The Devil's Footprint (8 page)
Read The Devil's Footprint Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
If this was
security in
to get here.
"Dana,"
said the redhead with the kind of stunning smile that could blow away a line of
marines, "and this is
The blond head
bobbed a greeting.
She was otherwise
occupied accelerating the limo through
The dividing
panel slid shut.
This was a pair who
focused on their work, which was currently the matter of keeping his body in
one piece.
Fitzduane thought there was a
great deal to be said for travel.
There
were some sights and sounds and customs he really did not run across much back
in
Dana and
The limousine
purred on.
The internal loudspeaker
pinged tactfully and then
voice cut in.
She managed to combine
crystal-clear diction with a mellifluous twang.
"Lee
asked me to point out
If you look to your right,
Mr. Fitzduane, you'll see the turnoff for the CIA.
A short time back, an Iranian pulled up
beside a row of cars waiting to turn and went down the line and shot each
driver in turn with a Kalashnikov.
Four dead.
The CIA
said it was an isolated incident."
"Wasn't
it?" said Fitzduane.
"No,
sir," said
Fitzduane
stopped thinking about voices like corn syrup and wondered again about the late
Patricio Nicanor.
The assault
was being passed off by the administration as an outrage against the
subcommittee by Japanese extremists.
The
fact that a Mexican citizen had been among those killed had been attributed no
special significance.
This was an attack
by the Japanese Red Army against the
Señor Nicanor's death was a regrettable
accident.
He certainly had not been
specifically singled out.
It seemed to
Fitzduane that being manually decapitated with the equivalent of a razor-sharp
cheese wire was about as specific and unaccidental as you could get.
But clearly the administration did not want
any attention focused on
Why not?
Because the administration wanted free trade
with
presenting
And why had it
been so important to kill Nicanor before he could talk?
*
*
*
*
*
The turnoff
was heavily wooded.
The limo slowed and
a pair of unmarked gates opened.
The limo
entered and halted.
The gates closed
immediately behind them.
They were on a
paved drive carved out of the wooded terrain.
The drive curved ahead of them and then vanished behind a bend.
"Mr.
Fitzduane?"
It was
"Could you please step out of the
car?"
Fitzduane
opened the door.
He could see no
guardhouse, nothing but trees, but he had a definite sense of being
observed."
As he looked
around, he noticed a hydraulically operated spiked vehicle barrier in front of
the limo and a space beyond that, a rather deep space.
Forcing the
barrier would not have been a good idea.
This place was protected by the equivalent of a moat and who knew what
else.
Someone was very serious about
security; very low key but very serious.
The whole approach?
Someone with an interesting
mind.
"Mr.
Fitzduane?" said
"When
you're ready."
Fitzduane
stepped back into the limo's air-conditioning with alacrity.
How had these
people fought in this stuff?
His respect
for Grant and Lee and Longstreet and all their good people ramped up a notch or
two.
This was his mother's country, and
it had been hard won.
The car surged
forward.
*
*
*
*
*
Fitzduane
gazed around him.
He was in a
room that screamed military.
Of operations.
Of missions planned and implemented and of the consequences.
The
V
-shaped
table, the bank of giant screens, the lectern for the briefer.
And the security.
The security
here was of the more traditional kind.
Armed, uniformed guards outside the door.
Dana and
He was
underground.
The limo had dipped without
warning.
He had been told the Pentagon
was like this.
You could recognize all
the people who really counted by their pale skins.
They rarely saw daylight or their families.
Fitzduane
interrupted his musings to examine a large version of the logo that he had
noticed on the shoulder patches of the uniformed guards and various other
locations as he was ushered in.
In this case
the logo was incorporated in an embossed shield that was mounted on the light
oak paneling just behind the central chair at the head of the
V
.
It showed a black Vietnam-era Cobra
helicopter gunship head-on against a dark blue background.
The contrast was slight.
The helicopter silhouette was almost
invisible.
At the base of the shield
were the letters ‘STSF.’
"‘Son Tay
Semper Fi’" explained Cochrane as he emerged from a nearly invisible door
in the paneling.
It hissed closed behind
him.
They were alone in the room.
