Rules of The Hunt

9

Connemara RegionalHospital

February 1

Fitzduane looked at his visitor with affection.

He was very, very fond of the Bernese detective.

The Bear had slimmed a little after he had met Katia — his first wife had died in a traffic accident — but had now reverted to his normal shape. Fitzduane was relieved. Katia was a lovely woman and meant well, but the Bear was not really destined by nature to be lean and mean and to dine off bean sprouts. He was kind of big — well, closer to massive in truth — and round and gruff and had a heart of gold. And he was a good friend. Fitzduane valued his friends.

The Bear gave him a hug — a gentle hug. Fitzduane was not wearing his Skunkworks T-shirt that day, so the visible bandages inspired caution. Even so, a ‘gentle’ hug from the Bear caused him to wince slightly. The main hazard was the Bear's shoulder holster. It contained a very large lump of metal.

"Men don't hug in Ireland," said Fitzduane, who enjoyed the cultural contrasts between the Swiss and the Irish. We're not really a very touchy-feely nation. It's something to do with the church and sex and guilt, I think. What's the hardware?"

The Bear removed the largest automatic pistol Fitzduane had ever seen. "Everybody in Europe tends to use 9mm because that is what everybody uses. The manufacturers are tooled up for it. The ammunition is relatively cheap because of economies of scale. The round is easy to shoot because it has a good range and a nice, flat trajectory and doesn't kick like your mother-in-law. And you can fit fifteen rounds or more in a magazine, so you can generate some serious firepower. Everybody's happy.

"But the problem with the 9mm," he continued, "is that it lacks stopping power. Analysis of actual gunfights in the States shows that a hit on a vital spot puts the victim out of action only about fifty percent of the time where 9mm is used, as opposed to over ninety percent when a .45 is involved."

Fitzduane was beginning to think that this conversation was somewhat lacking in tact. He remembered that he had only recently been shot. Still, the subject seemed to be doing the Bear some good. "So use a .45," he said helpfully.

"Aha!" said the Bear triumphantly, "so one might think. But..." He paused.

"But?" said Fitzduane.

"But..." said the Bear. He paused again.

Fitzduane felt as if he was in a slow tennis match and should be flicking his head from side to side to watch the shots. "But?" he said again. He couldn't resist it.

"What that English expression about the importance of detail?" said the Bear.

It occurred to Fitzduane that if any nation should know about detail, it was the Swiss. "The devil is in the detail," he said.

"Exactly," said the Bear. He raised his huge automatic in demonstration.

A nurse came in carrying a kidney basin containing something unpleasant. Fitzduane had developed a profound dislike of kidney basins. Either he was being sick into one or a syringe was being transported in the damn thing, with some part of his anatomy as its destination. He was generally off needles. And kidney basins were what they used, he had been told, to carry away bits of him that had been cut out. These were not nice thoughts.

The nurse screamed and dropped the tray.

The Bear ignored her. "The problem with the .45," he said, "is that it hasn't got the range or the penetrating power. It is a big bullet with loads of shock value, but it doesn't have the velocity."

The door smashed open. A Ranger stood there with an Aug Steyr automatic rifle in his hands. The Bear ignored him, too.

Fitzduane suddenly noticed that he was in the line of fire. It would be ridiculous to be killed by some gung-ho idiot in the higher purpose of saving his life. Also, he had been shot up enough for one year.

"DON'T FUCKING WELL SHOOT!" he shouted.

"WHY THE FUCK NOT?" shouted the Ranger. Fitzduane looked at him in shock. He couldn't instantly think of a good reply. This was a ridiculous thing to have to debate. He just glared at the Ranger and then relaxed. The man was grinning. It was Grady, who knew the Bear.

"So," said the Bear triumphantly, "I looked for a cartridge which would combine the strengths of the 9mm and the .45 without the disadvantages. I wanted stopping power, flat trajectory, good penetration, range, and sheer shootability. I wanted a nice big magazine."

