12
Fitzduane's Island, Ireland
May 28
After a couple of months at Duncleeve, eating well, resting, exercising, and enjoying the beauty of his island, Fitzduane was starting to feel human again and ready for the next phase. He was looking forward to the arrival of his friend.
Kilmara flew in and landed on the new airstrip that Fitzduane had arranged to have constructed down the center of the island.
The strip was short, but hard-surfaced and well-drained and entirely adequate for both the aircraft the Ranger general was using and the new machine that Fitzduane had purchased. Both were Pilatus Norman Britten Islanders, sturdy aerial workhorses capable of carrying up to nine passengers or over a ton of cargo.
Fitzduane ushered Kilmara into a black-painted Hughes helicopter and they took off immediately, as if leaving a hot landing zone.
"Sometimes it's useful having money," said Fitzduane over the intercom. "I got started on this on my second week in the hospital. Let me give you the rationale and the grand tour. As you'll see, I have made a few changes."
They flew over Fitzduane's castle. Fitzduane pointed. Kilmara could clearly see the saucer shape on top of the gatehouse.
"I like the isolation here," Fitzduane continued, "but this business has made me face up to the fact that being cut off from the world has its downside. You can do nothing today without communications, so I put in a satellite dish and a slew of extra lines. We can now talk to anyone anywhere in the world without fucking with the local exchange. And we can transfer computer data the same way, using high-speed modems.
"Next on the list was the requirement to get people and goods in and out fast. This machine and the Islander now mean we can link up with Dublin in less than two hours. In addition, both aircraft are fitted with FLIR modules and other observation equipment and can retransmit that information in real time to the ground."
The helicopter looped around Duncleeve. Kilmara looked at the FLIR screen as instructed. He could just make out a series of metal posts well spaced apart.
"Microwave fencing, TV cameras, and other similar goodies," said Fitzduane. "Surprisingly affordable technology these days. No system is foolproof, but the castle itself is now almost impossible to approach undetected, and we have radar to keep an eye on the sky."
The pilot banked and flew out to sea and followed the coastline to the sprawling Victorian Gothic castle that had been the school known as DrakerCollege. When Kilmara had last seen it, it had been boarded up. Now the windows glistened with fresh paint, the grounds had been tidied up, and there were cars parked in the courtyard. It, too, was surrounded with microwave fencing and other detection equipment.
"You've had your beady eye on the island for training the Rangers for some time," said Fitzduane. "Fair enough. You've got a deal. I need security and you need space. You can hang your hat in a wing of Draker and train to the seaward end of the island."
"What about rent?" asked Kilmara, ever conscious of budgets.
"Peppercorn — as long as you're running the Rangers. The whole deal is cancellable at a month's notice. I get to keep any improvements. You guys have to make good any damage. Oh, yes — and the whole island gets classified as a restricted military area. I want to do some building and I don't want to get delayed by filing planning applications."
He spoke into his intercom, and the helicopter banked and headed low and fast toward Duncleeve. "We'll talk later. Our visitors are due soon."
They landed in the courtyard of the castle. Shortly afterward, a Range Rover pulled up from the airstrip and out stepped three Japanese.
The first was Yoshokawa. The second, a short, distinguished-looking man, was a stranger to Fitzduane. The third visitor was an extremely attractive woman.
The second man was introduced as Saburo Enoke, the Deputy Superintendent-General of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police, better known to his men as the Spider.
The woman was a Miss Chifune Tanabu. She was just presenting her card when the heavens opened and sheeted rain poured down on the exposed group. They fled inside.
* * * * *
The Great Hall had been equipped for the briefing. Various audio-visual aids were in place. Pinboards on wheeled stands lined one wall.
Outside, the skies had darkened and rain lashed against the long glass wall. Fitzduane suggested sliding shut the shoji screens to keep out the beautiful but depressing picture, but his visitors smiled and shook their heads.
