Games of The Hangman

25

Aboard the Sabine — 1523 Hours

Kadar held the clipboard in his left hand despite the discomfort, as if to convince himself that his hand was still intact. The physical pain was slight, and the wound was healing nicely, but the mental trauma was another matter. The sense of vulnerability induced by having had part of his body torn away remained as an undercurrent during all his waking hours.

The Irishman had been responsible. A shot from Fitzduane's pistol during those last frenetic few seconds in the studio had marred what had otherwise been otherwise a near-perfect escape. The round had smashed the third metacarpal bone of his left hand. Splinters protruding from the knuckle were all that had remained of his finger. He had been surprised. There had been no pain at first, and he had been able to follow his prearranged escape routine without difficulty — even managing the zippers and straps and buckles of his wet suit and aqualung with his customary speed.

The pain had hit when he emerged from the concealed chute into the icy green waters of the Aare. He had screamed and retched into the unyielding claustrophobia of his face mask. Just the memory made him feel queasy.

Fitzduane: he should have had that damned Irishman killed at the very beginning instead of letting Erika have her way. But to be truthful, it wasn't entirely Erika's fault. He had liked the man, been intrigued by him. Now he was paying the price. So much for the famed nobler side of one's character. It had cost him a finger.

Kadar looked at the polished brass chronometer on the wall. It was an antique case fitted with a modern mechanism — typical of the care that had gone into the design of the cattle boat.

The vessel was perfect for his purpose. Not only did it attract no attention, but it was clean and comfortable. To his surprise and relief, there was no smell. Evidently modern cattle, even on their way to ritual throat cutting in Libya, expected — and received — every consideration. The parallels with his own operation did not escape him. There would be plenty of space and fresh air for his hostages. There would be none of the discomfort associated with an airplane hijack — heat and blocked toilets and no room to stretch your legs. No, the Sabine, with her excellent air conditioning system and spacious enclosed cattle pens, seemed to have been purpose-built for a mass kidnapping. It would be equally effective for a mass execution.

Operation Geranium: it was the largest and most ambitious he had mounted. He would finish this phase of his career on a high note. The world's antiterrorist experts would have to do some serious rethinking after his pioneering work became known.

Kadar enjoyed planning, but the period just before an operation when all the preparation was complete was the time he enjoyed most. He savored the sense of a job well done combined with the anticipation of what was to come.

The trouble with most hijacks involving large numbers of hostages was that the terrorists started on the wrong foot and then all too quickly lost the initiative. The first problem was that there were never enough men involved. Even in the confined surroundings of an airplane, half a dozen fanatics had a hard time keeping hundreds of people under guard over an extended period. The most extreme terrorist still needed to eat and sleep and go to the bathroom. His attention wandered. He looked at pretty women when he should be on guard — and then bang! In came the stun grenades and all the other paraphernalia of the authorities, and — lo and behold — there was another martyr for the cause. Pretty fucking futile, in Kadar's opinion. The argument that the publicity alone justified an unsuccessful hijack didn't impress him one small bit.

Another common difficulty was that hijackers, forced to use easy-to-conceal weaponry like pistols and grenades, tended to be under-armed. In contrast, the forces of law and order, galvanized into action by the media and the weapons merchants, had invested in a massive array of antiterrorist gadgetry and weaponry. The scales had never been tilted more heavily against the terrorist. Counterterrorism had become a complete industry.

But even with the manpower and firepower issues left out of it, there still remained a key flaw in terrorist hijack tactics: the initiative, once the initial grab had taken place, passed almost completely to the authorities. The hijackers waited and sweated, and the authorities prevaricated and stonewalled. The only thing the terrorists could do was kill prisoners to demonstrate intent, but even that option was counterbalanced by that unwritten but well-known rule: Once the killing starts the assault forces go in, and too damn bad about the consequences. To make matters worse from a terrorist point of view, experience had shown that a specialist assault force could take out a hijack position with minimal casualties — most of the time. The Egyptians were the exception to that rule.

The final problem with hijacks was that either the terrorists didn't seem to know precisely what they wanted — Kadar, professional and Harvard man that he was, found this hard to swallow, but his research showed it was often the case — or what they demanded was obviously politically unacceptable or impossible. Often it was both.

It had to be admitted that unless you were a publicity hound — and Kadar was profit-oriented first and foremost, though he wasn't averse to a degree of media flirtation and had enjoyed his obituaries immensely — the hijack track record was not good.

"Room for improvement," as a schoolteacher would put it.

In Kadar's view, a fundamentally new approach was required — and Operation Geranium was the result.

* * * * *

Fitzduane's Castle — 1555 Hours

Fitzduane had phoned the police security detail at DrakerCollege and, for good measure, had also spoken to the acting headmaster. His concerns had been politely received but with thinly disguised incredulity. He didn't need to be psychic to know that he wasn't getting through. The sun continued to blaze in a cloudless sky. The idea of a serious threat in such an idyllic spot lacked credibility.