He released the magazine from his weapon. "It's a 10mm Desert Eagle. Trust the Israelis to know their weapons."

It was then he noticed the Calico in its holster clipped to Fitzduane's bed. "What's that?" he said. Fitzduane showed him.

"And the caliber?" said the Bear.

"I don't want to steal your thunder," said Fitzduane, who couldn’t help grinning. "10mm."

"Oh," said the Bear, a little sadly.

* * * * *

Kathleen, exhausted from the night shift and the shock of her ordeal, was dozing when the front doorbell rang.

She awoke feeling sick and disoriented, but associating the familiar sound with help, with good news, with some positive development. Visitors were a regular feature of the Fleming household. Neighbors dropping in for a cup of tea were always welcome. Traditional Irish hospitality had not been eroded by television. In fact, they had no television. This was not from some deeply felt conviction. It was merely that the nearby mountains made adequate TV reception impossible.

The chair she sat on and the carpet were saturated and sticky with drying blood. The body on the floor, half covered with a newspaper, was her father. Shock hit her again, and she started to retch.

"Shut up, you cow, if you know what's good for you," said the terrorist by the window.

There was the sound of animated conversation from the hall, which continued for several minutes. Then the door opened and the leader, Paddy, came in. He moved to one side and gestured to others behind him to enter.

Two other men entered the room, and then a figure who looked singularly out of place. Unlike the others, who looked Irish and were dressed in casual clothes, the man standing in the doorway was smartly dressed in a dark suit and white shirt with a club tie. His shoes were highly polished. And he was Asian, Chinese or Japanese.

"This is the nurse?" he said.

"The very same," said McGonigal.

"And you are satisfied with her information?" said the Japanese. His accent was pronounced, but he spoke clearly.

McGonigal smiled. "Oh yes," he said. "The wee girl saw reason" — he reached out and grabbed Kathleen's mother and again the knife was in his hand — "and there's still one blood relation to go." Kathleen swallowed a scream. "You told us everything, didn't you?"

Kathleen nodded weakly.

"And the phone call?" said the Japanese.

"She answered it," said McGonigal, "with me listening in. It was the matron inquiring could she do day shift next week."

Kathleen swallowed the bile in her throat and then spoke hesitantly. "We work a rota system. Sometimes someone is sick or needs time off and the matron makes the arrangements."

The Japanese looked at her for a little time before speaking again. Something about the phone call bothered him. "What time was the call?" he said to McGonigal.

"Twenty past nine, something like that," answered McGonigal. "Why? I heard the whole conversation. There was nothing to it. It was just as the girl said."

The Japanese was still staring intently at Kathleen. He was about to decide whether the operation went ahead or not, and this time he was going with the assault team. He didn't want to put his life on the line if the operation was blown. At the same time, the assignment must be completed. It was a matter of duty.

"It's a small hospital, the woman had just come off night shift," said the Japanese. "The matron would know that and would expect her to be asleep at the time she called." He slapped Kathleen hard across the face. "Is that not so? So why did she call?"

Kathleen spat blood. It was clear the bastard had never worked in a hospital, did not understand the pressures, the need to perform a task now. It was clear he did not know her matron. Inside herself, she smiled. He was a clever little sod, but he was on the wrong track.

"Losing sleep is pretty normal in our business," she said. "People don't get ill on just a nine-to-five basis."

"The caller — the matron — apologized when she called," said McGonigal. "She said that she had actually rung up to leave a message with the woman's mother. Our lady friend here" — he indicated Kathleen — "actually said very little. Just ‘it doesn't matter’ and ‘yes’ and a couple of phrases like that. Of course, she sounded tired, but then she would, wouldn't she? She was just off duty and games with her boyfriend." He grinned lasciviously at Kathleen.

