He could hear Kathleen's footsteps outside.
He had become adept at identifying individual cadences. Her walk was quiet but firm. This was not the rapid squeaky walk of an overworked student or the consciously measured stride of a consultant. This was the walk of a person of serious caliber.
Kathleen closed the curtains and put on the monitor light. Then she went to Boots and potted him. He was wearing a long T-shirt covered in small bears. There was a satisfying noise as he peed to order. He was still fast asleep and warm and pink-cheeked and floppy. Kathleen gave him to Fitzduane for a kiss and a quick cuddle and put him back under the duvet. She emptied and rinsed out the pot in the bathroom that adjoined the private room. Then she sat down on the bed beside him. Their conversation continued virtually where it had left off. It had become that way with them. Neither questioned the reasons or where it was all heading. Both valued the warmth and the closeness.
Last night they had been talking about her failed marriage. It had been a classic case of sexual incompatibility. This night, Kathleen was asking the questions.
Fitzduane interested her. She had spent all her life comparatively sheltered in Ireland in a caring profession. Here was a man who had traveled the world and was an intimate of danger. Here was a gentle man who had killed.
She looked at him as he lay back against the pillows. He had a strong yet sensitive face curiously unlined for his years. His eyes were an unusual green-gray and twinkled with humor. The steel-gray hair was cut en brosse. Wounded and weakened as he was, he still looked formidable. He was a big man, lean and well-muscled. There was gray in the hair on his chest. He had clearly seen much of life, the good and the bad.
Kathleen wanted to ask about Etan but started on another subject. Despite their growing intimacy, Kathleen sensed that Boots's mother might be off-limits — or then again, he might want to talk about her. She would take her time.
"How did you meet General Kilmara?" she said.
Fitzduane looked at her a little amused, as if he knew that was not the question she had intended to ask, but he answered nonetheless. "He was my commanding officer," he said, "back in the early sixties. He was something of a maverick — a fighting soldier rather than a politician in uniform — but there are times when fighting soldiers are needed."
"The Congo?" questioned Kathleen.
Fitzduane nodded. "You know, it's funny. When most people hear that you have fought in the Congo they automatically assume that you were a mercenary. They don't seem to know that a United Nations force was there and that the Irish Army provided part of the U.N. manpower."
"The Congo is forgotten history," said Kathleen, and smiled. "I don't know very much about it."
"It's not something I'll forget," said Fitzduane quietly. "My wife was killed there."
Kathleen took his hand but did not speak. After a minute or so, Fitzduane continued. He seemed to want to talk.
"Anne-Marie was a nurse," said Fitzduane. "She wanted to get some experience of life and do some good. Those were idealistic days. I met her at a bush hospital near Konina. She was tall, red-haired, and beautiful. We were married within weeks. A couple of months later, less actually, a group of rebels known as the Simbas started rampaging. They took hostages and assembled them in Konina and threatened to kill them if they were attacked. Some they tortured and killed anyway.
"Well, we mounted a rescue mission and infiltrated a small advance unit into Konina where they were being kept. There were only twelve of us and thousands of rebels, so we were under strict instructions not to fire until the main force arrived. We were in the upper floor of a house overlooking a square where the hostages were being kept. For eight hours we had to watch people being tortured and killed below — and we could do nothing. Finally, some Simba kid — he can't have been more than thirteen or fourteen — hauled Anne-Marie out and, just like that, hacked her head off. It was very quick, mercifully quick."
Fitzduane continued. "I can't really describe how I felt. I was only fifty meters away, and through binoculars she looked close enough to touch. I remember getting sick and then just a feeling of numbness. Soon afterwards, the main attack began. I couldn't stop killing. Machine gun, automatic rifle, grenades, garotte, fighting knife — I used them all that day. It didn't make me feel any better."
"There was nothing that you could do," said Kathleen.
"I have been told that again and again," said Fitzduane, "but I have never been quite sure. Another irony: her tour of duty was over. If she hadn't married me and signed on again to be near me, she would have gone home before the Simbas attacked."
He looked across at Boots, who was now sleeping on his right side, his right cheek resting on his hands. "Now here I am putting someone I love in harm's way again."
"Guilt is not a very constructive feeling," said Kathleen.
Fitzduane smiled. "I don't feel guilty anymore," he said. "I've learned enough about the random nature of violence not to feel personally responsible for Anne-Marie. I've come to terms with her death. However, I cannot accept a threat against my family. There, whether I'm directly responsible or not, I'm still responsible."
"Do you think you're directly responsible in this case?" said Kathleen, indicating both Fitzduane and Boots.
"‘Directly responsible,’" replied Fitzduane, quoting her words back, "probably not. Responsible, in that all of this happened as a consequence of my actions, probably yes."
"I don't quite understand," said Kathleen.
"About three years ago," said Fitzduane, I found a dead body on my island. I could have reported the matter to the police and left it at that. Instead, I started trying to find out what had really happened. One thing led to another and I found that there was a terrorist involved. His plans were foiled and he was killed."
"You killed him?" said Kathleen.
