The Devil's footprint

11

Fitzduane flew into Phoenix, picked up a rented Ford Bronco, and drove north and east.

He had debated phoning rather than making the trip, but he rationalized that if he was going to ask Al to put his life on the line it was something he had better do face-to-face.

In reality, he was desperate for a change of environment. The mission was coming together, but Washington was one long reminder of Kathleen. He needed space and a chance to get some perspective.

He was heading for the newly incorporated city of Medora, population all of 5,648. It was about three hours' steady driving time from Phoenix. He could have rented a light aircraft and flow the last hop, but he had mixed feelings about light aircraft he did not know, and anyway he had heard the that the Medora airstrip was on top of a butte.

Since a butte, as best he could recall, was a sheer-sided mountain jutting out of the ground rather like a rocket, its top, even if flat, did not seem a terrific place to land. The pilot could miss or you could fall of the edge or something. Fitzduane preferred his airstrips on the ground, preferably very flat ground without things to bump into.

A few miles outside Phoenix, the highway climbed steadily. The rolling foothills stretched away on either side and the ground looked hard and arid. This was high desert dotted with scrub and mesquite and cacti. Some people found it harsh and forbidding. Fitzduane relished the contours of the land and the clear light and the sense of space, and found it achingly beautiful.

It was so different from his home country. Ireland's scenery was on an altogether smaller and more human scale. Here, the vistas were immense and mankind almost insignificant.

It was hard to imagine how anyone had survived in such a vast, rugged, water-starved landscape, yet this was the terrain that the Apaches had made their own and over which Geronimo had been hunted. Five thousand troops trying to find thirty men in an era before helicopters and radios and modern technology. Endless locations in the heavily contoured landscape to hide in. The difficulties and hardships overcome in the hunt were hard to comprehend.

Al Lonsdale's mother had been a full-blooded Apache. His father, the sheriff of a border town in Texas, had been of mixed English and Irish stock, and the combination had produced a striking-looking man. Al had thick black hair, a high forehead, deep-set thoughtful eyes, high cheekbones, and a strong nose and chin. He stood six feet three in his socks.

Lonsdale had followed in his father's profession and spent a few years as a sheriff's deputy, but then had joined the U.S. Army in search of wider horizons. He had grown up with weapons, and hunting was a family tradition, so the transition to U.S. Army Special Forces had been smooth. But Lonsdale wanted to be the best of the best, so he volunteered for the top-secret U.S. Army counterterrorist unit, Delta, which had been set up Colonel Charlie Beckwith on SAS lines. When he was accepted by Delta, Al Lonsdale felt he had arrived.

The Irish equivalent of Delta were the Rangers commanded by General Shane Kilmara. Master Sergeant Al Lonsdale had been on secondment to them, training on Fitzduane's island off the West of Ireland, when they had stumbled across a terrorist assassination attempt.

Superb long-range shooting by Lonsdale with a. 50 Barrett at over 1,800 meters had saved the lives of both Fitzduane and his son, Boots. Subsequently, Lonsdale had fought beside Fitzduane and Chifune Tanabu on a counterterrorist action in Japan.

It was a relationship born and tempered under fire, and as a consequence, Lonsdale was a natural choice for the Mexican mission. But whether he could be persuaded to join the team was another matter. Al's leaving Delta had been unexpected. His appointment as Chief of Police of the tiny city of Medora had compounded the surprise.

Fitzduane had tabbed Al Lonsdale as hard-core military through and through. A caliber soldier. A warrior. His reasons for abandoning a promising military career for the vicissitudes of the civilian world were unknown. Still, Fitzduane had faith in Al Lonsdale. There would be reasons, and they would be good. Well, he hoped they would be good.

People were people the world over. All were a little flaky. In its way, the consistency of the human factor was kind of reassuring.

"Mrs. Zanduski," said Chief of Police Al Lonsdale patiently, "what we're looking for here, ma'am is a certain dynamic tension. Simply put, your right hand holding the firearm pushes out and is braced against your left arm pulling in. The result is – or should be – a stable weapons platform."

"I don't want a weapons platform, Chief," said five-foot-two seventy-eight-year-old Mrs. Zanduski, her outstretched hands holding the. 357 Magnum with the six inch barrel hesitantly. "I want to hit the goddamn target. I want to blow the motherfuckers away."