"We're used to the restricted landscape of an urban environment," said Yoshokawa. "The sight of the open sea is a rare pleasure — whatever the weather."
The assembled group took their seats, and Yoshokawa addressed the meeting.
"This is an exceptional gathering," he said, "because matters will be discussed here today which normally would never be communicated between parties of such differing backgrounds. National interests are involved, and no nation wishes to air its flaws and deficiencies in public. However, we are confident that we are dealing with people we can trust and that we have a mutual interest. I now defer to Enoke-san, the Deputy Superintendent-General."
The Spider stood up. He spoke excellent English with a strong American accent. He spoke slowly, and in such a manner that it was clear what he said was carefully considered.
"We have much to be proud of in Japan, but like every country, we have situations and elements which are an embarrassment. Naturally, we do not like to publicize those negative elements. Nonetheless, in this case it is clear that there are advantages in cooperation. It has taken us some time to reach this conclusion. I regret that it has taken so long, and I can assure you all there that there will be no delays in the future. We are committed to see this matter through to a successful conclusion.
"I will now give you back to General Kilmara. He has been conducting the investigation here and is best qualified to present our mutual findings. But before I do" — he bowed deeply to Fitzduane — "I would like to apologize on behalf of our countrymen for the injuries you have suffered, Fitzduane-san. Activities of this dissident minority are a source of great embarrassment to us. We are deeply sorry."
Fitzduane, sitting at the head of the table, acknowledged the bow and smiled. Privately, he was getting impatient. He already knew some of the pieces, but he wanted to know more. Above all he wanted content, not platitudes. He hoped his guests had flown twelve hours or more for more than a few elegantly delivered words of apology.
Kilmara stood up. "What I am about to say is a distillation of five month's work by my unit, with contributions from many different intelligence sources. And I should add that the most beneficial help has come from my friends in Japan. For reasons that will be obvious, this is a particularly sensitive investigation from their point of view. Not just security issues are involved, but also political matters at the highest level. It is therefore vital that confidentiality be maintained."
Kilmara turned toward Fitzduane.
"You know that the attack on you and Boots was by Yaibo, and that the second attack was also mounted by Yaibo, even though the actual assault team were members of IRAP. We have now ascertained a definite link between the Hangman and Yaibo going back over nearly a decade. In-depth interrogation of Sasada confirmed that your killing was to be a straightforward matter of revenge for the Hangman, and was expected to be achieved without difficulty.
"Sasada," continued Kilmara, "was not supposed to be directly involved with the hospital hit, but he exceeded his instructions. He was an overzealous company man. His conscientiousness may have been ill-advised, but it has proved fortunate for us. He has provided the first actual direct link between Yaibo and the Namaka keiretsu. The Namaka organization is headed by two brothers, Kei and Fumio. They have a security chief called Kitano. According to our friend Sasada, Kitano issued the actual order to have you killed, Hugo — but Kitano does nothing without the Namaka brothers' approval."
The Spider indicated that he wanted to contribute, so Kilmara gestured that he should proceed. The Japanese was fiercely proud, and he knew how difficult it was for them to discuss any of the internal workings of their system. Nevertheless, he could sense a growing climate of mutual trust in the room and he was delighted that the DSG was abandoning his formal posture.
The Spider explained the background of the Namakas and something about the Japanese political system and their influence within it. "For some time," he said, "we have suspected a link between the Namakas and Yaibo based upon an examination of who has benefitted from Yaibo killings. Nonetheless, all Yaibo activities did not directly benefit the Namakas and we never had any hard proof. Further, the Namakas had considerable political influence up to — and including — ministerial level. It was not, and still is not, possible to just pick them up and sweat the truth out of them. Though we have been tempted."
The DSG made no mention of the manner in which the Rangers' prisoner had been interrogated, which now made him unusable as a witness. He had been extremely angry when he had first heard, but he was a pragmatist. The interrogation had taken place within the context of an extreme situation. Sasada would undoubtedly have kept silent otherwise. As it was, though they had not evidence against the Namakas they could use in court, the Namaka link with Yaibo had moved beyond speculation.
