The Devil's Footprint (36 page)

Fitzduane dropped into a chair.
 
"You look like shined-up shit, Lee," he said.
 
"Sleep has a lot to recommend it.
 
What's this about being knifed in the
back?"

"Not your problem, Hugo," said Cochrane grimly.
 
"You're an Irishman.
 
This is strictly an American political
matter.
 
It is an old custom.
 
It is called throwing out the baby with the
bathwater.
 
It is also called shitting on
your friends."

Fitzduane smiled.
 
"The
U.S.
has no
monopoly on either slinging babies out or dumping on the undeserving.
 
So enlighten me."

Cochrane looked straight at Fitzduane.
 
"The Task Force on Terrorism has been a highly effective tool of
the United States Congress for nearly a decade and a half.
 
Now it is to be wrapped up.
 
It is all part of the lesser government drive
being pushed by our new Speaker.
 
It is a
good idea, but it is being implemented indiscriminately.
 
There has never been a greater threat to this
country from terrorism and our work has never been more in demand or more on
the button — but the Task Force is to go.
 
Go figure!"

Fitzduane was momentarily speechless.
 
The entire Mexican operation was being driven through the Task
Force.
 
Kathleen!
 
The implications were horrendous.

"What about the Tecuno mission, Lee?"

A vein throbbed in Cochrane's forehead.
 
"I seem to recall a recent time when you weren't too keen on going
to
Mexico
,
Hugo," said Cochrane, sarcasm and anger heavy in his voice.
 
His whole body was tense with rage.
 
The chief of staff had a short fuse and liked
to crack the whip, but Fitzduane had never seen him like this before.

He tried to defuse the situation.
 
"Lee, you're tired and quite reasonably pissed off with what is
being done to the Task Force.
 
But maybe
it is not such a good idea to take it out on me.
 
You know exactly why I changed my mind."

"Fuck you, you damned Irishman," exploded Cochrane.
 
"I care about this country.
 
I fight for the
United States
.
 
I fight for a cause.
 
All you seem to care about is some damned
woman.
 
There are bigger issues, and you
don't seem to give a shit about them.
 
You're nothing but a fucking mercenary!"

Fitzduane could feel his own anger boiling up, which would accomplish
precisely nothing.
 
He fought for
control.
 
He had a tremendous desire to
hit the man.
 
He took his time answering.

"Causes are about people, Lee," he said quietly, "and you
know that better than most, which is why you do what you do.
 
And Kathleen is rather more than ‘some damned
woman.’
 
Further, she is being held by
people who threaten the well-being of this country.
 
We're on the same side on this thing.
 
So swear away at me if it will advance our
cause.
 
Better yet, get some sleep."

Cochrane slumped back into his seat.
 
"Goddamn you, Fitzduane," he said wearily.
 
"Why don't you lose it like a normal
human being?
 
It's fucking frustrating to
talk to someone who is being calm and reasonable when all you want is to let
fly.
 
Hell man, have you no
understanding?
 
I thought all you Irish
flared up at the slightest provocation."

Fitzduane smiled grimly.
 
"I
can't afford to, Lee," he said.
 
"Too much is at stake."

Cochrane rubbed his forehead.
 
The
outburst was over.
 
He suddenly looked
incredibly tired.
 
"I'm sorry,"
he said.

"Let's focus," said Fitzduane.

"There is a wind-down period for the Task Force," said
Cochrane.
 
"And no one likes losers
on the Hill, so our effectiveness will be cut in half.
 
We'll be lame ducks flapping our wings and
going nowhere except into somebody's cooking pot.
 
But the mission will proceed as planned.
 
There is more than the Task Force behind this
thing now.
 
But you know that, Hugo,
don't you?"

Fitzduane nodded.
 
"I know
we've got friends," he said.
 
"But I haven't put much time into finding out who and why.
 
There are other priorities.
 
But I know the Task Force is the mainspring
of this thing, and I appreciate it.
 
And
I appreciate what you stand for."

Cochrane stared at the table for a few moments.
 
Then he looked up.
 
"Enough to do something for me?" he
said.

"Maybe," said Fitzduane.
 
"But only after you get some sleep.
 
Crisp white shirts will get you just so far."

"I want to go with you," said Cochrane.

Fitzduane's eyebrows shot up.
 
"You're shitting me, Lee!" he said.
 
"Look, the Hill is your
battleground."

"I've spent fifteen years pushing the Task Force," said
Cochrane, "and now it's going to be wiped.
 
I want to go out in style.
 
I'm
owed that.
 
And I can do what has to be
done.
 
I'm a trained soldier and I'm fit.
 
I can hack it."

"This is a special-forces mission," said Fitzduane, "and
the word ‘special’ is no accident."

"I can do it," said Cochrane stubbornly.
 
He looked straight at Fitzduane again.
 
"Do you want an apology?"

Fitzduane smiled.
 
"I'll
settle for you telling me why I had to get back here ASAP."

Cochrane leapt to his feet.
 
"Shit!
 
I was forgetting all
about Jaeger."

"Who is Jaeger?" said Fitzduane.

