Kilmara did not take kindly to using such scarce and expensive resources as his elite Rangers on something as mundane as static guard duty.
He liked to take the initiative. Guard duty, he believed, wasted the expertise of his men. A Ranger on guard duty was just one more target with scant opportunity to utilize his unique skills. Waiting for something to happen left the terrorist with the freedom to strike when and where he wished, and to have local firepower superiority even when outgunned on a national basis.
He had to look no further than Northern Ireland across the border to have this truth demonstrated. There, a few hundred IRA activists kept thirty thousand British troops and armed police fully stretched — and still the killing went on.
In the case of providing security for Fitzduane, Kilmara was prepared to make an exception. The official justification was the Fitzduane held a reserve commission in the Rangers — he had the rank of colonel — and therefore they were merely looking after one of their own. Actually, it had more to do with friendship and a long history together. Kilmara did not like to see his friends getting shot. Over a long and turbulent military career, it had happened more than a few times, and now he valued those close to him who were left.
Six Rangers had been assigned to guard Fitzduane. Allowing for shifts, this meant that two were on duty and two on standby at any one time, and the remaining two were off station. Perimeter security consisted of an armed plainclothes detective in the grounds below Fitzduane's window, and another detective in the hospital reception area monitoring the front stairs and elevator.
Primary internal security consisted of a control zone on the private ward where Fitzduane was located. Two sets of specially installed doors sealed off the corridor. The rule was that only one set of doors could be opened at once. Visitors were checked through one door, which was closed behind them, then checked in again in the control zone before being allowed through the second set of doors. There was a metal detector in the control zone. All staff who had right of access had been issued special passes and a daily code word. Their photographs were pinned up by the internal guard, but by this time all the regulars were known by sight.
There were six private rooms off the central corridor once you got through the two sets of doors. Initially, four of these had been occupied, but after an epic battle with the hospital authorities, Kilmara had managed to get them cleared after the first week. Now one room was occupied by Fitzduane, a second one was used for sleeping by off-duty Rangers, and a third functioned as a makeshift canteen. The other three were empty.
It seemed a reasonably secure arrangement and the police were quite happy, but the whole setup made Kilmara nervous. It might be good enough to keep a conventional killer at bay, but a terrorist threat was of a different order of magnitude. Terrorists had access to military grade weapons. They used grenades, explosives, and rocket launchers. They had been known to use helicopters and microlights and other esoteric gadgetry. They were often trained in assault tactics.
In the face of a sudden commando raid and terrorist firepower, the defenders — security zone or no — would not have an easy time. Just one rocket fired through Fitzduane's window would not do him much good either. Sure, they had bolted in place some bulletproof glass, but an RPG projectile would cut through that like butter. The things had been designed to take on tanks. Unfortunately, there were a number of such weapons on the loose in Ireland. Quadafi had supplied several shiploads of rifles, explosives, heavy machine guns, and rocket launchers to the IRA. He had even thrown in some handheld anti-aircraft missiles. There were arms caches all over the country. Many had been found. Many others had not.
Kilmara tried to console himself with the thought that most of the time nothing ever happens. Many threats are made; very few are implemented. Most potential targets die in their beds of old age and good living. Such thoughts seemed logical until he applied them to Fitzduane. Then his instincts screamed. The man was a magnet for trouble.
In the second week of Fitzduane's stay in the hospital, when the basic precautions had been in place and the man himself out of intensive care, Kilmara had sent the problem to Ranger headquarters in Dublin. There the scenario had been evaluated by two teams. One team had worked out how to defeat the security and kill Fitzduane. The second had looked at current and past terrorist methodology and current and past counterterrorist protection techniques.
The findings had been pooled and the exercise repeated several times. The final conclusions had led Kilmara to implement several more security measures. Above all, he wished he could move Fitzduane, but that would have to wait a few weeks longer. He was recovering, but needed — absolutely had to have — the specialized care of the hospital. Set against that certainty, the possibility of another assassination attempt was a minor risk. Or so said the computer.
