"The death of Hodama-san is extremely unfortunate," said the DSG.
Adachi nodded his agreement. He imagined Hodama, himself, had not been overly enthusiastic either. He noted that Hodama's staff, who had also died rather abruptly, did not get a mention. The DSG, who was an exceedingly small man, sat in a very large and well-padded black leather swivel chair. He swiveled his chair around so he could look out of the window after he spoke, and was silent. Adachi fought an impulse to peer over the DSG's desk. It was rumored that his legs dangled.
"Unfortunate," repeated the DSG quietly, almost as if talking to himself. He did not seem to expect a reply.
It was a characteristic of Japanese discussions that what was said was significantly less important than what was communicated in other ways. The ranking of participants, the context of the discussions, body language, shades of tone — all these elements were as important as the spoken word, and together added up to the dominant aspect of a meeting. Adachi understood all this as well as the next man, but considered that the DSG carried the whole process to excess. The man never seemed to say anything specific. He never committed himself. There was no feedback on recent developments. He just sat like a spider spinning some invisible web; and around him, senior street-hardened career policemen jumped if he called. He was not a popular man, nor even respected as a leader, and yet the consensus in the force was that the Tokyo MPD had never been in better shape. Whatever it was, the Spider had something. And, so it was rumored, part of that something was political clout.
"Hodama-sensei." The DSG's use of the term sensei was interesting and possibly disturbing. Sensei literally meant ‘teacher’ and was used as a term of respect. That Deputy Superintendent-General Enoke should talk about Hodama, a man who had been under active investigation by Adachi's own department, in such a way had implications. It implied connections which implied potential embarrassment for these connections; embarrassment which must be avoided. The DSG was warning Adachi to proceed carefully, to be cognizant of the political ramifications. Where the DSG stood on the matter was far from clear. He might be supportive. He might be warning Adachi off. The superintendent had not the faintest idea where the DSG stood, and he had not the slightest intention of asking. It would be pointless and it would offend protocol. The DSG was his superior, and Adachi was well-schooled in what was appropriate in such situations. This was Japan. Respect for one's seniors was fundamental.
The small man in the big chair turned to face Adachi. "Superintendent," he said, "do you have all the resources you need?"
"Yes, I do, Deputy Superintendent-General-san," said Adachi. "I have my own department, additional manpower seconded to me as it may be required, and the work of the technical support services has been exemplary." Internally, he was taken aback. It seemed he was being both warned off and offered help. It was typical of the Spider, extremely confusing.
The DSG made an approving gesture. "It is important that this matter be resolved satisfactorily."
Adachi agreed respectfully. He had the feeling that the operative word was ‘satisfactorily.’
The Spider changed the subject, or appeared to do so. "I was examining the latest crime statistics," he said. "I am concerned about the foreign element. Our own Japanese criminals behave predictably and they know how far they can go. Foreigners have no respect for authority. Their motives are often obscure. Their behavior is frequently impermissible."
Adachi agreed again. "Foreigners can indeed be difficult, and yet some are required for the economy."
"Korean criminals are a particular problem, I have noticed," said the Spider. "They have a tendency towards violence." He looked at Adachi. "Sometimes random violence. They can be a cruel people. They lack adequate respect for office and position." He rose to indicate that the interview was over.
Adachi bowed deeply and left. The DSG might be suggesting he clean up the whole Hodama business by framing some obliging Koreans; he might have remembered Hodama's early years in Korea and be suggesting a line of inquiry; he might merely have been making polite conversation. Adachi was not about to ask exactly what he meant. If the DSG had wanted to be specific he would have been. And more to the point, it was not appropriate to question a superior. Japan was a disciplined and hierarchical organization. Where would anyone be if sufficient respect for one's superiors was not shown?
Still, thought Adachi, there are times... He felt vaguely frustrated. He went down to the dojo, found a kendo partner, and worked out energetically for an hour. Bashing somebody over the head with a split bamboo cane meant loosely to simulate a katana, the long sword, while being hit as little as possible yourself was an excellent way to restore equanimity.
After the session, he bathed and went back to work refreshed. The Spider's observations he stored in the back of his mind. The pile on his desk had become even higher. There was work to be done.
5
ConnemaraRegionalHospital:
Intensive Care Unit
January 4
A terrible feeling suffused him.
He could not identify the feeling, nor did he understand where he was or what had happened. Tears coursed down his cheeks. He opened his eyes. He had no sense of place or time or reason.
Brightness. Noises. Electronic noises. Strange breathing sounds. He was not breathing! Terror; absolute terror. Darkness. Sadness. Blackness. Nothing.
A little peace.
A time for nightmares. He awoke again, choking, and knew only despair. He fainted.
* * * * *
Dr. Linda Foley was working with the senior intensive care nurse, Kathleen Burke. Fitzduane would have one-to-one attention until he left ICU. If he left ICU.
Linda Foley had a sense of unease when she looked at her patient. Something was definitely wrong, not just the physical things but something else. Dr. Foley tended to feel this kind of thing. It was a gift and it was a burden.