Fitzduane was picking up a nuance. "The situation with Namaka has changed?" he said.
The DSG nodded. "Has changed and is changing," he said with a slight smile. "Specifically, Hodama, a kuromaku — and for decades the core of their political backing — has been murdered. Secondly, a change in public opinion is beginning. We have a sophisticated economy and we would like a political system to match. More and more ordinary Japanese are getting fed up with money politics and corruption. Groups are organizing and lobbying for change. It is becoming less easy for corrupt politicians and their allies to suppress investigations and operate with impunity."
"Who killed Hodama?" asked Fitzduane.
The DSG pursed his lips. "This is a confusing matter," he said. "The position of the Namakas has been weakened as a result of his death, but the evidence points to the Namakas themselves as having ordered his death. The theory is that Hodama was going to publicly abandon the Namakas because they may be in financial trouble — and he was killed as the lesser of two evils."
"You have conclusive evidence against the Namakas?" said Fitzduane.
"Unfortunately, we do not," said the DSG. "For some months, the case against them increased steadily, and then the investigation ground to a halt. Everything points toward the Namakas, but we can prove nothing. Our inquiries continue under an excellent man, but for all practical purposes we are..." He searched for the word:
"Stuck," offered Fitzduane.
"Quite so," said the DSG.
There was a long silence. Kilmara was tempted to speak, but he wanted to encourage the Japanese to continue if he would. It had been the devil of a job to win him over in the first place. Now he was anxious to get the Spider off the sidelines and operationally involved.
The next action would best be suggested by the Japanese. It must appear to be the Spider's idea. He would be committed to it better if he actually spoke the words. Of course, Fitzduane was going to go to Japan anyway, but politically things would go so much better if it appeared as a Japanese initiative. This was the strategy that Kilmara had sold to Fitzduane, and he and Yoshokawa had been working on from their respective ends for some time while Fitzduane got himself fully fit.
But would the Spider bite? Kilmara thought it likely, given that they had come this far, but there was the matter of human chemistry. If the Spider did not like the look of Fitzduane, all bets were off.
"Fitzduane-san," said the Spider cautiously, "when do you think you will be fully fit?"
Fitzduane laughed. "Pretty soon," he said. "I appreciate the concern, but why do you ask?"
The Spider looked at Kilmara and then at Yoshokawa. Kilmara smiled and Yoshokawa nodded.
The Spider drew himself up in his chair. "Fitzduane-san," he said, "we would like you to come to join our investigation in Japan. We would be deeply honored."
Bull's-eye! thought Kilmara. Then he nearly strangled Fitzduane. There was such a thing as playing too hard to get.
"I am equally honored by you invitation, Deputy Superintendent-General-san," said Fitzduane, "but I do not speak your language and I am not a trained investigator. I'm not sure I would be that much use to you." Internally, he had felt a rush of exhilaration as the Spider had spoken, because at last he would be taking the fight to the enemy, but Yoshokawa had advised that a certain modest reluctance would be in order.
Yoshokawa spoke. "The Deputy Superintendent-General knows your reputation," he said. "He knows what you did in Bern. He is familiar with the story of the Hangman. He knows how you saved the life of my son. He does not make this request lightly."
"The simple fact is," said Kilmara, "that despite all the precautions, we can't keep you safe here indefinitely. That being so, there is a lot to be said for seizing the initiative and taking the fight to the enemy. The DSG thinks your presence in Japan would force them to take some action which could open this whole thing up."
"Fitzduane-san," came a voice from the end of the table that had not been heard till now. "I hesitate to put this directly, but you have a choice. You can either remain a target or act as bait." Fitzduane looked at the speaker, Chifune Tanabu, with surprise and some amusement.
"Tanabu-san is, perhaps, a little blunt, but in essence she is quite correct," said the Spider. "You will be well-guarded, of course, by our best people. However, I should add that it will not be possible for you to carry a firearm. Even in the circumstances, that would be quite impermissible."