"There is a relationship, ma'am," said Lonsdale quietly. "You point the weapon in the right direction and the round goes more or less the same way. It's a useful principle to keep in mind."

"Don't patronize me, young man," said Mrs. Zanduski sharply. There was a flash from the weapon's muzzle and a loud boom. The metal can she had been aiming at some twenty-five yards away was blasted off the wooden plank against the wall of sandbags.

The crowd cheered and whistled and clapped. "Way to go, Granny!" could be heard. Mrs. Zanduski looked up at Chief Lonsdale triumphantly.

"Very nice, Mrs. Zanduski," said Lonsdale, "but don't you think a smaller caliber might be better?"

Mrs. Zanduski's chin jutted out. "Clint Eastwood uses a large-caliber weapon, young man, and I would point out that he is now practically a senior citizen himself."

Chief Lonsdale sighed. Life and fantasy seemed to be getting increasingly intertwined these days. "Next!" he called.

Hiram Albertsen was an eighty-two-year-old retired accountant. He was not much taller than Mrs. Clara Zanduski, and carried a bull pup High Standard Model 10B shotgun equipped with a laser sight and a Choate magazine extension.

"Where is the target, young man?" he said.

Lonsdale pointed at the next can in a row of seven. This was supposed to be a familiarization lesson. One shot each and they would focus on weapons handling and get to serious shooting later. He was already forming the view that he had underestimated the senior citizens of Medora.

Mr. Albertsen adjusted his bifocals, held his weapon at his hip, and then activated the laser sight. A red dot hovered unsteadily around the target.

" BOOM! BOOM! The seven cans were near-simultaneously propelled into the air, and the plank on which they had sat reduced to matchwood. Lonsdale looked on in disbelief as slivers of wood and wood dust fluttered to the ground. The cans were shredded, most split right open.

Mr. Albertsen cackled. "That old hag's six-gun isn't worth spit."

The rivalry on all issues between Clara Zanduski and Hiram Albertsen was legendary. Rumor had it that it had started at the bridge table but had speedily spread to just about every aspect of life that could be remotely regarded as competitive. The consensus was that both were thriving on the endless confrontations.

"What in heavens are you firing, Mr. Albertsen?" said Lonsdale weakly.

Mr. Albertsen held up his weapon. The muzzle had been fitted with a duckbill diverter, which spread the steel darts in an elliptical pattern. "Loaded ‘em myself, young man," he said. "Twenty flechettes to a twelve-gauge. With the duckbill, at twenty-five meters, they'll clear everyone in a pattern of twelve feet wide and five feet high. And deafen' ‘em, too! Hot damn!"

"Hot damn indeed!" agreed Lonsdale. This police chief business was not working out quite as he had expected. The city of Medora was two-thirds a retirement community and loved being incorporated. City politics was what kept the adrenaline of the senior citizens flowing. But for all practical purposes there was no crime. And the citizens, armed to the teeth, intended to keep it that way.

Apart from being a pawn to be argued over at weekly meetings of the city council, Medora's four-man police department had almost nothing of substance to do except traffic control during the season when hundreds of thousands of tourists streamed through on the way to the Grand Canyon. Ironically, thanks to fines resulting from traffic violations, the police department even made a profit.

Pay and benefits were good, the scenery was superb, the air was clear, and his golf handicap was coming down, but Chief of Police Al Lonsdale was bored.

It was then that he saw Colonel Hugo Fitzduane standing apart from the gun crowd, looking fit and tanned and a little thinner than he remembered. And he knew things would start to happen the way they normally did when the Irishman was around.

Fitzduane was a charming man, but he was a magnet for trouble. Al Lonsdale knew he should know better, but he was very pleased to see him. He felt a stirring in the blood, a lust for adventure, for life on the edge. A mature man should have gotten over such feelings. The Chief was glad he still had some way to go.

Lonsdale lived five miles out of town in a valley that the local Indians considered sacred. He had built his own house in an as-yet-undeveloped area, but had consulted the local medicine men before commencing construction. They had consulted the spirits and then recommended a series of purification ceremonies that lasted on and off for a month. The rituals did not come free. Lonsdale did not break ground until they were completed.

"Did the ceremonies work?" said Fitzduane.