Sasada was torn between the logic of what had been said and his instincts. In truth, nothing could be more normal than a brief phone call about a rota change, yet he would have felt much happier if this woman had never been allowed near the phone at all. Despite her rough handling and the killing of her father in front of her and the manifest shock that this had induced, there was still the faintest spark of defiance in her eyes. This was a strong, resourceful woman. Could she somehow have managed to warn the hospital?

"Why did you allow this person" — he pointed at Kathleen — "near the phone at all?" he said to McGonigal. He needed time to think.

McGonigal shrugged. "I've been through this hostage business before," he said. "The thing is to keep things as normal as possible from an outsider's perspective. Anybody who knows these people would have expected the phone to be answered. Secondly, I didn't want some neighbor calling round because she couldn't get through."

He looked squarely at the Japanese. "Anyway, man, my hide is on the line, too, and I'm telling you — she didn't say anything. There was no keyword, no password, no unusual phrase. I'm sure of it." His northern accent became more pronounced as he emphasized his words. There was a noticeable increase in tension in the room.

"Why didn't you use the mother?" said Sasada, indicating Mary Fleming, who sat motionless on the sofa, her face a blank, her eyes unfocused.

"Jaysus, Sasada, just look at her," said McGonigal. "She would have sounded like shit on the phone. There was no way she could have come across normal."

Sasada was convinced by McGonigal's denial. The reality of the situation was that the IRAP were vastly more experienced at this kind of thing than he was. The latest wave of IRA violence had been operating without a break for the best part of a generation. The younger members had grown up in a culture of violence. They had never known anything else. They learned about the techniques of terrorism in much the same way as the young in a normal society learned to drive.

He drew a knife from under his coat. Its blade was very slightly curved and the tip was angled. The shape, though much smaller, was very like that of a Japanese sword.

He is going to kill me, thought Kathleen. Sasada: I now know his name: I know what he looks like; I can identify them all. There is no way that they will let us live. A terrible sadness and feeling of regret swept over her, so strong that it dominated even her fear.

She thought of all the things in life she had not done and wanted to do. She thought of Fitzduane and his smile and his injured body that she so wanted to love and be loved by. She thought of her mother, who would now need her more than ever. She thought of the pain of dying at the hands of these terrible people, and suddenly felt weak with terror. She closed her eyes to try to mask her fear. If she was going to die, it would be with some dignity.

She felt the knife at her throat and then the warm trickle of her own blood.

* * * * *

Studying a map in one of the empty private rooms on Fitzduane's floor, Kilmara silently cursed the British and their road-building sins of the past centuries — most of their bloody little roads were narrow, winding things, but there were too many of them to block — and reviewed his options.

He was in an isolated hospital in an isolated part of the country with a target that was undesirable to move, and no safer location to move him to anyway. His defensive manpower was decidedly limited, particularly if unarmed police were factored out. There were too many roads and back lanes to block. He did not know how and when the opposition would strike.

He did not actually know anything. He suspected a great deal. Still, in the counterterrorism business you mostly worked with bits and pieces. You rarely had the luxury of complete intelligence. If you fucked up, well, you fucked up. People might die, but the world went on. One had to be philosophical. People killing each other was not globally threatening, like destroying the ozone layer. It was actually quite normal. But it was inconvenient for those involved.

Kilmara did not like to involve Fitzduane, who was supposed to be recovering from serious wounds and resting, but it was hard to deny that he had a vested interest in the outcome of what was happening. Also, Hugo had an excellent tactical sense. He had fought his own wars and covered others for twenty years. He had seen it done right and he had seen it done wrong, and he had learned from this experience in a way few people did.

As he reentered Fitzduane's room, Kilmara looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after ten in the morning. Fitzduane was being examined by a doctor and two nurses, and the Ranger general was peremptorily asked to wait outside. Ten minutes later, the doctor emerged.

Kilmara tried to enter but was again shooed away by the nurses. Eventually, they emerged. One held a partially covered kidney basin containing something bloodstained. The other held a similar basin in which there was a syringe.