Fitzduane laughed so much, his leg started to hurt. He stood up to exercise and still could not stop laughing. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He had not felt this good in months. The Spider looked uncomfortable at first, but soon everyone was laughing.
When he had calmed down, Fitzduane produced some drinks and the meeting took a break. He thanked God — or whoever ran things — for having a decided sense of humor. It looked like he would be going manhunting with little more for protection than his ability to talk his way out of trouble. And he had the feeling that verbal diplomacy, in this context, was not going to be enough.
Still, he and Kilmara had anticipated this problem.
Fitzduane would not be permitted to carry a gun, but he would to be entirely without weapons.
* * * * *
Paris, France
May 28
Since Yaibo had not been completely successful at eliminating the organ-grinder, Reiko Oshima had decided to even the score with a monkey — a monkey which would surely draw Fitzduane out of his little fortress of an island, she thought with satisfaction.
Reiko Oshima's reputation rivaled that of Carlos the Jackal.
It was based not only on the savagery of Yaibo's actions, but also on her appearance. Her gentle beauty was a startling contrast to the mayhem she caused. She was a natural for the media. The sobriquet ‘Lethal Angel’ had soon followed.
Oshima's file was high in the pile of every counterterrorist organization and her photo was prominent on every passport control of significance, but she still managed to crisscross the globe with apparent ease. She was not just a leader and a planner. She was an activist who thrived on risk. She liked to get blood on her hands. And she knew that the media impact of an incident in which she was seen to have participated would be much enhanced.
The secret of Oshima's ability to travel unhindered by the security services lay in her distinctive appearance.
The authorities were looking for a beautiful Japanese woman in her late thirties. They were quite uninterested in a plump, bucktoothed matron with graying hair in her early fifties who was touring Europe with a party of other schoolteachers. They were quite used to Japanese tourists. The hard currency was welcome, and they gave little trouble. The tourists had a fondness, which they could afford to indulge given the strength of the yen, for European luxury goods like those of Gucci and Cardin. Further, despite the steady publicity given to the Japanese Red Army, Yaibo, and various right-wing organizations, the Japanese were not readily associated with terrorism. The typical terrorist in Europe was profiled as being from the Middle East or possibly Irish. Japanese were generally perceived — quite reasonably, given the law-abiding nature of most — as not a threat.
Oshima, plumped out around the middle, in sensible, flat, lace-up leather shoes, gray suitably applied to her hair, bespectacled and with her cheeks padded and her dental plate in place over her real teeth, entered France with her fellow teachers in a rented minibus and headed toward Paris.
No one gave them a second glance. In her opinion, mainland Europe, with a dense population in which to hide and internal borders coming down, was child's play to move around. Certain other countries, like island Britain, were not so easy. Israel, no matter what the disguise, was a problem. The Israelis did not pay lip service to counterterrorism. They were permanently at the sharp end. They took the tracking down of terrorists very seriously indeed.
The greatest difficulties Oshima and there team encountered as they entered Paris were driving and parking. They stayed on the periphique, the multilane ring-road that circled Paris, for one full circumference before managing to find the right exit, and emerged shaken, convinced that French drivers were a special group of maniacs. This judgment was vindicated as they sped through narrow side streets, and were hooted at by impatient Parisians every time they attempted to slow down. It was confirmed when they tired to find a place to park.
As a safe haven, Libya had its merits, thought the Lethal Angel, but with its limited traffic and vast open spaces, it was poor training for the cut and thrust of congested mainland Europe.
The group consoled themselves with the prospect of a good French meal. Unfortunately, they arrived at that hour in the evening when every Parisian simultaneously decides to eat and will brook no interference from amateurs like foreigners. All the restaurants they tried were full. After the eighth indifferent shrug of rejection, they dined on Big Macs, fries, and chocolate milk shakes at McDonald's.