They were sitting on the raised deck of the house. A bloodred sun was setting in the V formed by the walls of the valley. The red rock glowed as if on fire. It was not hard to see why the Indians considered the location sacred. There was a special, almost spiritual quality about the place, and it was more than beautiful. It was spectacular. It was also isolated. The nearest neighbor was more than two miles away in the next valley.

Lonsdale grinned. "Sure." Earlier on he had raised the subject of Kathleen, and Fitzduane had frozen. The look in the man's eyes had said it all. Now Lonsdale steered the conversation to safer subjects. The man was on autopilot. He could function as long as he did not think of her except when absolutely necessary.

The Chief made a gesture encompassing the house. It was a large two-story adobe dwelling surrounded by a high wall that fit nearly perfectly into the landscape. In terms of the basic comforts it was completely modern, but externally it would not have seemed out of place when Arizona was part of Mexico. In truth, it was more like a small fort than a house.

"The last man to try building in this valley," continued Lonsdale, "dismissed the Indians' objections as superstition and an attempt at extortion. Medicine men don't perform their ceremonies for free."

"So what happened to him?" said Fitzduane.

"He was overseeing the clearing of the site when the bulldozer cut into a nest of snakes. One moment he was standing there shouting directions, and the next he was flat on his back on the ground under a whole mess of writhing snakes. They had antitoxin, but he was way beyond that. He was dead within minutes. They say he was bitten more than fifty times and most of his face was torn off. He had no eyes by the time they were finished and his skin was black from the venom."

"Nice story," said Fitzduane dryly, looking out over the unspoiled valley, "but I doubt it will do much for the real estate market around here."

"I hope not," said Lonsdale. "I like the solitude. This really is God's country. I would surely hate to see it spoiled. Snakes are one effective way to keep the crowds down."

"I hope you keep your medicine men sweet," said Fitzduane. "And the local snakes. I would not be at all surprised to find they can be one and the same."

Lonsdale laughed. "We have an accommodation," he said.

As the sun sank, a line of shadow crept up the burning walls of the valley until eventually only the rim glowed a fiery red. Fitzduane was reminded of the contrast between molten lava as it emerged brilliant and glowing from the earth's interior, and its appearance when it faded to a dull patina as it cooled.

Then suddenly the sun was gone. There was a brief afterglow, and then that was gone too. The night skies of northern Arizona were, if anything, even more dramatic.

Fitzduane thought of his thirteenth-century Norman ancestor and the rain-sodden little Irish island he had made his own, and wondered why the man hadn't taken ship and headed west for a modest five thousand miles.

After they had eaten, Fitzduane went through the plan in some detail. Lonsdale listened intently. Special operations had been his whole world for most of his adult life, and it was part of the special-forces tradition that a plan was rarely imposed.

The process was not so much democratic as pragmatic. Enemy fire was no respecter of rank, and the best special-forces troops were risk averse. Unnecessary-risk averse.

"Why not helicopters?" said Lonsdale. "You get in fast. You get out fast. And obstacles like perimeter fences and minefields don't mean a fucking thing. You envelop the enemy."

Fitzduane nodded. Heliborne operations were synonymous with the U.S. military, and since the Iranian fiasco, many of the traditional objections to helicopters, such as mechanical unreliability, had been overcome. Still, they were not the only way to mount a raid.

"Quintana had organized his defenses based upon two threats," he said. "An attack by the Mexican Army or some kind of helicopter-borne raid. Well, the Mexican army could try and invade. Based upon their strengths, that would almost certainly mean a traditional ground-based attack spearheaded by armor and supported by artillery. To counter that, Quintana has armor and artillery of his own smuggled in from Eastern Europe, and he has the terrain on his side. You can only get up to the plateau where the oil is through a small number of passes, and they are easy to defend.

"Now, the Mexicans do have some paratroops, but not any quantity and they suffer from the classic weakness of many airborne forces. They are too lightly equipped. If they drop onto the plateau, they are going to be cut to pieces by Quintana's army. Mexican airborne are not like the U.S. with their own built-in helicopter and other support – not to mention air supremacy and the might of the U.S. Air Force. These guys just don't have the firepower. Further, they don't have the expertise. Mexico has not fought a modern war."

"None of that is an argument against a heliborne raid by us," said Lonsdale. He grinned. "And we surely have the practice."