Sergeant Tommy Keane from the police station on the mainland had showed up on his bicycle and, after a private discussion with Fitzduane, had reluctantly agreed to stay around for the next few hours. It was too hot for fishing anyway. He'd try to sneak away in the evening. Meanwhile, he might as well keep an eye on what his eccentric friend was up to — and try to keep him out of trouble.

Fitzduane's little army now numbered thirteen. Eleven, including Fitzduane, reassembled in the great hall. Murrough and his wife were on the fighting platform of the tower. Armed with powerful binoculars, they could observe the bridge onto the island and much of the surrounding countryside with ease. Visibility was generally excellent, though a thin heat haze had sprung up and obscured details in the distance.

Fitzduane spoke. "Our first priority is to secure this castle, so I want you all to be thoroughly familiar with the physical layout, hence the guided tour. I'll go through it again now and explain how the defenses — if required — will work."

He turned to a large plan of the castle painted on wood and resting on an easel. It had been made nearly three hundred years earlier, and the colors were faded. His mind wandered for a moment to the many other occasions when Fitzduanes had assembled to ward off a threat. Most of the time they had been able to talk their way out of trouble. Somehow he didn't think that talk would be the answer this day.

"As you can see," he said, "the castle is situated on a low outcrop of rock bordered on two sides by the sea. The sea approach doesn't guarantee security against trained individuals, but any major assault would almost certainly have to be made from the landward side. Even when the tide is out, the rock is steep and covered with seaweed, so maneuvering a body of men on the seaward approaches is well-nigh impossible."

"I'm going to use the term castle for the whole walled-in area, but of course, the castle actually consists of several component parts, mostly built at different times. The cornerstone of the castle — and the part that was built first — is the sixty-foot-high square stone tower known as the keep. On the top of the keep is what is called the fighting platform. That is the open area protected by a parapet. Under the fighting platform are five rooms, access to which is by the circular stone staircase. In all the rooms and on the stairs there are observation and firing points.

"Next to the keep and connected to it at second-floor level is the long rectangular building we are in, which is known as the great house. That was built when things were supposed to be getting more civilized around here but still with an eye on defense. It consists of three floors under a pitched roof. The top floor is this room and the kitchen. Underneath are the bedrooms, and under those are stores and utility rooms. The outside wall of the great house is part of the perimeter and is defended by the sea access and the normal fighting points, and it is overlooked by the top stories of the keep. However, there are no battlements here, and the pitched roof is vulnerable to plunging fire.

"The rest of the castle consists of the courtyard area, called the bawn, enclosed by a twenty-foot-high perimeter wall. Battlements run the length of the wall, and under these are the stables, bakery, smithy, and other workshops. The weak point of the perimeter wall is, of course, the main gate, but that is defended by that small square tower, the gatehouse. The gate itself still had a working portcullis."

"What is a portcullis?" asked Andreas von Graffenlaub's Israeli girlfriend.

Fitzduane had learned that her family had been part of Dublin's Jewish community before emigrating to Israel. Her name was Judith Newman, and her looks were a strong argument in favor of making love and not war. She seemed quite unfazed by what was happening. Of course, she of all people would be used to terrorist threats. She came from a kibbutz near the Syrian border.

"It's the iron gate that looks like a grid. It rises and falls vertically. The idea is that it can be dropped in a hurry if any unfriendlies show up. There are spikes set into its base, so it's no fun if you are under it at the wrong time. It used to be operated by a big hand winch, but now there is an electric motor."

"But you can see through it," said Judith. "It's not solid."

"You can indeed see through it," said Fitzduane. "Which was partly the idea. It means you can also shoot through it. I imagine weight was also a consideration. A solid gate of that size would be impractical to raise and lower by hand on a routine basis."

"So the bawn could be swept by fire from outside?"

"The portcullis would stop much of it, because the metal bands are two inches wide with four-inch spacings, but yes, if the wooden gate were destroyed and only the portcullis were left, the bawn would be vulnerable to fire form outside. The solution is to move around on the battlements or to use the tunnel system."

"Tunnels," said the Bear.

"Tunnels," said Fitzduane. "They are one of the reasons the Fitzduane survived over the centuries. There is a network under the castle."

"You should get into embassy design," said Ambassador Noble dryly.

* * * * *

Aboard the Sabine — 1630 hours

The three unit commanders — code-named Malabar, Icarus, and Phantom (courtesy of Baudelaire) — trooped into the room and saluted. Kadar demanded obedience and discouraged familiarity. Insisting upon the details of military discipline helped create and maintain the austere professional atmosphere he preferred.

Two of the unit commanders, Malabar and Icarus, were Arabs; they wore checked keffiyehs and camouflage combat fatigues. The third commander, Phantom —a Sardinian called Giorgio Massana — had already changed into his wet suit.

The captain's quarters of the Sabine incorporated a dayroom of adequate size. The three commanders, already laden down with ammunition pouches and other combat equipment, squeezed with difficulty onto the padded bench seat that ran around two sides of the small conference table. They waited expectantly. They had been briefed extensively already, but Kadar, they knew, parted with information the way a python sheds its skin: there always seemed to be something new underneath.