Working together, they checked his BP and blood gases through the arterial line; checked his CVP; checked his oxygen levels; checked his air entry with a stethoscope; watched the monitors.
Linda Foley noticed that Fitzduane had high blood pressure and a fast pulse rate. "He's in serious pain," she said, "poor sod." She prescribed morphine in the form of Cyclimorph.
Kathleen, concerned about his body temperature, added some blankets. She checked his wounds for oozing through the dressings, and changed them where necessary.
Foley looked around the futuristic-looking room as if for inspiration, and moved her neck to try to release some of the tension. Her muscles ached. She was bloody tired and too much black coffee was fraying her nerves, but she was not going to quit on this one until it felt right. And so far, it did not. No, something was decidedly wrong.
He had been drifting in and out of consciousness. He was gradually regaining some — albeit drug-laden — awareness. It was going to be a frightening awakening. In her opinion, the intensive care unit was about as un-people-friendly as could be. It was a monument to hygiene and advanced technology, but it did nothing for the human psyche. It was overlit and cold and sterile and full of cables and bleeping monitors, and it was truly terrifying to wake up in, even if you knew you were being treated.
In Fitzduane's case, he would have no sense of continuity. He had been ripped from his normal life, massively traumatized and then cast ashore in this alien environment. He would be paranoid and disoriented. All his systems — cardiovascular, respiratory, renal, immune — had mounted an immense physiological response to his injuries, and the effect would be total mental and physical exhaustion. To make matters worse, the first people he'd see would be masked and gowned.
He would see only eyes.
His main reassurance would come from the ICU staff's voices. Voices in ICU were vital. They provided the human element, the link to the human spirit. In Linda Foley's experience, recovery was only partly physical; it was predominantly a matter of the mind... shit, that was it. This patient's spirit was damaged in some way. How she kne
w it, she could not say, but that was it. He lacked the will to recover.
In consideration of his high blood pressure and low body temperature, Foley had kept him on the ventilator, the life-support machine, for a further six hours after surgery and then had gradually weaned him off. He was now breathing for himself with an oxygen mask over his face. He had been wearing it for two hours. It would soon be time to remove it.
Fitzduane opened his eyes again. Kathleen leaned over him and spoke: "Hello, Hugo. I'm Kathleen. You've had an operation, and all went well."
Fitzduane eyes filled with tears. His vision was blurred and his throat was dry and sore. He tried to speak. No sound came out. Kathleen moistened his lips with a small sponge.
A gasping sound came out. Kathleen bent closer. He spoke again, and then consciousness faded.
"What did he say?" said Linda Foley.
Kathleen looked puzzled. "Boots or roots," she said. "He said he — they — were dead, I think. He's still drugged to the eyeballs. He's just rambling."
Linda Foley looked down at Fitzduane. Desecrated though his body was, he was a striking-looking man. He did not look like someone who would surrender life so easily, and yet the fighting spirit was missing. "Fuck it," she said. "We're missing something here. I'm going to find out more about this guy."
She turned on her heel, walked out of ICU, and pulled her mask down. She wanted a cigarette but had quit while an intern. A good stiff drink would do fine. In the corridor outside were two men in combat uniform carrying automatic weapons. "I want to talk to someone," she said. "Someone who knows my patient — and quickly."
A pair of legs also wearing combat fatigues swung off a couch, and a figure emerged. He was in his early fifties, bearded, hollow-eyed from fatigue, but a commanding presence.
"Talk to me," he said. "My name is Shane Kilmara."
* * * * *
Fitzduane was beginning to remember.
He could hear the sound of running water and feel Boots against him. Then came flares in the sky and a sense of unease and a line of blood across the back of his son's head.
He sobbed. Bullets splashed around the unconscious boy. He could not move. He wanted to help — was desperate to help, to do something — but he could not move.
He felt weak and confused, and his throat hurt. He opened his eyes, but the light was too bright.
"Daddy!" said a voice. "Daddy! Daddy!"
Fitzduane started and cried out. "I'm coming..." and fell silent.
Linda Foley looked at the monitors with concern. This might not be the best idea. She and Kathleen exchanged worried glances.
Fitzduane could feel a small hand in his.
He felt small lips against his cheek and he smelled chocolate. He opened his eyes.
A small, rather grubby face looked down at him. "Want some, Daddy?" said Boots's voice. He thrust the remains of his bar into his father's mouth. Fitzduane could taste it — really taste it.
"Boots is fine," said a familiar voice. "He was grazed by one round, but he's fine. Now it's your turn to get better. He's wearing me out."
The monitors went crazy — and then stabilized strongly.
Fitzduane smiled and, using all his strength, put his left arm around Boots. The little boy lay beside his father in the narrow bed for a short while and hugged him, then was removed by Kilmara.
Fitzduane was already asleep. He was still smiling.
Kilmara looked at Foley and then at Kathleen. "You're a hell of a pair," he said. "You don't know when to quit. Good people." He smiled. "You can join the Rangers anytime."
Linda Foley and Kathleen Burke smiled back tiredly. They had now done just about as much as they could for the time being, they considered. Linda's beeper went off and she shrugged in resignation and went to answer the call. As she was leaving, she turned around and made a gesture of success.