It crossed his mind that Fitzduane, though now lucid and apparently recovering, was still a very sick man. He hesitated by the door. It then occurred to him that his friend could be a very dead man if they didn’t come up with something pretty soon.

Fitzduane was propped up in his amazing new bed, eyes closed, looking disconcertingly pale. He had looked much better before his recent visit by the medical team. His bed, on the other hand, was beautifully made. The corners were a joy to contemplate. The sheets were crisp and smelled of starch. The blankets — taut, tucked, and without blemish — would have made a marine drill instructor's lip tremble.

Fitzduane opened his eyes. He no longer looked dead, which was reassuring. "Anything new?"

"We've had more intel in," said Kilmara. He hesitated.

"Want to tell me about it?" said Fitzduane.

"I'm not overburdened with good news," said Kilmara. "You stand a good chance of being cut off in your bullet-ridden prime."

"As in killed?" said Fitzduane with a faint smile. "These people are obsessive."

"I would guess that to be the intention," said Kilmara. "I'd like to move you, but where?"

"Tell all," said Fitzduane, and there was no humor in his voice."

"We heard a rumor a day or so ago that the IRAP were in the area. No big deal, though these are nasty people. Early this morning the guards picked up two of their local sympathizers with a scanner. They haven't talked yet, but a list of keywords was found on them — and you feature. Add to that, there is Kathleen. It's a standard ploy to suborn someone from the inside — the IRA have been doing it for years — so I arranged for all staff who entered this zone to ring in with a keyword when they went home and before they came back on duty. And Kathleen didn't ring this morning."

"You didn't tell me about this," said Fitzduane.

"You were supposed to be kept free of hassle," said Kilmara. "It was a procedure, nothing more. I didn't want you worrying about things you could do fuck-all about."

"Kathleen could have forgotten," said Fitzduane.

"People don't forget these things," said Kilmara. "This is life-and-death stuff, and I know how to get their attention. And they are reminded every time they go off duty. Anyway, we made a check call. She was very subdued — and no keyword."

"So that's how you knew," said Fitzduane.

Kilmara nodded. "Well, we still don't know. Strong suspicion is the phrase."

"Shit," said Fitzduane.

"The IRAP don't have anything against you?" said Kilmara.

"Not that I know," said Fitzduane. "I have never run across them before in any shape or form, and I steer well clear of the North."

Kilmara slid a piece of fax paper across to Fitzduane. "I faxed Dublin an hour ago and this came back." The paper showed a Japanese getting into a taxi outside a familiar-looking Dublin hotel.

"You're losing me," said Fitzduane.

"This is a small country and an island," said Kilmara, "with a small homogenous population and a terrorist problem right on our doorstep. Accordingly, the security services can — and do — watch the comings and goings of our visitors fairly closely, and we keep a particularly keen eye on the big hotels."

Fitzduane nodded. Terrorism was normally associated with ideology, but it was surprising how often money entered the picture. Many terrorists liked to live well, arguing that since they put their lives on the line they deserved a good standard of living. A further justification for frequenting large expensive hotels was their supposed anonymity. In point of fact, these patterns of behavior allowed the security forces to focus closely on such well-frequented habitats.

Luxury hotels were particularly easy to monitor. They wanted to keep on the right side of the authorities. Rooms could be bugged, the telephone system could be tapped, and television cameras could be emplaced with relative ease. Finally, the reception staff were easy to reach an accommodation with. And hotel staff notice things. They are trained to. That is how they respond immediately to a guest's needs and it is how they ensure that they are well-tipped. And the security services tipped even better for the right information.

"A man with a Northern accent inquired at the Burlington reception for one of their guests, a Japanese. The accent rang bells and the combination was sufficiently unusual to get security to photograph the Asian. The Northerner was subsequently identified as Paddy McGonigal, the leader of the IRAP. The Japanese is a guy calling himself Sasada. He is actually a member of — guess who? Our old friends, Yaibo."