Kadar referred to his clipboard unnecessarily to mask a twinge of pain. His left hand was now gloved, and a prosthetic finger disguised his disfigurement. The details of Operation Geranium had been worked out on a computer and had resulted in enough charts and plans to fill a book, but for now he wanted to cover only a few key points. He felt like a football coach before the big game. He despised speeches before battle, but he had to admit they were effective.

He consulted the chronometer and then spoke. "At 1730, the main staff at the college goes off duty. They leave in a minibus for their homes in and around the village and are always off the island by 1750 at the latest. That leaves behind in the college some fifty-eight students and a small night-duty faculty presence of three or four. The evening meal is served by the students themselves." He smiled. "There is also an armed guard of six men."

"The critical time window for our purposes is the period of daylight from 1750 to 2200 hours. There is still some light after that time but not much, and I consider it expedient to build in a margin. Our objective is to complete the first phase within that time window.

"At 1800 hours it is normal practice for all students and night faculty to gather in the assembly hall for what they call daily review. Accordingly, 1800 hours is the pivotal implementation time for our operation. Just prior to that time a number of actions will take place.

"All communication to and from the island will be severed. Telephone and telex lines will be cut. The bridge will be blown up in such a manner as to make it look like an accident. Any radios will be destroyed.

"A small group of students aided by one faculty member, all members of the cult of the Sacrificers" he smiled again — "will kill the police security guards and will seize the students and faculty members as they are gathered together.

"Elements of Phanom in a Pilatus Britten-Norman Islander, a small twin-engine aircraft with short takeoff and landing properties, will land on the road near the college. Further elements of Phantom Unit will assault Fitzduane's castle and eliminate the occupants.

"With the beachhead secured by Phantom Unit and their young friends, the balance of the assault force, Malabar and Icarus units, will board the high-speed inflatables as rehearsed, land, and take up position as planned. By 1830 hours at the latest, all our forces will be ashore with their objectives secured, and the island will be entirely in our hands — and no one on the mainland will be any the wiser.

"No later than 1900 hours, but with the margin built into the time window as discussed, the Islander aircraft, which is equipped with integral wingtip fuel tanks and long-range underwing fuel tanks giving it a range of fifteen hundred nautical miles, will take off again, carrying two rather special hostages.

"We shall have all night to prepare our positions in the college, with particular emphasis on laying explosives in such a way that it will be quite impossible for the government authorities even to contemplate an assault without guaranteeing the deaths of all the hostages. And all we are asking for is money — a politically quite acceptable commodity to part with and one not in short supply if one's children are involved."

He paused and drank some mineral water. "And of course, the whereabouts of two of the hostages will not even be known. A little extra surprise for our friends. Their father is a key figure in the present Middle East peace talks. He is a friend of the U.S. President. There is no way the Irish will risk the consequences of their deaths. The Irish government will give in, and the parents will pay; the whole exercise will take place out of sight of the world media, so there will be no problem with loss of face for anyone. Our friends in Libya have agreed to act as intermediaries.

"There is a tendency in hostage situations for the authorities to drag out the negotiations in the belief that the kidnappers — us in this case — will not carry out their threats to kill their victims. As a matter of fact, hijackers have a track record of bluffing much and killing little, so the approach of the authorities would seem to be justified. In this case, it is essential that we convince the Irish government and the parents that we are deadly serious. To that end the faculty and ten students — those with less affluent parents and of no political significance, naturally — will be killed immediately. The executions will be photographed and videotaped. Arrangements have been made to radio photographs to our agents so that the parents of the surviving students will be in no doubt from the beginning as to our intent. The video will travel in the Islander, and copies of it will be issued subsequently, if necessary.

"You will note that we are contacting both the parents and the Irish authorities simultaneously. This is to prevent the authorities from endeavoring to resolve matters on their own and to exert the maximum pressure in the shortest possible time. Further, we have made sure that both parents in every case will be informed.

"The protocols regarding details of payments and so on have already been drawn up and are with our intermediaries in Libya. They will supervise our withdrawal from the island on a government-to-government basis. It won't be the first time they have performed such a role. They rather enjoy appearing as honest brokers in these situations.

"When the bridge has been replaced by the Irish authorities — a matter of hours using a military structure — the force will depart from the island in a bus convoy and will travel to ShannonAirport, where a Libyan jet will fly us to safety. The hostages will travel with us. They will fly with us to Libya and be released on arrival" — he paused and smiled enigmatically — "unless, of course, I come up with a more entertaining notion."

Kadar looked at the unit commanders. "Any questions?"

There was silence at first. The commanders were confident, forceful men, but Kadar awed them. He was brilliant, he was violent, and he was unpredictable — but he rewarded results. Experience had shown that blind obedience was the best policy most of the time. Questions were not normally expected, but Kadar seemed to want to talk. He was justifiably enthusiastic, almost euphoric; it was a thorough plan, and all three commanders were convinced it would work.

The Commander of Phantom Unit spoke first. "The next couple of hours will be critical. Is there any chance of interference from the Irish Navy or these people that I have heard so much about, the Rangers?"

Kadar was amused. He was conscious that he was showing off a little, but he was enjoying his minor moment of glory. It was no more than his due. It was unarguable: his plan had anticipated everything.