Fitzduane hesitated before he replied; then he nodded. "I killed him," he agreed.
"He was a terrorist," said Kathleen, but there was uncertainty in her voice. This was an alien world. "How can you be blamed for that?"
"The issue isn't really blame; it's responsibility," said Fitzduane. "What I did was necessary — indeed, unavoidable. However, the man I killed almost certainly had friends. This is about cause and effect and consequences. I may have done the right thing, but in so doing I put myself and those dear to me on the firing line."
"So you think you were shot by friends of this dead terrorist?" said Kathleen.
"Well, I'd like to think that it wasn't some complete nut," said Fitzduane. "I would prefer to be shot for a reason."
"It makes a difference?" said Kathleen.
"It makes a difference if you want to stop it happening a second time," said Fitzduane. "And this isn't the kind of thing I fancy happening twice."
It was slowly dawning on Kathleen that merely by being in Fitzduane's company she was putting herself in danger. For a moment she tried to imagine what it must be like to be under permanent threat. It was a horrendous notion.
She reached out and stroked his face and then leaned over and kissed him. She pulled away before Fitzduane could react and ran the tips of her fingers over his lips.
"Daddy! Daddy!" cried a sleepy voice. "Where are you?"
Fitzduane laughed and squeezed her hand. "Bring him here," he said.
Kathleen picked Boots up and slid him in beside his father. There wasn't much room in the narrow hospital bed, but Fitzduane cradled Boots's head in the crook of his left arm, and within seconds Boots was asleep again.
* * * * *
Dublin, Ireland
January 31
Jiro Sasada, whose visiting card stated that he was a vice president of the Yamaoka Trading Corporation, sat in his room in Dublin's BerkleyCourtHotel and sipped Scotch from the mini-bar.
His initial shock at the disappearance of the killing team four weeks earlier had worn off after a good night's sleep, and he had immediately applied himself to learning what had happened to the missing men and the curren
t status of the designated target. Sasada-san was typically Japanese in his belief in the work ethic, and setbacks in his value system were merely temporary inconveniences which could be solved by even more dedication.
His backup plan involved using a splinter group of the IRA — the Irish Revolutionary Action Party, or IRAP — that owed his group, Yaibo, a favor. Since unfortunately a Japanese involvement in the attack on Fitzduane had almost certainly been established by now, it made sense to use a local team which could more easily blend into the indigenous population.
Fitzduane's location had been determined through a sustained operation using radio scanners. Though technically illegal in Ireland, these devices were readily available and could pick up Garda — Irish police — communications which, for budget reasons, were in clear.
The Rangers had their own budget and operated with secure encrypted radio and telephone networks, but they were short of manpower. Accordingly, they worked extensively with the police, and therein lay their weakness. Kilmara was, of course, perfectly aware of this security flaw in his operational procedures, but there was nothing he could do about it in the short term. He needed the extra manpower the police provided, and he needed to communicate with them.
The IRA had been socially respectable when Ireland was fighting for independence from the British. However, for twenty-six counties out of a total of thirty-two, that goal had been achieved in 1922. Thereafter, the vast majority of Irish people wanted to live normal peaceful lives, unhindered by men with guns. The IRA became illegal. Operating undercover, it split into various groups with different objectives and ideologies. As with the Mafia, different gangs fought over territory. In some cases, fighting between different IRA factions was at least as violent as that against the British.
The IRAP were under sentence of death by the Provisional IRA for excesses even by terrorist standards, and the three leading members of the IRAP — Paddy McGonigal, Jim Daid, and Eamon Dooley — had headed south out of the British North of Ireland into the safer territory of the independent Republic of Ireland, so, for an appropriate financial reward, they were ready and willing to help Sasada-san with his task.
Sasada-san, who despite his papers was actually a senior member of Yaibo, had met the IRAP in Libya. He had helped to train them at Camp Carlos Marighella. It had been a matter of obligation to the Libyans. The Libyans backed a wide array of international terrorist groups, but in turn, called in favors. It was like any other business.
IRAP was a lethal group. So far in its bloody career, it had killed more than sixty people in a series of bomb and gun attacks in the North of Ireland, Britain, and continental Europe. It would certainly be able to take care of finishing off Fitzduane.
Sasada-san poured himself another Scotch and went back to studying the plans of the hospital where Fitzduane lay. You could, he thought to himself, get most things with a strong yen.
It was just as well. As far as the world was aware, Yaibo was a completely independent terrorist group. In actual fact, they were obligated to the Namaka brothers, and the brothers were exceedingly dangerous when their wishes were not fulfilled.
* * * * *
Tokyo, Japan
January 31
Kei Namaka, cofounder and president of the vast Namaka Corporation, stood staring out through the windows of the top floor of the NamakaTower.
Below him, as far as the eye could see, was the neon-bedecked ferro-concrete, glass, and steel sprawl that was modern Tokyo. In the middle distance, the police airship, the favorite toy of the Superintendent-General of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, floated serenely, monitoring the congested arteries that struggled inadequately to cope with the city's traffic. Through the tinted bullet-resistant plate glass, the repetitive rotor-thump and high-pitched engine buzz of a passing helicopter could scarcely be heard.