The food reminded them of Tokyo.
* * * * *
Paris, France
May 29
The salle d'armes had been established in the late sixteenth century — about the time that dueling with a thin blade had become a serious pastime in France — and had continued to be well-patronized, with only a few brief interruptions, since that time.
During the revolution, since skill with a sword was considered to be an aristocratic attribute, the building had temporarily become a brothel. During the Nazi occupation, it had been an officers' club. Those interludes apart, the salle had operated continuously for roughly four hundred years as a place where one human being learned to kill or defeat another human being with a long piece of pointed steel.
Christian de Guevain considered the salle a fine monument to the human condition.
The building was in the fashionable 16th Arrondissement, conveniently situated near the Bosi de Vincennes military barracks, and was no more than a few minutes from his bank, his mistress, his home, and his favorite restaurant, de Guevain could work, fence, sport, eat well, and be back in time to put the kids to bed and watch TV with his wife, if he was so inclined, without straining himself excessively. He had, he considered, a most civilized existence.
He had taken Fitzduane's cautionary words to heart, though without enthusiasm. His black Citroën was armored and was driven by an armed bodyguard. A second bodyguard sat in the front passenger seat. The windows were tinted to hinder recognition. He switched cars and routes regularly. He no longer fenced at a time when the salle was relatively open. Now he fenced outside normal hours with only one or two chosen opponents, and arrangements were made in advance under conditions of some secrecy.
Nonetheless, there were patterns in his life. Three or four times a week — although there was some variation as to day and time — de Guevain could be found in the salle. He was determined to hone his skill so that he could defeat Fitzduane. de Guevain had mastered the longbow and was already way superior to the Irishman. Now he was determined to do the same with the sword. He was fiercely competitive by nature. And besides, he enjoyed the sheer speed and elegance of the sport, and the exhilaration of the exercise.
The black Citroën entered the Rue Jarnac and stopped outside the fray cut-stone façade of the salle. The passenger bodyguard got out and punched a code into the digital lock. The double doors opened and the Citroën entered the courtyard inside. Behind them, the heavy doors locked shut. de Guevain felt a sense of reassurance. He was secure in familiar territory. Followed by his bodyguards, he bounded up the worn stone stairs to the salle at the top. The long room had a wood block floor and arched ceiling. The walls were lined with historic weapons and old engravings. The names of the masters were inscribed in a frieze that ran around the top of the paneling. To de Guevain, the room was the essence of his France: a sense of purpose, élan, glory, the strength of tradition, the reassurance of history, the continuity of privilege, a manifestation of power.
The huge room was empty. "Make yourself at home, boys," said de Guevain. "I'm going to change." He headed for the locker room where Chappuy would be suiting up. Pierre, one of the bodyguards, moved to check the locker room, but de Guevain waved him aside impatiently. Vincent, his partner, smiled and took a seat. He was less intrusive.
Sometimes this security business could get out of hand, thought de Guevain. He was of two minds whether to continue it at all. He did not particularly enjoy conducting all his affairs under close scrutiny. God alone knew what would turn up in some glossy magazine in the years ahead. "The Private Life of a Paris Banker — by his bodyguard." He shuddered. France had privacy laws, but the rest of the continent was full of media that loved that kind of thing.
The locker room, a bright white-painted space divided into three aisles by rows of tall wooden lockers dating from an earlier century, had a tiled floor and a high beamed ceiling. He could hear the sound of dripping as he entered. Someone had obviously not turned a shower off. And yet the sound seemed closer.
He could smell something. His skin prickled. He would never forget that odor. He had first encountered it as a young man a quarter of a century earlier. It brought him back to Algeria, to the paratroops, to the broken bodies of the freshly dead. It reminded him of the slaughter on Fitzduane's island.
Blood. Death, Recent death.