"‘Doctor’ Jaeger," said Cochrane.
 
"Maury tracked him down.
 
He's from
Livermore
."

"
Livermore
as in the Lawrence Livermore Laboratory where they do nuclear and other weapons
research?" said Fitzduane.

"The very same," said Cochrane.
 
"Ten thousand mad scientists all working on
Doomsday.
 
We're trying to get
there before the Russians, or whoever are the bad guys these days.
 
The word is that we're doing pretty
well.
 
The Japanese may have consumer
electronics sewn up, but when Earth is blown into smithereens, the device that
does it will have ‘Made in the
USA
’
stamped on it.
 
There will probably be a
subtext:
 
‘Researched at the Lawrence
Livermore Laboratories.’"

"That thought may bring a lump to your throat when you salute the
flag, Lee," said Fitzduane, "but what has Dr. Jaeger of
Livermore
got to do with
the mission?"

"You don't want to know," said Cochrane.
 
He smiled.
 
He looked less tired.
 
Here was a
man who thrived on action.
 
"But
you're going to have to."

"I have not said you can go," warned Fitzduane.
 
"But you can train, and then we'll
see."

"I may surprise you," said Cochrane.

"I will be surprised if you don't, Lee," said Fitzduane.
 
"So bring on Jaeger."

"Maury will lead off," said Cochrane.
 
"This is really his jigsaw.
 
He is good at jigsaws, and this is one of his
best.
 
It just shows what the Task Force
can do— and should continue to do."

"Everyone around here walks on water," said Fitzduane
pleasantly.
 
"In
Ireland
, we're more used to it
descending on us from a height."

"The Task Force runs on it," said Cochrane.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

The footsteps sounded different.

Permanently blindfolded as she was, Kathleen was becoming quite
proficient at recognizing sounds and building up a mental model of her
surroundings.
 
The guards, wearing boots
and doubtless armed and laden down with military equipment, walked heavily and
talked loudly.
 
Doors were slammed.
 
Jokes were made.
 
Coarse laughter echoed from the concrete
walls.
 
Shouts were exchanged.

The Voice had a distinctive walk.
 
There was
a liquidity
about her movements that
suggested a lithe, supple body, but there was also arrogance.
 
This new arrival was not her tormentor.
 
In fact, The Voice now visited less
frequently.
 
The novelty had worn
off.
 
She was becoming bored, and had
indeed said as much.
 
Kathleen's chosen
strategy of not reacting had worked.
 
A
defiant prisoner would have provided entertainment.
 
An immobile slumped body quickly palled.

These sounds were a break from the normal pattern.
 
The cell door was closed quietly.
 
The footfalls sounded more like civilian
shoes.
 
She could hear a faint squeak of
leather, and the soles, she thought, were made from softer rubber.

She could just detect the sound of breathing.
 
Her visitor was close and was at her level,
which meant he or she had bent down.
 
She
was being examined.
 
She could smell soap
and an aftershave, and there was no smell of stale sweat.
 
This person was freshly groomed.

Her hand throbbed, but the pain had been her salvation.
 
The shock of her kidnapping and the drugs and
then the horror of what she was going through had temporarily driven her over
the edge.

Then had
come
the first dismemberment.

As the machete had cut into her hand and had removed her finger, such a
powerful anger had surged through her that she had suddenly realized she could
win.
 
No matter how hopeless her position
looked, she could and would triumph.
 
She
was strong.
 
Her spirit, the essence of
her being, was extraordinarily strong.
 
They might desecrate her body, but no matter what they did, she would
win.
 
As the pain coursed through her,
she knew that she was going to make it.
 
Her baby would make it.

I am strong, she said silently over and over again.
 
I am strong and they cannot break me.
 
They cannot break me because
I will not break
.
 
I am strong.
 
I am strong.
 
I am strong...
 
My body may be weak and in pain, but
I am strong
.
 
I am
strong.
 
I am strong
...

"Kathleen," said a voice.
 
He called again.
 
She did not
react but lay slumped.
 
My eyes might
have given me away, she thought, and shown fear, but I am blindfolded so he
cannot see.
 
I can use their weapons,
their devices, against them.
 
If I show
no fear, I am not afraid.
 
I am
strong.
 
I am strong.
 
I am strong.
 
I will show nothing.
 
I will give
them nothing.

I am strong.

"Kathleen," called the voice yet again.

The tone was sympathetic.
 
Warm?
 
Perhaps.
 
It was a trick, of course, so she would not
react visibly, but in her mind she would make the most of the diversion.
 
Truly, the mind was amazing.
 
Her
mind was amazing.
 
For most of her life
to date she had taken it for granted.
 
It
was just one of several assets, and since she was a beautiful woman, her looks
had arguably been more important on a day-to-day basis because, quite simply,
her appearance got results.

But her mind was her true friend, and it had taken all
this to bring that home to her.
 
And the power of the mind was quite staggering.
 
She could feel the force.

A hand was stroking her cheek.
 
The
touch was tentative and lasted for only a few seconds and then was gone.
 
Was it an illusion?
 
She longed to be touched, to be held, to be
caressed gently by Hugo.