The Devil's Footprint (37 page)

She wanted to cry but held back her tears.
 
She would not show weakness.
 
She would not move.
 
She would not react in any way.
 
She imagined her body in a state of
suspension.
 
It was completely
immobile.
 
It was just as well.
 
She needed all her energy for her mind.
 
It was a powerhouse.
 
It was a dynamic, thrusting, vital world, and
best of all, it was
her
world.

The voice called yet again.

She wished it would go away.
 
It
was distracting her and she was extremely busy.
 
Her mind was a hive of activity.
 
Ideas were just flooding into it.
 
And memories, too.
 
People, places, smells,
textures, sounds; the very fabric of life.
 
Truly, it was a wonderful world.
 
And there was so much to do.
 
She was never going to have enough time.
 
The possibilities seemed endless.
 
I never knew it was like this, she
thought.
 
There is so much here.
 
I am so rich, so lucky, so blessed.

"Perhaps I should start by telling you my name," said the
voice.
 
"We are not being introduced
under the best of circumstances, but there is much to be said for the
formalities all the same.
 
They oil the
social wheels, don't you think?
 
Anyway,
my name is Edgar Rheiman.
 
You spell that
R-H-E-I-M-A-N.
 
Silent
H
.
 
Not an obvious spelling."

An American accent, thought Kathleen.
 
Now, where in the
United
States
?
 
Not the South or
California
,
for sure?
 
Not
New York City
either.
 
Somewhere Northern.
 
Beyond that she was not sure.
 
She had a good ear and had spent considerable
time in the
United States
,
but she had been born and spent most of her life in
Ireland
.

"Kathleen," said Rheiman.
 
"I can guess how you must feel, but I would like if you would trust
me.
 
You see, we're both in the same
boat.
 
You're a prisoner and they are
going to kill you.
 
That's a given.
 
Well, though I can walk around within the
base, I am effectively a prisoner too.
 
And when I have completed doing what they want, I am for the chopping
block as well.
 
That's the way these
people are."

He paused.
 
"Do you mind if I
sit down?"

Kathleen remained immobile.

"I guess not," said Rheiman.
 
His voice sounded middle-aged.

There were sounds of rustling and then a sigh of satisfaction.
 
He's in his late forties or early fifties,
thought Kathleen, and he is somewhat overweight and certainly not fit.
 
But he is intelligent, indeed very smart in
his way.
 
So who is he and what is
he?
 
What is he doing here?
 
Why is he being so nice to me?

"There are no chairs in here," said Rheiman, "not even a
stool,
and I'm really not built for floors.
 
But that's Reiko Oshima for you.
 
She is good at her job — you cannot deny that
— but she is not a kindly woman.
 
I'll
bet she chopped worms up when she was a child and pulled the wings off flies
when they were still alive.
 
Well, who
knows.
 
Certainly, she
is a major league psycho right now.
 
A very vicious woman.
 
If they did not need me, I would be sushi.
 
But they do need me.
 
Lucky old me!
 
Born in the North to die in the South.
 
That's what the North Vietnamese used to
say.
 
Over two million killed against our
fifty-eight thousand.
 
An
interesting way to win a victory.
 
But that is fanaticism for you.
 
Not reasonable.
 
I guess that kind
of defines Reiko Oshima.
 
She is about as
reasonable as Dracula.
 
And she needs to
spill blood to stay alive."

He leaned forward.
 
She could feel
his breath on her face.

"Mrs. Fitzduane, you are
not
in good hands.
 
So you would be well
advised to avail yourself of my friendship.

"I would like us to be very good friends."

Kathleen had a sudden urge to spit in his face.
 
She did not move.
 
She had learned to husband every
resource.
 
She was going to be raped.
 
It would make no difference.
 
They could take her body.
 
They would not touch her mind.

I am strong
.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

Jaeger looked like a fading beach boy who still kept himself — mostly —
in excellent condition.

The blond hair was flecked with gray but was still thick and flopped over
one eye.
 
His upper body was muscular
under the light tan suit.
 
His piercing
blue eyes were well complemented by his shirt.
 
His tie was loose and the top two buttons of his collar were
unbuttoned.
 
He peered over
half-glasses.
 
He carried his slight
paunch well.

"John is a friend," Cochrane had announced.
 
In Task Force language, Fitzduane had
learned, that meant he could be trusted.

He is one of us
.

Grant Lamar was sitting in one corner.
 
The man had the ability to render himself damn near invisible.
 
Most people when entering or exiting a room
communicated with their fellow men even if it was only a ‘Hi’ or ‘I'm out of
here!’
 
Lamar normally did not.
 
He came and went without comment and
seemingly without affecting the equilibrium of those present.

Maury cleared his throat and looked around.
 
He really did not have to.
 
He had everyone's attention.

"This is a reconnaissance photo of the terrorist base in Tecuno
known as the Devil's Footprint.
 