Help was at hand, but his mouth was suddenly completely dry. Something caught his eye. He looked up. A thin braided climber's rope hung down from one of the beams. It was taut, as if something was suspended from it. He could not see what it was, because the rope terminated in the next aisle.
de Guevain licked his lips as best he could. As if compelled, he walked slowly down his aisle of lockers and turned into the aisle where the rope hung. He could hear a coughing sound from the salle, but his mind was focused on what he was about to see.
A huge irregular pool of blood stained the tiles and leached under the lockers. A bloody pile of human matter was at its center and snaked upward. de Guevain's eye followed it. The naked corpse of his fencing partner, Chappuy, was suspended upside down from the rope. The flesh was completely white, virtually drained of blood. The body had been cut open with one blow from the groin to the throat. Entrails hung to the ground.
de Guevain was momentarily numb with shock and fear. He gave a cry of desperation and horror, more animal than human, and ran from the locker room into the salle.
The action was futile. His bodyguards, Pierre and Vincent, the marks of bullet perforations from automatic-weapons fire clearly visible, lay sprawled in bloody heaps.
He was facing a semicircle of five people. Four held silenced submachine guns. At the apex was a woman, a very beautiful Japanese woman.
She held a sword.
* * * * *
Fitzduane's Island, Ireland
May 29
Kathleen was in Boots's room in the Keep when she heard the faint cry, but at first did not know what to make of it and then dismissed it.
It was not repeated, and the mind sometimes played tricks in an old house when you were tired. A storm was raging outside and the wind off the sea whistled around the old stonework, and with such a backdrop, sometimes the cry of an owl or some other night creature sounded eerily human.
It was after midnight and all the guests had retired, so now she was going about the final business of the house, checking Boots. She enjoyed Boots and they had become very close. Asleep, he looked adorable. His bed was dry. He was well-covered. All was in order.
There was an unusual draft on the stairs, and the hangings over the double-glazed arrow slits blew in the breeze and the air was cold and chill. Methodically, she checked each of the slim windows, but all were closed. She had already checked the external doors, but she verified it again by looking at the security alarm repeater.
That left only the door to the fighting platform on the roof.
As she passed Fitzduane's room, she noticed his door was open and his room empty. A coil of fax papers lay on the floor by the doorway. She picked it up to put it somewhere where it would not be trodden on, and glanced at it as she did so. And her blood ran cold.
She read on. There was a handwritten note from Kilmara and it had clearly been sent immediately following a telephone conversation between the two men. It was a translation of a French police report, and photographs had been faxed with the text. The photographs had been transmitted at high resolution, and though they were in black and white and the quality was far from perfect, the essential details were all too apparent. Nausea swept over her and she felt bile rise in her throat. The papers fell from her hand, and she collapsed against the ancient oak doorway and retched.
Suddenly, the significance of that earlier cry hit home, and, near panic, she turned and ran up the worn stone stairs.
Thick heavy ice-cold rain driven by wind gusting over sixty miles an hour hit her as she emerged onto the fighting platform. Instantly, she was soaked and chilled to the bone, and temporarily blinded as her hair was driven across her eyes.
She had a sense of complete disorientation as the horror of what she had read combined with her fatigue and the violence of the storm.
She reeled backwards, confused and in shock, and then felt a violent blow against her lower back as she smashed into the battlements. A gust or rain-sodden wind hit her again and she scrabbled desperately for a handhold, suddenly conscious of where she was and the danger of being swept through the battlement crenellations to fall onto the rocks and heaving sea below.
The granite fortifications were ice cold and slippery to her hands, but she gained enough purchase to pull herself upright and regain her balance.
She swept her hair out of her eyes. She tried to shout for Fitzduane, but her cry was lost in the fury of the storm. Wind, sea, thunder, and rain combined in a terrifying cacophony.
The darkness was near absolute. Only a dim shaft of light from the stairway provided any illumination, and that was obscured by the rain and lost in the blackness of the night.
Fitzduane was there. He must be. This was where he liked to come to think, she knew, even in weather as vile as this. This is where he came to watch the sunrise and the sunsets and just to feel the force of the elements. Duncleeve and this wild land were deep in his blood.