"The Irish have over three thousand kilometers of coastline to guard," he said, "and only four ships to do the entire job. The chance of a naval service ship turning up at the wrong moment is statistically most improbable. However" — he paused for effect — "arrangements have been made to divert the one ship on duty on the Atlantic coast. The primary task of the Irish Navy is fishery protection. An anonymous tip has decoyed the vessel Eimer to chase a fleet of Spanish fishing boats fishing illegally off the Kerry coast."

"And the Rangers?" said the Phantom Unit commander.

This time Kadar laughed outright. "They could have been a problem, but they have responded magnificently to a diversion we have prearranged in Dublin." He looked at his men. "They think we are mounting an operation against the American Embassy, and they are defending it in depth."

"So there is nothing to stop us," said the Icarus Unit commander.

"Nothing," said Kadar. He felt a sudden twinge in his hand. His missing finger throbbed. "Nothing."

* * * * *

Fitzduane's Castle — 1645 hours

Fitzduane disliked talking about the tunnel system; it was the hidden card in Fitzduane family history. In this case, however, he felt he had no choice but to reveal part of what lay underneath the castle; still, he confined his tour to the upper level. Access in this case was from the ground floor of the tower.

Fitzduane flicked a switch as they passed through the concealed door. A ramp sloped down to a passage with a vaulted roof. He motioned the others to follow him. The passage ran straight to the gatehouse across the bawn. A circular staircase wound its way to the second-floor level. They emerged in the windlass room, from where the portcullis was controlled. Murder holes and firing apertures allowed the guards to control both the entrance below and access to the gate.

He led the group back into the tunnel. "Now you know how to get from the keep to the gatehouse without having your ass shot off. That's the good news. The bad news would be the discovery of that tunnel by the other side. It can be blocked from the keep — a heavy iron door slides into place — but how long that would stand up to high explosives is another matter. Swords and lances were more the thing when this was built."

De Guevain was looking around curiously. "How was the tunnel constructed? From the outside the castle looks as if it were built on a solid block of granite, and the sea is so close. I'd guess we are near to being below sea level."

Fitzduane smiled. "We are below sea level when the tide is in, but there is nothing to worry about. It's the very geology of this location that made my ancestors settle here. What appears to be a solid block of granite is, in fact, more like a doughnut in shape. The possibilities of that were obvious. The family has been digging on and off ever since."

"You, too?" asked the Bear.

"I don't like tunnels." Fitzduane walked on toward a heavy metal-shod door. The key turned silently. "This is the armory." He beckoned the group to enter the room. He switched on the main lights when all were inside.

There were expressions of surprise. Swords, knives, battle-axes, maces, pikes, bows and arrows, armor, muskets — hand weapons of every type lined the room from floor to ceiling or stood in racks.

"Incredible!" exclaimed de Guevain. "This collection must be priceless."

"It used to be bigger," said Fitzduane, "but some of the finer pieces were sold by my grandfather to ease his later years."

"Where do they come from? And why so many?" asked Henssen.

"A castle is first and foremost a fighting machine," said Fitzduane, "and most of the weapons you see here belong to the castle's own armory. Over the centuries techniques and weapons changed, and the family modernized but without, as you can see, throwing much away. They were a thrifty lot."

"There's nothing more modern here than a Brown Bess musket," said Ambassador Noble. "And though they were fine for Waterloo, I don't see how they'd rate against the kind of firepower today's terrorists carry."

Fitzduane nodded. He crossed the room and worked a mechanism. A section of racking slid away to reveal a door. He opened it and led them through. This room was smaller, though still good-sized. It was painted white and was brightly lit. Tools, power equipment, and workbenches took up most of one wall. Wooden racks containing late nineteenth- and twentieth-century weapons took up most of another wall, and four long boxes lay open on the floor. There was a waist-high work surface in the center of the room with a series of firearms laid out on it.

"Now that's more like it." De Guevain held up an M-16. "Where did you get this?"

"Vietnam."

"And this?" said Noble, indicating an AK-47 Kalashnikov assault rifle.

"Lebanon."

"And this?" The bear held up a long-barreled broom handle Mauser pistol; a wooden shoulder stock was attached.

Fitzduane laughed. "A bit before my time. That's a souvenir of the War of Independence — Ireland's independence, that is. It's a relatively unusual nine-millimeter Parabellum version."

"And these?" asked Andreas von Graffenlaub. He was pointing at one of the open boxes. Fitzduane went over and extracted a weapon, a short, stocky-looking automatic rifle with the magazine fitted behind the trigger guard instead of in the traditional in-front position. A compact telescopic sight was clipped to a bracket above the receiver.

"I'd better explain," said Fitzduane. He spoke very briefly about Kilmara and the Rangers. He then continued. "So I've got some firepower on loan, though not enough for all of us. This" — he held up the automatic rifle — "is the new Enfield SA-80 automatic rifle that has been adopted by the British Army. It's what they call a bullpup design. Having the magazine behind the trigger guard makes for a thirty percent shorter weapon for the same barrel length; it's easier to maneuver in a confined space." He pointed at the telescopic sight. "And with its four-power magnification sight, you've got one of the most accurate combat assault weapons yet made. Mind you, at nearly eleven pounds fully loaded, it's a heavy bugger for its size, but that pays dividends when you're firing on full auto. You can control this gun.