The
valley on the left is where the actual terrorist base is located, together with
a supporting garrison of about six hundred troops.
 
The valley on the right is what we are
currently concerned with.
 
We have
christened the two valleys
Salvador
and Dali.
 
Salvador
is the base.
 
Dali is the big question."

He pressed the remote again and the screen filled with an aerial photo of
Dali.
 
The illustration was marked with
numbers and had been computer enhanced, and there were other signs of the photo
interpreter's art.

To Fitzduane, at first glance it did not mean very much except it bore
all the signs of some kind of industrial installation.
 
There were what looked like long pipes, and
some of these were cross-linked.
 
One was
massive.
 
There were also large
containers of various types.

At a quick glance it looked like just the sort of steel-spaghetti
facility the oil industry seemed to love, but if someone had told him it was
for making breakfast cereal on an industrial scale, he wouldn't have argued too
much.

"The Devil's Footprint installation is guarded by a battalion of
Tecuno troops and an inner force of somewhere between thirty-five and fifty
terrorist mercenaries, in addition to the brigade stationed at the air base
only eight kilometers away.
 
Given the
strategic importance of the Tecuno oil fields, that might seem reasonable if
the other major oil installations were similarly guarded.
 
The reality is that they are not.
 
There are token forces — ten to thirty
soldiers — at other pumping stations and patrols along the pipelines, but there
is nothing approaching this scale of security elsewhere.
 
No, the evidence is clear that whatever is
going on in Dali is special and warrants maximum protection.

"We showed this photograph to a number of military analysts.
 
They could not work out what was going on but
were able to point out certain features and to eliminate certain possibilities.

"The installation in the valley we have named Dali is not — on the
face of it — consistent with nuclear, chemical, or biological manufacturing
plants.
 
I won't get technical, but the
military assure me that, based upon known production techniques, the Dali
structures do not have what it takes.
 
However, they did add that there were some interesting structures in the
valley of the kind you would not normally associate with civilian
activities."

Maury activated a laser pointer.
 
The red beam settled on a low mound that seemed almost part of the
valley until you looked closely.

"Have a look at that, for example.
 
There, say my military friends, you are talking about a reinforced
observation blockhouse.
 
It is the kind
of thing you would build if you wanted to look fairly closely at a missile
taking off without being fried.
 
Plenty of protection.
 
You will note it is built into one side of the valley and overlooks the
other.

"Our military friends identified other blockhouses
designed,
it would appear, purely for storage.
 
Estimates suggest they are also heavily
reinforced against blast.
 
Hardened bomb or resistant structures."

Fitzduane shook his head in some puzzlement.
 
"So we've got what looks like an oil
installation of some kind — lots of pipes, and reinforced storage facilities and
a blockhouse.
 
I don't get it.
 
Frankly, that kind of setup seems entirely
consistent with a process for extracting oil under pressure.
 
We're talking big numbers here.
 
The compression of whatever they are pumping
into the ground must be enormous.
 
So if
something blows you are likely to need all the protection you can get.
 
A reinforced blockhouse seems entirely
reasonable under such circumstances."

Maury nodded.
 
"Fair
enough if you exclude the street cop's instincts.
 
But, in this case, we
know
Governor Quintana and Reiko Oshima and their followers.
 
These are not people who take these kinds of
precautions over an industrial process unless it can be put to practical — and
normally destructive — use.
 
These are
seriously bad people."

"So?" said Fitzduane quizzically.

"The
U.S.
of A. has ore than a passing interest in oil," said Maury.
 
"We use a lot of the stuff, and we like
to know where there is more and what people are doing with it and how we can
lay our hands on it.
 
That translates
into a formidable intelligence capability.
 
Not only can we detect where it is likely to be, but we can also monitor
through various types of detection and sensor equipment where it is.
 
We can, for instance, monitor oil flow
through pipelines for remote satellite sensors.
 
And frankly, we can do much more.

"Much of this technical capability had been focused on Tecuno
recently.
 
We have not learned much that
is new — Tecuno's oil riches are no secret — but we were interested to find out
that there is no evidence of oil in the Devil's Footprint itself except for the
stuff required to run trucks.
 
What looks
like an oil installation, but positively no
oil.

"None!
 
Nada!
 
Zilch!"

There was a long silence in the room.
 
Then a collective reaction of surprise.
 
Out of sheer curiosity, Fitzduane shot a look
at Lamar.
 
Even he was displaying a faint
flicker of something or other.

"No oil?" said Fitzduane helpfully.

"No oil," agreed Maury, "and no activity in most of the
pipes.
 
We can detect that kind of thing
with infrared and the like.
 
You shove
oil or water down a pipe and you do things to it.
 
It becomes hotter or cooler compared to
ambient.
 
And there is more, but I'm not
technical.
 
But those are the
principles."