She had asked him about it and he had tried to explain, but it was clear that words alone only hinted at what he felt.
"It's impossible to describe," he had said, with a slight smile. "I like the sheer aggression of the wind, violent and exhilarating at the same time, and the sting of the spray and smell of iodine from the sea, and the sense of being as one with all this incredible beautiful energy. And it's part of my childhood and part of what I am. And that is really all I can say."
He was an impossible man, with the spirit of an adventurer and the soul of a poet. And that was a terrifying combination in a world that was reckless with life.
But she loved him. Foolish and impossible though it was, she loved him. And that carried a burden. It was almost certainly futile, but she was responsible for this man. For the time she had, she would do what she could. Everything she could.
This is where he would come if he was deeply troubled, hurt, grieving, desperate... as he would be, because Christian de Guevain was dead and he was a friend and his death was horrible. Truly, a thing of horror.
And yet there was nothing.
The wind gusted again, this time from a different direction, and there was a crash as the door was blown shut.
Now the blackness of the night was absolute.
Kathleen went down on one knee, her head bowed, her fists clenched, as she fought panic and tried consciously to assess the situation.
It was ridiculous. She had no reason to be afraid, she told herself. Darkness in itself posed no danger, and she had been here literally dozens of times. It was not some strange cellar reeking of menace. This was no more than the flat roof, the fighting platform, of Fitzduane's Castle, and should be safe and familiar.
But she could not see. She was blind. And the storm was of an intensity that could blow her over the edge of the platform if she did not take care.
Sheer terror coursed through her as a hard, wet, snakelike body lashed at her and wrapped itself around her neck. She rose to her feet and her hands scrabbled at her throat as she fought to free herself.
A gust of wind found her and blew her backwards, and the grip on her throat tightened and she was choking.
Suddenly, her fingertips told her what her attacker was, and relief coursed through her a as she unwound the familiar rope. One end of the flagpole line had worked loose and, whipped by the wind, had caught her as she stood. Every morning, the Fitzduane standard was hoist over the castle, and every evening, at sunset, it was lowered. Boots loved the practice, and many times she had helped him with the rope. The texture was familiar, and now that she realized what it was, it was reassuring.
She could not see, but she could feel and she could think.
She used the rope to guide herself to the flagpole mounted in one corner of the platform. She could feel the painted wood of the pole and the metal of the lightning conductor that ran up one side. Now she could orient herself. Better yet, her fingers touched the casing of the external floodlight switches.
She pulled the handles down one after another, neither remembering nor caring which was the right switch for the roof alone, and the mind-numbing blackness was erased as if a curtain had been whipped aside, and within seconds the whole castle was lit up. The battlements were silhouetted. The courtyard below was a pool of light.
It was a sight from the ancient myths. The sheets of gusting rain twisting and turning made the glowing castle seem to float and shimmer. It was unreal, something from a dream.
Fitzduane stood on the other side of the platform, blinking in the sudden light as if woken from a daze. He was wearing only indoor clothing and was completely soaked.
Kathleen ran across to him and took him in her arms. His body was trembling and icy cold, and on his face was a look of utter despair.
She felt strong and certain. She had seen this man come from the edge of death through weeks of pain, and he had always endured with courage. Never before had there been even a hint of despair. But now he had been pushed beyond endurance and he needed help as never before. And she was there.
She led him off the platform and closed the heavy door behind her, and the violence of the storm was immediately muted.
She took him to his bedroom below and stripped off their clothes and stood with him in a hot shower, holding him as some warmth came back into their bodies. Then she put him into bed and lit a log fire in the old stone fireplace and soon the room was warm. But still he trembled, despite the heat of the room and the comforting weight of the bedclothes. And naked she took him into her arms and held his face to her breasts as if he were a young child. And he cried. And Kathleen cried with him until they slept.