Fitzduane took note of the us. Reiko Oshima was unfinished business and the Chief of Police, despite his beautiful surroundings, was bored. And there was another element that would cement the deal. Lonsdale had been much taken by Chifune.

"Quintana and his people are no fools," said Fitzduane. "The other obvious threat is a helicopter assault. Indeed, that is exactly what they are expecting and have already experienced. The DEA mounted a black antinarcotic operation there about a year ago and it went horribly wrong. Quintana has invested heavily in radar and handheld missiles. There is perimeter defense around the plateau and a second line of defense at the airfield and the Devil's Footprint. You've got to remember that this kind of equipment is easy to get these days from the East, and it is not even that expensive."

Lonsdale got up to throw a log on the fire. He turned around and spoke. "You fly low and fast and, most likely, you'll get through the outer screen. That's a big perimeter they have to watch. If you are contour flying they'll lose you in the ground clutter. As to the targets themselves, if you stay low, they probably won't pick you up either."

"Helicopters might work," Fitzduane admitted. "But what we are talking about is what is likely to work best. And there are a few more objections to choppers.

"First, even when the noise is suppressed, they remain noisy bloody things. Second, they are vulnerable to ground fire. A rifle can take out a helicopter. Third, they are complex mechanically and require one hell of a logistics tail. Fourth, whether or not we get in undetected, no one is going to miss the actual arrival of two or more helicopters, so when we would try and leave, we would be sitting ducks. Remember, Quintana is expecting helicopters, so that is what he has geared up for. The place is stiff with SAMs."

Lonsdale grinned ruefully. "And finally, this is not an officially sanctioned U.S. government operation whereby we can have whatever supporting firepower we need. There will be no close-air support on call up there. Okay. I get the picture."

"The essence of what I am proposing is stealth," said Fitzduane. "We fly in real low in two C130s equipped with contour-following radar and ECM equipment. As you've said, there is a good chance we won't get picked up, but even if we are, the electronic countermeasures will scramble the radar screens for the necessary few seconds. Then the Guntracks get pulled out by LAPES at twenty feet or less. Next, the aircraft pop up to two-fifty feet and we jump. Then down they go again and head for home."

"Two hundred and fifty feet is goddamn low, Hugo," said Lonsdale. "Where I come from, five hundred feet scarcely gives you enough time to scratch your crotch. Any lower and you start digging holes in the ground."

Fitzduane laughed. "You're not keeping up to date, Al," he said. "Irwin has a new fast-opening combat ‘chute. It will open in time and you will land as lightly as a ballerina."

Lonsdale looked dubious. "I'd hate to try this thing only to find out that the minimum jump height spec was just a copywriter getting carried away. Parachuting is like sleeping with a few snakes. Most people don't fancy it, but dangerous as it looks, it's actually quite safe until something goes wrong. Then you rarely get a second chance."

Fitzduane spoke quietly. "I jumped with the Irwin a week ago. Seven jumps in all with seven different ‘chutes, each time at two-fifty. I was curious too."

"I guess the first time was the hardest, Colonel," said Lonsdale slowly. "Well, you don't look as if you bounced, so let's move on."

"We've got satellite and other intel on what happens where on the plateau," said Fitzduane. "You have got to remember it consists of hundreds of thousands of square miles of decidedly inhospitable terrain. Theoretically it is patrolled, but in practice that means that the main oil facilities and pipelines get regular attention and the balance is just ignored except for random helicopter overflights. Frankly, what else can they do? What else do they need to do?"

Lonsdale was lying back with his eyes closed.

He was trying to build up a mental model of Fitzduane's plan. The fact that helicopters were not being used had thrown him a little initially, but now he was getting into the swing of things. It helped that he had trained with Guntracks and the Rangers in Ireland. He had participated in low-altitude parachute extraction exercises before.

LAPES was an extraordinary technique if you were not used to it, but it worked. A cargo aircraft like the C130 throttled back to 120 miles an hour and flew as little as six feet above the ground, almost as if landing. Then, at the designated spot, a parachute was opened and as it filled it pulled a palletized Guntrack – or other equipment – out of the rear door of the aircraft.

The parachute acted as a brake to kill the forward momentum. The effects of the short vertical drop were countered by special compressible pallets and careful packing.

It was not a barrel of laughs for humans, but for supplies and equipment it was remarkably successful.