Fitzduane was silent, trying to absorb these latest developments. The thought of Kathleen's plight made him feel helpless and guilty. Physically, he felt weaker than normal. The doctor had lectured him on taking it easier and had not been happy with his self-imposed work routine. He spoke again to Kilmara. "Any news of the Bear?" he said.

"Nothing," said Kilmara. "And he's out of radio contact, thanks to these hills. He's got one armed detective with him and two unarmed uniformed cops. He'll do a reconnaissance. If it's a hostage situation, he won't be able to do much more except contain the situation until reinforcements arrive. Unfortunately, that's not going to be for some time."

"How long?" said Fitzduane.

"Two to three hours at least," said Kilmara, "possibly longer. And then only after we're sure they are needed. The problem is, the serious crime boys have a major operation on and the nearest army unit is tied-up with a search on the border. There was a shooting there last night. We're not high on the list of priorities. We've got suspicion. They are dealing with ongoing operations."

Resources were a constant problem for the Irish security services. The mainly unarmed police and army together totaled not much more than twenty thousand, and only a small percentage of these were equipped to deal with heavily armed terrorists. Not unnaturally, they were concentrated in centers of population and likely trouble spots, like the border. The poor quality of the road system hindered fast vehicle deployment. Helicopters, the obvious solution, were in chronically short supply. And to further exacerbate the helicopter shortage, they were often monopolized by politicians visiting their constituencies. In the real world, chasing votes got a higher priority than hunting down terrorists.

"If they've got Kathleen," said Fitzduane, "they are going to make her talk. That means they'll know where to hit, location and number of guards, weaponry — basically everything they need."

"They'll know everything Kathleen has seen," said Kilmara, "which is not quite the same thing. There are quite a few other precautions in place a layperson wouldn't notice."

"They'll know the essentials," said Fitzduane, who was thinking furiously, "and they'll do it quickly. And my guess is that they will blast their way in. This isn't a job for a rocket through the window. They will want to make sure, and heavy firepower is the IRAP style."

Kilmara was somewhat taken aback. The normal style in the North was to seize a hostage half a day or so ahead of the operation, and he had been thinking in terms of this pattern.

He now realized that Fitzduane could well be right. Allowing for time to make Kathleen talk and to put together a plan based on her information, travel, and reconnaissance, the hit could happen any minute. But they would almost certainly wait until doctors' rounds were over. On the other hand, if this was going to be an assault — a quick in-and-out — they wouldn’t want a clutter of visitors getting in the way, so it would happen before visiting hours.

They probably had an hour to prepare — at the most.

Kilmara picked Fitzduane's brain for a few more minutes and then briefed his small force. Certain changes were made. Fitzduane himself was moved from Room Number 2 on the left-hand side of the corridor to Room Number 4, the corner room on the right.

Kilmara did not fancy a firefight inside the hospital, but he had nowhere else to put Fitzduane that was secure, and at least the private wing had no other patients in it. He would have preferred to take any attackers in the parking lot, or otherwise away from the hospital, but he did not have enough manpower for that option and there was always enough activity directly outside the hospital to make civilian casualties likely.

The attackers could pick the time, the strength of their force, and the weapons, but Kilmara had picked the ground. It crossed his mind that a famous Irishman, the Duke of Wellington, had specialized in this tactic. He never fought a battle on terrain that he had not scouted in advance, and he never lost. However, sometimes he took truly terrible casualties.

Kilmara was confident his unit could survive an assault, but he was far from sanguine about the price.

* * * * *

For forty-five minutes, Sasada, knife in hand, interrogated Kathleen.

Over and over again, he asked the same questions, until the spark of defiance faded from her eyes and he was satisfied that she had told as much as she knew.