Fitzduane did
not feel a whole lot wiser.
Son Tay had
been a famous
war
to rescue American
prisoners.
The raid had been a military
success except that the prisoners had already been moved.
Semper Fidelis
.
Literally, “Always
faithful.”
The
motto of the marines.
“Keep the
faith,” in modern parlance.
Easy to say.
Hard to do.
There was a
persistent rumor that the CIA had known in advance about the removal of the
prisoners but had not told the raiding party.
They had not wanted the North Vietnamese to be upset, so went the rumor,
because the peace negotiations were at a difficult stage.
Fitzduane was
far from sure he believed the rumor, but felt the story said a great deal about
the chronic internecine warfare inside the
communities.
And that was before the
administration and Congress got into the picture.
"STR —
the STR Corporation," said Cochrane, "was founded by a Son Tay raider
called Grant Lamar.
Grant felt there
were things that needed to be done in defense of this country that traditional
structures were not really well-equipped to do.
Too much red tape, too much oversight, too much media
attention.
His judgment was
correct.
His operation has been very
successful.
There are quite a number of
companies like STR in and around
but Grant is a major player though little known outside the community.
He prefers discretion to prominence."
"An
interesting man," said Fitzduane.
"He
is," said Cochrane simply, "and he is a friend, which is why we are
meeting here.
The Hill has become all
too public recently."
"It's
your party, Lee," said Fitzduane.
Cochrane gave
a slight smile.
"I hope to change
that, Hugo," he said, and Fitzduane felt conflicting emotions.
There was the lure of the hunt, which brought
a surge of adrenaline, and then there was an interjection of guilt and concern
as he thought about Kathleen and Boots and Romeo and Julietta.
There were
ventures he should not engage in now that he had a family.
No matter how much he was tempted.
He had, he knew, a high tolerance for risk,
but for those who waited behind it was much worse.
Besides, he
wanted to know without cheating which it would be.
Romeo or Julietta.
Boy or girl?
*
*
*
*
*
The conference
room had filled up somewhat, though nowhere near its full capacity.
Dan Warner and
Maury were both there.
Fitzduane had
also been introduced to Grant Lamar, and then Cochrane had said he would
introduce other people in the course of the briefing.
He wanted to move matters along.
Since Maury
was actually sitting down, Fitzduane surmised he must either know all the
assembled company or be on Prozac.
When
Maury got through the initial introduction stage, he was actually quite
affable.
It was breaking the ice that
seemed to freak him out.
Yet Fitzduane
warmed to him.
As he had sensed during
the terrorist attack, Maury was sound.
Cochrane, head
down, standing behind the lectern to one side of a giant screen, cleared his
throat.
The sound system was
working.
The room became silent,
expectant.
He looked up.
"Three
days ago, Patricio Nicanor and five staff members of the Task Group were killed
and others wounded.
The purpose of this
meeting is to cover the events leading up to it, discuss our findings, and to
implement an appropriate response.
As we
know, no action is being taken elsewhere, for reasons which we will be
discussing.
I shall be covering some
ground most of us are already familiar with for the benefit of our guest from
Fitzduane.
I think everyone here knows
his track record in counterterrorist work."
There were
approving nods and looks from various people around the table, and then
Fitzduane caught the eye of a familiar-looking face.
He was sure he had not met the man before,
yet the cast of features undoubtedly rang a chord.
The man was in
his forties, good-looking if somewhat overweight, with a tousled crop of
graying black hair and a thick mustache.
He wore half-glasses and looked over them when he spoke.
He had the air of an academic.
He eyed Fitzduane with some interest before
turning back to Cochrane.
"The Task
Force came into being because some of us were concerned that the
And I would like to add that although as Americans our first concern is
for this country, we feel many of our neighbors and friends face the same
threats and we should work together to counter them."
Here Cochrane
made a gesture of acknowledgment toward the Hispanic-looking academic, and with
a shock Fitzduane realized who he was.
The man was Valiente Zarra, the founder and head of the Popular Reform
Party of Mexico.
He was generally
considered the one man who was capable of toppling the PRI — the ‘Pree,’ the
current ruling party in
The party that had ruled