"In terms of modern weapons, we've got four SA-80 rifles, four nine-millimeter Browning automatic pistols, a Hawk grenade launcher, grenades, and some other equipment, including Claymore directional mines. That sounds impressive until you realize what we may be up against. The opposition will have automatic weapons, too, and there may be far more of them." He didn't add that in the main, they would be younger, fitter, and more recently trained.

There was silence in the room. The sight of the modern weaponry — not some collector's curiosity piece to hang on a wall or to show to friends after dinner — had a chilling effect.

* * * * *

Ranger Headquarters, Dublin — 1708 hours

Kilmara put down the phone. The red light indicating that the scrambler was active was extinguished. He shrugged. "I've just been talking to the sergeant in charge of the security detail at Draker. It's a beautiful day. All the students are doing whatever students in the middle of nowhere do — and two of his men sat out in the sun too long and have gone bright red."

"Sounds like a rough detail," said Günther. "What about Fitzduane?"

"I was talking to him, too. He remains convinced something is going to happen on the basis of no proof at all. He's organized that castle of his as if Geronimo were on the prowl — and he now intends to go over to Draker to give a hand. With our luck these days the guards on duty there will think some of Fitzduane's people are terrorists and they'll all shoot each other."

"How many people has he got?"

"Around a dozen, including himself," said Kilmara, "of which no fewer than nine have some kind of military training. I'm beginning to wonder if I did the right thing giving him that weaponry."

"You think it's a false alarm," said Günther.

Kilmara stared grumpily at nothing in particular. "That's the trouble. I don't — but that's pure instinct and faith in Fitzduane's vibes. The evidence says that the action is going to be here in Dublin. My guts tell me we've got our people watching the wrong mouseholes."

"Despite the Japanese? Or the seventy-two Middle Eastern travel agents — who the Irish Tourist Board had never heard of until the agents approached them — flying in tonight?"

"Despite everything," said Kilmara. "I've been thinking. I don't believe the Hangman gives a fuck about politics. Why would he want to hit the U.S. Embassy? What's in it for him? He's a bottom-line man."

"The Hangman's dead," declared Günther.

"Don't talk like a bureaucrat."

Günther grinned. "The rescheduling is finished."

"So what have we got apart from an over-budget overtime bill?" said Kilmara.

"For starters, we've got far too many people tied up on this embassy thing. It's ridiculous."

"It's politics, but don't tell me what I know already. I want to know what kind of unit we can field as a reserve now we've done our computer games."

"About a dozen," said Günther, "and of course, there is you — and me."

"That's not so crazy. I'm fed up sitting behind a desk."

"The helicopter situation is not good," reported Günther. "All the Air Corps machines are assigned to cover the embassy, the ambassador's residence in PhoenixPark, and the airport, and anyway, they're all going to be grounded at dusk. I wish we had night-flying capability."

"Road would take five to six hours," mused Kilmara.

"More like six," said Günther, "if we're talking about Fitzduane's Island. The roads are terrible once you get past Galway, and at that point we'd be driving at night with heavily loaded vehicles."

"And that bridge on to the island is all too easy to cut," said Kilmara. "If we're going to do it, we'll have to do it by air."

He sat in thought for several minutes. On the face of it, his existing deployment was correct. There had been clear evidence of a threat to the U.S. Embassy in Dublin. The arrival of the Japanese — two of whom had already been identified as being associated with militant terrorist groups — confirmed that threat. Monitored conversations indicated that the Japanese were the advance guard and would link up with a substantial group that was flying in late that night under the cover of a convention of travel agents from the Middle East. The Irish Tourist Board, which would normally have been actively involved in such a visit, had merely been informed at the last minute — an irregular procedure — so it really did look as if the terrorist threat were about to become a reality. He could pick up the Japanese now, but he had no line on the weaponry involved, and it made much more sense to wait until that, too, could be identified.

All very fine, but an all-too-predictable response. His instincts screamed ‘setup,’ but even if it was a diversion, he knew that the Hangman — if it was indeed him — was sufficiently ruthless to make the diversion a reality in its own right.

Even with the Hangman out of the picture, there were other possible threats to be considered. At all times the Rangers should have a reserve ready to deploy. The root problem at the moment was the way in which the Rangers were being used. Instead of being deployed as a reaction force in the specific antiterrorist role for which they were trained, they had been pushed to the front to handle something that should have been given to the police and the regular army.

Reluctantly he came to a decision. "Günther, there is nothing more we can do for Fitzduane right now except monitor the situation and put the reserve on standby at Baldonnel. Sending them across by road is out. The facts that the Hangman is obsessed with flowers and that Fitzduane has funny feelings are not good enough reasons for me to lose my reserve."

Günther rose to his feet. "Fair enough."