By the time he had finished, Kathleen's upper body was slippery with blood and she was deep in shock. Sasada had punctuated his questions with small, threatening cuts of his knife. The blade was so sharp, each cut in itself did not hurt at first, but the streaming blood and the terror he induced drove practically all hope from her mind.

McGonigal had watched the questioning with mounting irritation. He was operating away from his home turf, and he felt uneasy in strange surroundings. He was from the North of Ireland and knew the habits and methods of the British Army and the RUC — the Royal Ulster Constabulary. The gardai, the police of the Republic of Ireland, and the Irish Army were less of a known quantity.

When Sasada was finished, he ordered the two women tied and gagged and they were dumped unceremoniously on the floor of the front room. And extending table was pulled out from the wall, chairs put in place around it, and the detailed assault plan rehearsed.

McGonigal carried out the briefing. That he had survived on the run as long as he had was a tribute to his professionalism. Every attack was rehearsed meticulously, but he had trained all his men to improvise if things went wrong. He emphasized the importance of timing and of discipline. He restated the rules of fire and movement so that no one man advanced without cover from another. Ironically, he had served in the British Army as a young man. Subsequently, he had received further training in Libya and was an expert with Soviet-bloc weapons.

"It's a small hospital," he said, indicating the plans Sasada had brought, "rectangular in shape. The entrance is in the middle, with the reception desk to the left. Straight ahead, there is a staircase that runs up the center of the building. On each floor, the wards are to the left and to the right. The ward we want — what they call the private wing — is on the third floor on the left. The third floor is the top floor, although the stairs run up to a half-landing above it, where there are toilets and storerooms."

McGonigal used a knitting needle as a pointer. He had been reminded of his mother when he had found the knitting basket. She had loved to knit. She had been knitting when she had been killed by a stray bullet fired by British paratroops.

"The nurse says that since our target arrived, there is normally a uniformed garda or sometimes an armed detective at the foot of the stairs. He screens everybody going up and alerts another man on the third floor if anyone is heading up there. The uniformed cop isn't armed, but he does have a radio."

Jim, the black-haired terrorist, interrupted. "The fellow on the third floor?"

"The third floor — the private wing on the left — is guarded entirely by Rangers. They have installed what they call a control zone. There is a Ranger outside, then two sets of specially installed armored doors. The outside man checks you through one door. In the middle is a metal detector. If you are clear, then you go through the second set of doors, where there is the second Ranger. The doors are never opened together. Indeed, I gather they can't be. They have some kind of integrated electronic locks."

"Is there video surveillance?" said another terrorist.

McGonigal nodded. "There is a camera on the wall overlooking the outside of the two doors. It can see the length of the corridor to the top of the stairs. There were fire doors there, but they were removed by the Rangers. Anyone coming up the stairs or leaving the elevator, which is beside the stairs, is on camera from the moment he hits the third floor."

There was silence in the room, as each man evaluated what he had heard so far. Taking care of the policeman at reception would be no problem, but getting up three flights of stairs without alerting the armed Ranger at the top would not be so easy. Still, McGonigal normally had an idea. He was good at this kind of thing.

"Fire escapes?" said Jim. He found the building plans hard to read and would have preferred a recent photograph and a hand drawn sketch. He also had a suspicion of old plans. It was not the Irish way to be meticulous in record-keeping. Whatever the regulations, buildings were modified and amended without up-to-date plans necessarily being filed. He looked at the date on the drawing. These were not the originals but they were still forty years old. He wondered just how reliable they were.

McGonigal nodded. "There is one at either end of the corridor, and they both go right up to the flat roof. However, I think it is safe to assume that the Rangers will have done something with the one at their end."

The planning continued. Lying bound and temporarily ignored in the corner, Kathleen listened to an assault scenario being outlined which seemed impossible to stop. She despaired when weapons were pulled out of canvas bags and she saw what the terrorists had assembled. There were not just automatic rifles. These people had rocket launchers and grenades — overwhelming firepower.