"So," said Lonsdale, "we land inside the plateau rim far away from the outer defenses but also some distance from the terrorist bases. Better yet, we pick some godforsaken spot which is off any regularly patrolled route and has cover. We are all alone with the scorpions. We have gotten in undetected during the night. Now we lie up well camouflaged and hope some wandering peasant does not stumble on us."

"The plateau is clear of wandering peasants," said Fitzduane. "For a start, since there is neither arable land nor grazing there is no reason to be there. Second, Quintana obligingly rounded up the few remaining Indians and either killed them or trucked them down to a settlement on the coast. Whatever he is up to, he is serious about not being seen. But it will help us."

"How many people and vehicles are we using?" said Lonsdale.

"The strike team, including myself," said Fitzduane, "will consist of fifteen personnel – five three-person teams in five Guntracks."

"Why those numbers?" said Lonsdale.

"As you will remember," said Fitzduane, "a Guntrack needs a crew of three for optimum effectiveness. Driver, front gunner/navigator, and rear gunner. Regarding the number of vehicles, five is the minimum number required to allow successful completion of the mission plus some redundancy. The capacity of the C130s comes into play. It's a judgment call."

Fitzduane woke up at dawn the following day as the morning light streamed into his bedroom. Without thinking, he reached out for Kathleen and then sat up with a start as he remembered. He lay back and closed his eyes and focused on the mission. He blotted Kathleen from his mind.

"The team," said Lonsdale over breakfast. The sun was well up, and they were eating outside. "The fighting fifteen. As of now, there is you and there is me, which is nice but it makes only two."

Fitzduane was looking over the deck at the yard below. He turned back to Lonsdale. "Al," he said. "I can count eight snakes down there. And they are not babies."

"They beat hell out of a guard dog," said Lonsdale equably.

He refilled their coffee. "The team?" he repeated.

"There is substantial backing for the operation within the system," said Fitzduane, "but the number-one rule is that I can't use any serving member of the U.S. armed forces for the ground team."

"Deniability," said Lonsdale scathingly. "Shit, you would think we would have learned by now. This smacks of politics and PresidentGeorgieFalls and his abiding love of playing both ends against the middle. It's this kind of indecisiveness that makes outfits like Delta all training and no action. It's why terrorists supported by countries like Iran piss on us and get away with it."

Fitzduane was beginning to see why Master Sergeant Al Lonsdale had quit Delta.

"Think positive, Al," he said. "The positive aspect of all this is that we have near-total flexibility. We don't have a chain of command stretching through endless second-guessers to a situation room in the White House. We aren't being micromanaged. We can do what has to be done, how we want it, and when we want it."

Lonsdale shrugged. He could blow hot, but he cooled off as quickly. He smiled. "Put that way, you've got a point, but there are still a few Delta people I would give a lot for. You've got to understand, Colonel, the U.S. Army of today is the most powerful, best equipped, and best trained in the world. Sure we fuck up sometimes and use too much force or too much firepower, but most of those problems are political.

"The best of our people are not just good. They're real good. Too good to pass up. There's gotta be a way! And you can't mount an operation like this with amateurs."

Fitzduane drank some coffee. "I like to run in ArlingtonCemetery," he said. "A man whose premises we are using at present to operate from, Grant Lamar, suggested I might like to run a bit further – to FortMyer. There, I met a man called General Frampton."

"The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs?" said Lonsdale incredulously.

"Something like that," said Fitzduane mildly. "He said his discussion with me was entirely unofficial but he would like to introduce some men who had suddenly resigned from the U.S. Army and were in need of employment in civilian life. He said they would consider anything, even a short assignment. He added that he hoped that he could entice them to reenlist in the future."

"Who are they?" said Lonsdale. "I may know a couple of them."

Fitzduane told him.

"Fucking A!" said Lonsdale. "These are my people." He stood up and shouted "Ya-hoo!" The sound echoed back from the walls of the valley.

"I don't think that is entirely a coincidence," said Fitzduane gently. "And please do not disturb the snakes."

Lonsdale grinned. "They don't mind the odd yell," he said. "These snakes are Arizonans. They have been listening to Indians and cowboys sounding off for the last hundred years."

Fitzduane looked along the deserted valley. Someday, snakes or not, it was going to be built upon from end to end. He had already noticed some Realtor's signs hammered into the brush as they drove to Al's house. It was quite a paradox. It was just too beautiful to escape unspoiled.

