed.
 
"Ollie's heart and head
don't always synchronize too well," he said, "but he's not the
worst.
 
Look at the
Achille Lauro
affair.
 
The
guys who killed the hostage in the wheelchair cut a deal with the Egyptians and
were going to get away.

"Ollie
got their aircraft forced down.
 
Was he
right?
 
I think he was.
 
The
United States of America
should not
sit idly by when its citizens are killed."

Fitzduane
drank some coffee.
 
He did not dispute
the basic thrust of Warner's argument, but he was having a hard time getting a
fix on what a small group of motivated staffers could actually do against the
reality of physical threat.

"We're a
small group with the great advantage of having a simple mission," said
Warner, "and that is the identification and destruction of terrorism insofar
as it threatens this country.
 
And all of
the team identify with that mission.
 
We
are not riddled with factions and feuds like the CIA and the FBI, or faced with
opposing agendas like State or Treasury.
 
Our rationale is not primarily our own preservation.
 
And we care."

Fitzduane's
interest was piqued.
 
He was well
familiar with the CIA and State situations, but Treasury was a player he had
not encountered much previously.
 
"Treasury?" he asked.

"It's a
story that makes a point about how we let them get away with it," said
Warner.
 
"When the Shah of Iran was
in power, the Iranian government was considered a close ally of the West.
 
Better yet,
Iran
was a major purchaser of
Western goods.
 
The Shah wanted the
latest and the best, and because he had oil, he could afford it.
 
Along with the tanks and the aircraft and the
missiles, the U.S. supplied him with the latest in printing technology so that
he could get his profile just right on the Iranian currency.

"Unfortunately,
the equipment he bought was exactly the same as that used by the
United States
mint.
 
Enter the Ayatollah and a bunch of
fundamentalists who do not have the West's best interests at heart and suddenly
we have a whole flood of crisp new dollars that are so technically perfect they
are almost impossible to tell from the real thing.