"Hold it," said Kilmara. "I haven't finished. If we do have to move, we'll have to do it very fucking fast — and we may be up against heavier firepower than we're used to. I want the Optica armed and the unit to be in heavy battle order."

"The Milan, too?"

"The whole thing. And I'll command from the Optica."

"And what about me?"

"You like jumping out of airplanes. Why miss a good opportunity?"

"This is a fun job," said Günther as he left the room.

"It changes as you get older," said Kilmara to himself. "Your friends get killed."

* * * * *

Fitzduane's Castle — 1715 hours

The heat haze had increased. Murrough handed Fitzduane the binoculars. Fitzduane stared at the distant spot indicated by Murrough for about thirty seconds, then lowered the glasses.

"Hard to tell," he said. "Visibility at that distance isn't so good. All I can make out is a blur; most of it is cut off by the headland. Some kind of freighter, I suppose." He turned toward Murrough. "There have been boats passing in the distance every hour or so all day. What's unusual about this one?"

Murrough took back the binoculars and had another brief look. "The haze has got worse all right. I should have called you earlier. It's hard to be absolutely sure, but I think our friend over there has been stopped for a while."

"How long?"

"About twenty minutes. I can't be certain."

"Which way did it come? Did you get a look at it earlier?"

"From the south," said Murrough. "It was far out and moving slowly. It's a cattle boat, one of those new jobs with the high superstructure and lots of ventilators like mushrooms on the top."

"How big are those things?"

"I don't know exactly. But big enough to hold over a thousand cattle and all their feed. Maybe the boat's stopped to feed the cattle."

Fitzduane lifted the binoculars to his eyes again and commenced a 360-degree sweep. It was the same boat he'd seen earlier in the afternoon. He continued sweeping and stopped with the glasses pointing at the bridge. A station wagon crossed over it onto the island and pulled to the side of the road. Two men got out and looked around. He passed the binoculars to Murrough.

"Fishermen," said Murrough. "I can see fishing rod cases, and they're wearing fishing gear."

"But what do fishermen use ropes for?" said Fitzduane. Retrieving the binoculars, he watched one of the men lower the other below the bridge supports. The man then lowered a bulky package. He opened his fishing rod case and extracted something. When he clipped it into place a bulky banana-shaped object, there was no longer any doubt as to what he was holding.

"Christ!" shouted Fitzduane. "He's got an AK-47. I'll bet even money the fuckers are going to blow the bridge."

Murrough brought up his sniper's rifle to his shoulder and took aim. The man under the bridge scrambled up the rope, and both men ran for cover. There was a dull explosion and a small puff of dust, and smoke and debris flew into the air. The bridge didn't appear to move.

"They made a balls of it," said Murrough. He choked on his words when the bridge suddenly collapsed at the island end and the whole structure slid down into the sea. The two saboteurs rose from cover and went to review their handiwork. They stood by the cliff edge and looked down. Then one of them turned and began examining the castle through binoculars. Seconds later he gesticulated and brought his AK-47 up to the point of aim. The muzzle faced the keep and winked flame. A burst of automatic fire gouged the ancient stonework.

Fitzduane and Murrough fired at the same time. There was little kick from the SA-80; the weapon was as accurate as promised. Both terrorists died before they hit the submerged debris of the bridge. The spume of the sea turned momentarily pink.

"Show time," said Fitzduane. "Stay here. I'll send someone to relieve you in a couple of minutes; then I want you down in the bawn. We're going to retrieve that station wagon and go calling."

His walkie-talkie crackled. "Get down to the study," said a voice strained with tension.

Fitzduane slung the SA-80 and headed down the circular stairs. The study door was open. Etan was slumped in a chair looking dazed, a bloody cloth pressed to the side of her head. The radio given to him by Kilmara had been smashed to pieces. It was irreparable. Ambassador Noble stood just inside the door with a Browning automatic in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other. He was ashen gray with shock. He was staring at a figure that lay sprawled on the ground facedown. A knife of an unusual design lay by the dead body's hand.

Fitzduane turned the body onto its back. A grotesque wolf mask stared up at him. The shirt below was matted with blood where several rounds had struck.

Ambassador Noble spoke dully. "I heard Etan scream and saw this dreadful figure strike her and then turn to attack me. He had a knife, so I fired instinctively." As Fitzduane pulled off the mask, Noble fell to his knees. "Oh, my God," he said. "What have I done?" He took his son's body in his arms, and tears streamed down his cheeks.

There was silence in the room. Then Fitzduane spoke. "It's not your fault. There was nothing else you could do."

Harry Noble stared at him blankly. "Dick belonged to this cult you spoke about," he said, his voice flat.

"So it seems." This is the way the Hangman operates. He corrupts and manipulates, and young people are always the easiest to manipulate. I'm sorry." There was nothing else he could say.

Noble bent down and by his son again and kissed him, then picked up his Browning and looked at Fitzduane. "I shouldn't have doubted you. Whatever has to be done, let's do it."

Etan sobbed without tears, and Fitzduane held her in his arms. Soon she was quiet. "So it's really going to happen," she said.

"Yes," said Fitzduane.