Kathleen was played out. She looked at Fitzduane and not at the monitors. It was unscientific rubbish, she knew, but she could just see the difference. The man now had an aura. He was fighting back.
"How long is it going to take to get him fully back into action?" said Kilmara.
"That's an impossible question," said Kathleen, taken aback. "And premature. He's still critical."
"Only his body," said Kilmara.
Kathleen looked at him. "Four months, six months, a year," she said. "He's been badly hurt. It depends a great deal on the individual. Who is he, anyway? Apart from the odd farmer who trips over his shotgun, gunshot victims are an uncommon occurrence in this part of the world. And then there are you people." She gestured at Kilmara and the armed Rangers on security duty. "Men with weapons in my hospital. I don't like it. I would like to believe it is necessary. I would like to know why."
Kilmara gave a slight smile. "I'll tell you over a cup of tea," he said, "or maybe something stronger. You've earned it."
They found a small office beside the nurses' station. A nurse brought in two mugs of tea and Kilmara produced his hip flask. Kathleen would have killed for a shot, but she was still on call. Kilmara topped up his tea, and the aroma of Irish whiskey filled the air. He really did not know why anyone drank Scotch.
"Your patient, Hugo Fitzduane, is an anachronism," he said. "The first Fitzduane to come to Ireland was a Norman knight seven hundred years ago. I sometimes think Hugo has more in common with him than with the twentieth century. Hugo still lives in the family castle and retains values like honor and duty and putting his life on the line for causes he believes in and people he cares about."
Kathleen leaned across and read Kilmara's name tag. "And what's your connection with him, Colonel Kilmara?"
"He served under me in the Congo," said Kilmara. "You fight beside somebody and you get to know what they are like. We became friends. Hugo left the army and became a combat photographer and went from one hot spot to another, but we stayed in touch. A few years ago, he decided he had had enough, but then he ran into something pretty nasty on his own island. It was a terrorist thing and he put an end to it with a little help from my people. There was a lot of killing. After it, he just wanted to settle down in his castle and raise a family. He is quite a gentle man at heart."
Kathleen nodded, her mind going back to Fitzduane's desperation, then his transformation when he realized his son was alive. She knew she was calloused by the day-to-day realities of her job, but she had been touched by what she had seen.
"So he has a wife?" she said.
Kilmara shook his head. "That didn't work out," he said. "Hugo looks after Boots."
"And now we come to the matter of why this gentle knight living in isolation off the west coast of Ireland should be struck down by assassin's bullets," said Kathleen. "This was no training accident."
"It was no accident," agreed Kilmara. "And I suspect it is no deep mystery, either. The counterterrorist world is characterized by action and reaction. If you get involved, you are always at risk. I think this is a simple revenge shooting for what happened three years ago. These people thrive on vengeance."
Kathleen shuddered. "Warped minds. It's sick. But it's been three years. Why wait so long?"
Kilmara shrugged. "That we don't know as yet. But delayed revenge is more common than not. The target starts off taking extensive precautions and being alert to every nuance. And then time passes and he starts thinking the threat is less likely and he lets his guard down a bit. And so it goes. And there is also the saying..."
"‘Revenge is a dish best eaten cold,’" completed Kathleen.
"Just so," said Kilmara.
Kathleen studied Kilmara. Here was a man who had seen and tasted much of what life had to offer, she thought, and had come to terms with it. Here was a man whose daily currency was lethal force and who hunted other men. And who was a target himself. What a terrible existence.
"How do you live with all this," she asked, "the fear and the violence and the knowledge that any day some stranger might strike you down?" She regretted her words as soon as they were uttered
. It was a remarkably tactless question and a clear manifestation of her fatigue.
Kilmara laughed. "I don't accept sweets from strangers," he said, "and I play the percentages. And I'm very good at what I do."
"But so was Mr. Fitzduane, you have implied," said Kathleen.
"Kathleen," said Kilmara, "when you have got his attention, Hugo is the most dangerous man you are ever likely to encounter. But he can be a little slow to start. His values get in the way of some of the more direct requirements of this business. But when he is motivated, he makes me look like a wimp."
Kathleen found it hard to reconcile the horribly wounded man in ICU with any element of menace at all, but Kilmara spoke with quiet certainty. Then a disconcerting thought occurred to her.
"The armed guards you've placed here," she said. "Do you expect more trouble? Would these terrorists try again in such a public place?"
Kilmara took his time replying. He did not want to create a panic in the hospital. On the other hand, Kathleen did not look like the panicking kind and he owed her more than a little for what she was doing for Fitzduane.
"The kind of people we are dealing with will do anything anywhere," said Kilmara. "That is one of the rules of their game. There are no limits. Zero. Zip. Nada. None. That's what keeps me young," he added cheerfully, "trying to outguess the fuckers."
"So you think they will try again?" said Kathleen.
"Possibly," said Kilmara slowly.
"So we're all at risk," said Kathleen, "as long as your friend remains in this hospital."
Fitzduane 02 - Rules of The Hunt Page 7