Namaka, his eyes open, saw nothing and heard nothing. He was awake but was having the dream.
It was near midnight on December 22, 1948.
The night was cold. They stood outside the gates of Sugamo Prison, waiting for the execution to happen. The gates were guarded by armed, white-helmeted U.S. Army military police. The weather-stained gray stone walls of the prison were floodlit by security lights.
Plentiful electricity meant the occupation forces. For the defeated Japanese, everything — power, water, food, cooking fuel, clothing, housing — was in short supply. Tokyo still lay devastated by the fire-bombing from the B29s of the U.S. Air Force. Most of the population were barely subsisting.
Recovery had begun, but it was a slow and painful process. Governing authority was in the hands of General Douglas MacArthur and the two hundred thousand mainly U.S. troop under his command. The Emperor had denounced his divine status. The old Japan was dead. The new Japan was having a difficult and painful birth, and there was much suffering.
Kei, a tall scrawny teenager, stood on one side of his mother. On the other side was his brother, Fumio. Fumio was small for his age and his right leg was crippled. A year earlier, he had been hit a glancing blow by a U.S. Army jeep as it careered out of control down one of Tokyo's labyrinth of alleyways, and the compound fracture had healed badly. Medication, bandages, good food — all the requirements for a full recovery — were virtually unavailable. Fumio's growth would be stunted and he would remain severely crippled for the rest of his life.
The Tokyo War Crimes trial had taken two and a half years. Eleven judges representing three-quarters of the world's population had presided. Witness after witness spoke of massacres, genocide, the slaughter and starvation of prisoners, death marches, the destruction of cities, wholesale rape, torture, executions without trial, germ warfare, forced medical experiments, a catalogue of crimes against humanity.
Six generals and one prime minister had been sentenced to death by hanging.
The executions were to take place at 00.01 hours on December 23, 1948, at Sugamo Prison.
One of the condemned men was General Shin Namaka, Kei and Fumio's natural father. Their mother, Atsuko Sudai, had been his mistress for many years. The General's legal marriage had been arranged, unsuccessful, and childless. Atsuko, their mother, had been his true love, and he had cared for her and his children with the greatest diligence and affection.
The evidence against him at his trial had clearly established that he was directly responsible for the death of over a hundred thousand slave laborers in China, and there were other crimes to do with medical experiments on prisoners.
But he had been a loving father. With his arrest, Kei's world had collapsed. The eldest son, he had been closest to his father.
The condemned men were kept in Block 5C of the prison, one to a cell. Each centrally heated cell, eight feet by five and half feet, contained a desk, a washbasin, and a toilet. A futon mattress was placed on the floor and blankets were provided. To avoid suicide, cell lights remained on and prisoners were kept under twenty-four-hour surveillance.
The executions were carried out according to the U.S. Army's regulations for such procedures.
Each prisoner was weighed in advance to determine the appropriate drop. A table of effectiveness had been determined by trial and error in the nineteenth century. General Namaka weighed a hundred and thirty pounds and would fall seven feet seven inches when the trap was sprung. Too long a fall, and his head could be torn off. Too short a drop, and he would slowly strangle to death. The objective was to snap his spinal cord and kill him almost instantly. It was not a precise science.
The condemned men's last meal was rice, chopped pickles, miso soup, and broiled fish. They drank sake. They spent their last day writing letters and praying.
Half an hour before the official time of execution, the condemned men were brought to the death house. Each man was handcuffed to two guards.
In the center of the execution chamber was a platform reached by thirteen steps. Four ropes made from one-inch manila hemp hung from the gallows above. The hangman's knot had been greased with wax. Before each pri
soner ascended the steps, his handcuffs were removed and his arms pinioned to his sides with two-inch-wide body straps.
The final climb was slow. At the top, on the platform, the ankles of each prisoner were secured with a one-inch strap. The noose was then placed around the neck with the knot directly behind the left ear.
The traps were sprung, the sharp crack echoing throughout the death house and across the prison yard.
The executions took place in two groups.
General Shin Namaka was in the second group. He entered the death house at 12:19 A.M.. At 12:38, he was pronounced officially dead by the senior medical officer.
Each corpse was transported to Yokohama Municipal Crematorium, placed in an iron firebox, and incinerated. Afterward, the ashes were scattered to the winds.
The dream faded.
In its place was emptiness and despair and then a grim determination to survive and never to forget, whatever the cost.
Kei Namaka, tall, well-built, muscular from his daily workouts at the dojo, and looking a decade younger than his age, uttered a terrible, anguished cry. He fell to his knees, his eyes wet with tears, and sobbed.
He had had the dream countless times over the years.
The NamakaTower stood on the site of what had once been Sugamo Prison. The whole development, which included a hotel, aquarium, offices, and a large shopping center, was no longer called Sugamo. After an open competition, the name SunshineCity had been chosen.
Fitzduane 02 - Rules of The Hunt Page 10