The Bear stood in the doorway. "The phone is dead," he informed them, "and the electricity is out. We're trying to get the generator going now."

"There's a knack," said Fitzduane. He felt more than heard a faint throbbing sound as the big diesel cut in. The lamp on the study desk came on.

"There are only twelve of us now," said Etan.

"It'll do," said the Bear.

* * * * *

Draker College — 1745 hours

Pat Brogan, the sergeant in charge of the security detail at the college, always looked forward to the departure of the staff minibus. There was a rotating element in the catering and cleaning staff that could permit some dangerous person to infiltrate, and in any case they were just more bodies around to keep an eye on. After the bus left, he had only the students and a few known faculty members to consider, and he felt he could relax.

All in all, it was a pretty good assignment, he thought, if a trifle boring. They had comfortable private rooms — not barracks smelling of sweat and socks like up on the border — and a study had been set aside where they could lounge in easy chairs, watching television or making tea or whatever. The college had thoughtfully provided a fridge for milk, which the guards kept well stocked with beer, and it was a cold beer he had in mind as he handed over to the evening shift.

It had been a long, hot, glorious day, and all was well with his world except that his face was brick red from too much sun. He had read somewhere that pale Irish skins were especially vulnerable to the sun: not enough pigmentation or something. Apparently redheads had the worst time. To judge by O'Malley's state, it was all too true.

He snapped the magazine out of his Uzi submachine gun as he entered the rest room and put the weapon in the arms locker. He kept the .38 Smith & Wesson revolver he wore in a Canadian-made pivot shoulder holster. Orders were to be armed at all times, even when off duty, and wearing a handgun was now as routine to him as wearing a shirt.

The television was on, and the chairs were in their accustomed positions facing it. He knew he'd find the three other off-duty guards already comfortably dug in. He hoped they hadn't made too much of a dent in the beer. The hot day had encouraged the stock to shrink as the hours passed. He took a can of beer from the fridge, noting subconsciously that some kind soul seemed to have replenished the drink supply. The unit was practically full.

Normally he would have popped the can immediately and taken a long swallow before going to his chair, which was situated, as befitted his seniority, in the center of the row directly facing the screen. But this time an item on the television caught his attention. Unopened can in hand, he went to his chair.

The smell of beer and some other odor was strong as he approached the row of seats. Some sod has puked, he thought, suddenly annoyed at this breakdown of self-control and discipline. People should be able to draw the line between making life comfortable and being downright careless. He looked to see which stupid fucker was responsible, and froze.

All three guards were sprawled in unnatural positions in their chairs, their faces twisted and distorted in a record of their last agonizing moments. Vomit stained their clothes. The beer can in O'Malley's hand had been twisted into an almost unrecognizable shape in the last few seconds of horror before death won out.

Gripped by fear, Brogan stumbled backward, knocking the television set to the ground in a cascade of sparks and broken glass. A figure with the head of an animal stood in the doorway. Brogan's thoughts went to rumors he had heard when he first came on the job. "Students playing games," he had been told. "Keep an eye on them, but don't make too much of it."

Holy Mother of God, he thought, some games!

"Aren't you curious?" whispered the figure in the doorway. "Professionally curious, I mean. Don't you want to know what killed them?"

The figure moved forward into the room, holding a knife in one hand. Brogan reached for his revolver, but a second figure stood in the doorway with an Ingram submachine gun in his hands. A burst of fire smashed into the wall beside him. The gun made little noise. He could see the bulky silencer fitted to the otherwise compact weapon. His revolver had only just cleared the holster. He dropped it onto the floor and slowly raised his hands. He realized that he had never truly believed there was any threat to the college — nor, it seemed, to judge by the tone of the briefing, had his superiors. Terrorist attacks were a media event, something for the television news. They didn't happen to real people. The figure with the knife spoke again. It had moved around to Brogan's right. It was close.

"We used cyanide. Not terribly original, but you must admit it works, and it's quick, though I'm afraid you can't say it's painless. Injecting the cyanide into unopened beer cans took some practice" — there was amusement in the voice — "but I think you'll agree we mastered the art."

Brogan tried to speak, but his mouth was dry. The figure laughed. "Afraid, aren't you? Afraid of a bunch of kids. That's how you thought of us, wasn't it? Very shortsighted. The average age of our band is nineteen: old enough to vote, to join the army, to kill for our country. Old enough to kill for ourselves. You really should have taken us more seriously. You did find out about us, didn't you? We read your briefing files. Your security was atrocious. You thought only of an external threat and even then did not take that seriously."

"Why didn't you shoot me?"

"You've no imagination," said the figure. It thrust the knife under Brogan's rib cage into the thoracic cavity and watched him drown in his own blood.

Another figure appeared in the doorway. "We got both of them."

"Any noise?" said the figure with the knife. He was pleased that it had all gone so smoothly. They had killed six armed men without a shot being fired against them. The remaining faculty and students had assembled for daily review. The entire college would be theirs in a few minutes. Kadar and his force would arrive to find the job already done. He'd be pleased. He rewarded success on the same scale that he punished failure. And if Dick had done well at the castle on the other end of the island...