She clung to one thought. She had told the terrorists everything except the correct number of Fitzduane's room. It was one lie she had stuck to despite everything, one lie that she had now convinced herself was the truth, so these bastards would not see through her. Fitzduane was in Room Number 2. She had persuaded them that he was really in Room Number 4. It was all she could do. It was pathetically little.

Shortly afterward, the terrorists, five in number including Sasada, departed, leaving behind just one man to guard them in case hostages were needed. If the attack went off as planned, there would be a phone call and, lying there helpless, Kathleen and her mother would be killed. They would no longer by needed and they could identify their attackers. Sasada had wanted to kill them earlier, but McGonigal had persuaded him to wait an extra hour or so.

It was not much time to live. Silently, Kathleen sobbed. Their guard, Eamon, he of the bald head, listened to the radio and occasionally glanced in their direction. An AK-47 rested on his knees, but he was planning to kill them with his knife. He had killed before, but never in that particular way.

He had thought of fucking the nurse, but, banged about and drenched in blood as she was, she was not an attractive sight. Still, this waiting was boring. He was supposed to remain in the front room with the blinds down, but that was ridiculous. What difference would it make if someone saw him — just a shape — from outside? And who would, in this remote bloody spot?

He stood up, stretched, and went into the kitchen to make himself some tea.

* * * * *

They used the Bear's car. It would be less likely to attract attention than the unmarked, but still well-known, police vehicles. The Bear's car had an Avis sticker, the badge of a tourist in that part of the world.

The series of little roads were narrow and winding, and the Bear was still adjusting to driving on the left-hand side of the road. The stone bridges were narrower still. He thought it quite likely that he would be having some paintwork on the local stonework before the day was out.

As they drove around one bend, about a mile from Kathleen's home, two cars came toward them from the opposite direction. The Bear saw the lead car only at the last minute and swerved desperately to avoid a collision.

His tires locked, and he skidded off the road and slid inexorably into a patch of boggy ground. When the car came to a rest, using the clutch and gears with care, he tried to drive out but in vain. Next he tried to get out, but his door was stuck.

The Bear felt very foolish and not a little angry with himself. He should have let one of the policemen drive. He was a good driver in Switzerland, but Ireland always took him a few days to get used to and the roads in the West were worse than most. His front passenger had slid out, and he followed by sliding across with some difficulty. The Bear was not built for confined spaces.

The four men tried for fifteen minutes to push the car back on the road, but their efforts were fruitless. The Bear fell in the mud several times as he pushed. None of their personal radios could pick up anything in the valley.

Finally, the four men set off for the Fleming house on foot. The Bear was not overly fond of walking, but could manage a brisk enough pace if it was absolutely essential. The armed detective brought up the rear of the little party. He had taken his Uzi out of the briefcase it was normally carried in and slung it over his shoulder.

After the men had walked for five minutes, the sky became black and menacing and suddenly it began to rain in sheets. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled in the distance.

The Bear's moustache began to droop. He was soaked from the thinning hair on his head to the well-designed tips of his expensive Bally shoes — a gift from Katia and not typical Bear apparel. Not for the first time, he thought the Irish climate was ridiculous.

He wondered why he was prepared to behave in a decidedly uncautious and un-Bernese way when in Fitzduane's ambit. Somehow, this damned Irishman brought out the adventurer in him.

The Bear straightened and began to whistle a Bernese marching song. Behind him, the two uniformed guards, who had had the sense, being local, to wear uniform caps, long raincoats, and Wellington boots, looked at each other and, when they had got the hang of it, joined in. Behind them, the detective checked the condom on the muzzle of his Uzi for effectiveness in conditions which might be deemed somewhat harsher than its normal design parameters — and beat time with his hand slapping against the receiver.

Soon, they were all marching in step. Ahead of them as they rounded a bend lay the Fleming bungalow.

There was a light on at the back of the house.