Lonsdale saw where he was looking and read his expression. "Yeah," he said with feeling.

He turned back to the subject. "You and I and six Delta. We're up to eight."

"Chifune Tanabu and Oga," said Fitzduane. "They've been tracking Reiko Oshima and Yaibo for quite some time, and they'd like to finish it. You remember Chifune from Japan, Al, and you also met Oga. He's ex-Japanese airborne. Both are good shooters."

Lonsdale remembered how taken aback he had been when he discovered that the security agent he was to work with was not just a woman but someone so slight and feminine and beautiful as Chifune. She looked too gentle to hurt a fly. Appearances in her case were totally misleading. She was a crack shot and cool as ice under fire. Quite a woman, quite a person.

"Chifune is good," he said. "Better than good. As to Oga-"

"I know Oga," said Fitzduane.

"Five to go," said Lonsdale.

"The British are contributing three," said Fitzduane. "SAS have a score to settle with Yaibo. Then there is a man called Shanley I ran into who I think you'd approve of. Which leaves one to go. A civilian but ex-Airborne captain, Dana Felton, wants that slot and I think maybe she's entitled. She lost a friend to these people. She's good. Then there are a couple of Irish Rangers, Grady and Harty, who know the Guntrack particularly well. We have, as they say in Ireland, an elegant sufficiency. It'll be tough to make the final selection."

Lonsdale nodded. "Geronimo Grady. One hell of a driver. You know, one name on that Delta list has set me to thinking," said Lonsdale.

"Who?" said Fitzduane.

"Calvin Welbourne," said Lonsdale. "Short thin black guy with a manic sense of humor and no nerves that I've ever detected. A very bright fellow. Thinks in three dimensions."

"What does Calvin do?" said Fitzduane.

Lonsdale flashed a grin. "Delta, Colonel, as you know, walks on water. Calvin goes one better."

"Hit me with it," said Fitzduane.

"He flies," said Lonsdale.

They started into the finer details of the mission.

Lonsdale's police radio chattered occasionally in the background. He was on duty around the clock if he was needed, but apart from that proviso, his hours were flexible. The main issue on the radio seemed to be where the two officers on duty should meet up for lunch.

The phone rang. It was Lee Cochrane calling from Washington.

"Developments, Hugo," he said, his voice sounding tired and serious. "You'd better get back here fast."

"Anything you can talk about?"

"Negative," said Cochrane firmly. Tension and fatigue could be detected in his voice. "Some serious shit is going down. So ASAP, Hugo."

"Roger that," said Fitzduane. He replaced the receiver.

Outside, on the deck, Lonsdale was standing talking intently into his radio. He finished as Fitzduane emerged into the bright sunlight.

"Come on, Hugo. Let's go!" he said.

Fitzduane looked at him. "I've got to get back to Washington," he said. "Something's happened."

"You don't have to go back to Washington for kicks," said Lonsdale savagely, buckling on his gun belt and clipping the radio to it. "The fucking bank has been robbed. I'll never get away if this is not sorted out. Are you carrying?"

Fitzduane nodded, trying to suppress a smile. "I thought nothing ever happened in Medora."

"Nothing does except when you're around, Hugo," said Lonsdale. "Come on! Let's move!" He headed down the stairs that led from the deck to the yard below.

"What are we doing?" said Fitzduane, following in Lonsdale's footsteps.

"We're going to try and cut them off," said Lonsdale, getting into his vehicle. "There are four of them in a jeep, and they are headed out of Medora this way. Lots of places to hide out in. This is big country."

"Armed?" said Fitzduane.

Lonsdale roared away, leaving a bunch of disturbed-looking snakes in his wake.

"Of course they're armed," said Lonsdale irritably. "I don't know how they rob banks in Ireland, but goddamn it, Hugo, this is the United States. Guns are the American way. The right to bear them is written into our Constitution. So far we have one dead bank guard and a teller who is not looking so good."

"What kind of firepower?" said Fitzduane.

"Assault rifles and shotguns and doubtless a few handguns," said Lonsdale. He grinned. "And they seem quite happy to use them. So if the shit hits, shoot fast and often."

"Very nice," said Fitzduane. "But don't forget to tell them that I'm a tourist."