"None," said the newcomer. "They both drank the tea we brought them."

"Five out of six with cyanide," said the figure with the knife. "Who called it right?" He was referring to the pool they had organized among themselves. There were ten Irish pounds riding on the result.

"I did," said the figure with the Ingram.

Brogan's death throes provided a background to their conversation. His head and torso rose from the ground, and blood gushed from his mouth as he died. The body collapsed.

"Let's take them," said the one with the knife. He removed Brogan's locker key and opened up the arms locker. He loaded an Uzi and put spare clips in his pockets.

* * * * *

Fitzduane's Castle — 1746 hours

Fitzduane — no sexist by most standards — had always had the strongest objections to women being put on the firing line. Seeing dead women in a dozen wars, often leaving orphaned children sometimes still being suckled, had hardened these views. In this case, however, more than a third of his little force was female, and that element was not prepared to be placed in a cellar out of danger. He also had to admit that like it or not, he need the extra manpower: the word personpower stuck in his throat.

He compromised on the basis of training and experience. He wasn't entirely happy with the result. Katia Maurer was no problem. As a nurse she had a clear role, and a medical facility was established in one of the empty storerooms in the tunnel complex. The Bear was visibly relieved. Oona was the logical person to take charge of the meals. She know the castle and the location of all the supplies. She got organized in the kitchens off the great hall.

The Israeli girl, Judith Newman, shot so competently in the target practice they had arranged in the main tunnel (wearing earplugs against the deafening noise), and it was so clear that she wanted a combat role — and had the experience to back it up — that he assigned her along with Murrough, de Guevain, Andreas von Graffenlaub, and Henssen to go with him to Draker.

That left Etan, inexperienced but determined to fight if she had to. The only consoling fact was that under the Bear's expert eye, she had begun to shoot well. Despite the need for combatants, Fitzduane had tried to dissuade her from active involvement. He had pulled her away from the others and had closed the door of his study, and for a few intense minutes he had argued with her. She had waited until he finished, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him gently. Then she had looked into his eyes. "This isn't the Congo," she had said. "I'm not Anne-Marie. It's going to be all right."

Fitzduane had started at the mention of his dead wife's name, and then his arms had tightened around her and he had hugged her to him and held her until called away.

Apart from Tommy Keane, who had relieved Murrough on the fighting platform, the entire party had assembled in the bawn. Everyone's clothes reeked of burned propellant and gun oil from target practice in the tunnel — Fitzduane wanted the existence of their weapons to remain a surprise — and everyone, including Katia Maurer and Oona, he noticed, was armed. He had made them all look at Dick Noble's body. He could see from their expressions that the reality of their predicament was beginning to sink home.

"I don't like splitting our group," said Fitzduane, "but our phones are down and our long-distance radio has been destroyed, and we've got to try to do something about those kids. Several of us here have already had experience of the opposition we're up against, and they are not the kind of people you negotiate with. They don't bluff; they kill. If we don't get to the students before they do, there will be no good ending.

"Draker is too big and sprawling; it's indefensible. My intention now is to head over there and bring the kids and the few faculty members back to the castle, and then hole up until help comes. We can hold out here for an adequate time — that's what a castle is all about — and it's a plan I've already discussed with Colonel Kilmara of the Rangers.

"I don't know what the Hangman's plan is, but I would guess his objective is a mass kidnap for money. Intelligence reports indicate that he has trained a force of seventy or so, and I'd venture that most of them are going to land from that cattle boat at the headland. Some may have come overland as well, I don't know. And there may be a plane involved in this thing. The point is that we are going to be pitted against a superior force with superior training and firepower. That means we don't fuck around. I want no heroics or thoughts about the Geneva Convention. This isn't war. It’s a fight for survival. We kill or we get killed — and no prisoners unless I order it. We can't afford the manpower to guard them.

"If possible, I'm not going to use the students in this fight. I'm sure some of them have weapons training, but unfortunately we don't know who we can trust, as our recent tragedy so clearly shows. Besides, whether they are old enough to vote or whatever, I'm fed up with seeing kids who've had no chance to live getting killed. Keep one thing in mind: no strange faces. If the face isn't one of ours, shoot it. If you've any questions, they'll have to wait. Get to your posts. Draker team, mount up. Let's get the fuck out of here."

Fitzduane and de Guevain got into the front of the saboteurs' station wagon, and the other four members of the group squeezed themselves flat in the back. Etan blew Fitzduane a kiss through the window. He almost seemed, she couldn't help noticing, to be smiling. The son of a bitch, she thought. Of course, danger is what this man is used to; putting himself in harm's way is what he does. War is what he is good at.

How will I react to danger? She wondered. The next few hours would tell. The image of the death of red-haired Anne-Marie Fitzduane in the Congo nearly two decades earlier came to her, and it was as clear as if she had been there. Death by decapitation. She imagined the blade into her flesh and the shock and the agony and her blood fountaining, and she felt sick with fear and horror. Would this be her fate? She caressed the wooden stock of the Mauser she had been issued and resolved that it would not. She felt the adrenaline flow, and with it, courage.