* * * * *
Kathleen woke near dawn. The blazing log fire had died down but still glowed. Fitzduane slept in her arms, but he was restless.
She stroked him, massaging his back gently and then caressing down to his thighs. Soon she felt him hardening and she reached down and took him in her hand, parted her thighs, and bent her knees and slid him into her. She was warm and wet, and her need was total.
Fitzduane awoke with a feeling of extraordinary sensuality suffusing him. Long legs gripped him. Soft, firm breasts cushioned him. Her hands touched him in the most intimate places. He could feel her breath, and it was sweet.
His lips found Kathleen's and their tongues met and he could feel her nipples hard against him. At first his thrusts were slow and regular, but then her intensity beneath him increased and her tongue was in his ear and her breath grew rasping with passion.
He had no independent thoughts and no control. All he could focus on was this all-encompassing healing sexuality, a force made of physical sensation and waves of love.
Kathleen climaxed first, her body shuddering with release and a long cry of passion on her lips, and then she gripped him very tight and he came with enormous power and it seemed his orgasm would never stop. And then it was over.
* * * * *
They slept again in each other's arms, then Fitzduane got the fire going again and went and made tea and fresh orange juice and they talked in bed.
Unspoken was the thought that they were friends and not lovers and that now things were more complicated and that, perhaps, this was not the way it should be. All of this was true, but there was also the shared belief that what had happened was nothing but good.
Eventually and reluctantly, the talk moved to de Guevain. Fitzduane sat upright in the bed, staring into the fire as he talked, and Kathleen lay beside him, her arms around his waist, sometimes stroking him. He talked about how they had met, and fencing together, and his friend's family and the good times they had had together; and eventually, he spoke of the manner of Christian de Guevain's death. It was so horrible that Kathleen wanted to stop him, but he seemed to need to talk it through, to hear the words again so that he could accept them.
"Really, the reports and photographs said most of it," said Fitzduane grimly, "but they did not explain the significance of the method used. Ironically, Christian would have understood. We both studied edged weapons and the customs surrounding them. And one of the great debates was the efficacy of Western weapons contrasted with the Japanese. Japanese katana are considered by many to be the supreme examples of the swordmaker's art. They went to extraordinary lengths to achieve this.
"In medieval times in Japan, a sword had to be capable of cutting through the heavy metal and leather armor worn by warriors and still inflict a mortal wound with a single blow. This demanded blades with outstanding attributes, and since swords were handmade one at a time without the consistency of mass-production standards, the testing of swords was an important business. A sword that passed its tests was signed in gold by the examiner on the sword's nakago, or tang. Swords that failed were melted down to make spears — weapons for the lower orders.
"Thick rolls of straw were sometimes used for testing. Human-body testing was preferred and was common. Often, the samurai who tested swords was licensed by the shogun to execute condemned criminals. This supplied live bodies for testing, and the process was conducted as a formal ceremony. There were witnesses, special clothing was worn, particular strokes were made, and certificate of the results was issued. The sword used was equipped with a special testing handle made from two pieces of hard wood with adjustable holes secured by metal bands, which allowed maximum force to be exerted while carrying out the testing cuts.
"It was not unusual, after the initial cuts had dismembered the body, for the pieces to be stacked up again and again until there was no piece of flesh left much larger than a hand or foot.
"And that was how Christian de Guevain was found. And to rub home the callous horror of it, a certificate was left by the bastards: Yaibo — the Cutting Edge."
Fitzduane bent his head. He felt rage, disgust, nausea, sadness. Action and reaction; this bloody business called terrorism never ended.
But it could be contained. Individual groups could be destroyed. Another would doubtless spring up, but that would be tomorrow's battle.
He focused on what needed to be done now. Then he looked down at Kathleen. "And about us..."
Kathleen looked at him steadily. Her face was glowing, her eyes loving. "Don't talk about the future, Hugo," she said, with calm emphasis. And then she smiled and ran her lips across his loins before looking up at him. "This is about us and now. Make love to me."