Kilmara looked at the screen when the finding came up. He remembered a game he used to play with his girlfriends as a teenager. You'd pluck the petals from a daisy one by one. “She loves me; she loves me not; she loves me; she loves me not.” The last petal would decide the issue.
"I don't trust computers any more than I trusted daisies," he said to the screen. The cursor winked back at him. "Nothing personal," he added.
The first finding of the Ranger attack-scenario exercise had been that the maximum point of vulnerability at the hospital was not the security deployment as such, but the people.
"Between you and me, and these four walls," said Kilmara to the screen, "I really didn't need a computer to tell me that." He rubbed the gray hairs in his beard. "Life has a habit of instilling that lesson."
The computer continued to wink at him. He quite liked the beasts and they were damn useful, but sometimes they got on his nerves.
He pressed the off switch and, with some satisfaction, watched the monitor die a little death.
* * * * *
They had opened the door with Kathleen's key and then pushed her down the hall in front of them.
Her parents were in the large kitchen at the back, her mother at the Aga stove stirring porridge, her father sitting at the table reading yesterday's Irish Times. ‘The Pat Kenny Show’ was on the radio in the background.
The kitchen had picture windows on two sides and there were no blinds. One of the gunmen went instantly to close the curtains, but the leader, the man with the smile, shook his head.
"Doesn't look natural," he said. "Bring them into the front room." He pushed Kathleen and grabbed her mother. She was still stirring the porridge, as yet unable to take in what was happening. The pot crashed to the floor. A third man came into the room and pulled the chair out from under Kathleen's father and half-pushed, half-kicked the gray-haired man out through the door.
Social life in the home in rural Ireland tends to revolve around the kitchen. The front room is kept for visitors and special occasions and tends to have the heating turned off and to feel somewhat unlived-in. The Flemings' sitting room was fairly typical in this respect. The room was chilly and the venetian blinds half closed. There were family photographs on the mantelpiece and a fire was laid but not lit. There were drinks on a low cabinet for visitors. The main seating consisted of a sofa and two armchairs, with several upright chairs set against the wall to deal with any overflow. An oil painting of Kathleen in nurse's uniform with her parents, Noel and Mary, hung over the fireplace.
Kathleen's parents were pushed onto the sofa, where they tried to regain some composure. Noel put his arm around his wife's shoulders. Kathleen was thrust into one of the armchairs, and the man who appeared to be the leader took the other. Sitting back in the chair, he reached into an inside pocket and removed a cylindrical object, which he attached to the barrel of his automatic.
"Fuck, it's bloody freezing," he said. "Jim, will you turn on the heating or something."
Jim, a heavyset man in his late twenties with black hair and facial stubble to match, turned on the radiator controls and then lit the fire. The firelighters caught and the kindling crack
led. It was a sound that Kathleen associated with home and safety and comfort.
The sight of the silencer being screwed into place made her feel sick. None of the men wore masks. They did not seem to be worried about being identified later. The conclusion was all too obvious.
"My name's Paddy," said the leader. He pointed at the others. "That's Jim." Jim was now leaning against the radiator, soaking up the spreading warmth. He didn't react. "And the baldy fellow behind me" — he gestured with his left thumb over his shoulder — "is Eamon."
Eamon nodded. He looked to be only in his early twenties, but his bald head shone with a patina of sweat. He had an automatic rifle cradled in his arms. Kathleen recognized it as an AK-47 assault rifle. There had been a great deal about them on the news when a ship bringing in weapons for the terrorists had been arrested off France. Apparently, the armaments aboard had originated in Libya.
Paddy leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. The pistol was now clasped loosely in both hands between his legs. He looked straight at Kathleen and spoke softly, almost intimately. If the occasion had been different, he might have been addressing a lover. "Kathleen, my darling," he said, "I need your help."
Kathleen's mouth had gone dry. She was nauseous, her stomach ached from where she had been kicked, and her terror was so great that she felt paralyzed. At the same time, her brain was in overdrive.
This must have to do with Fitzduane. So this was the reality of his world. It was worse than anything she could have imagined. What could she do? How could she help? What did these frightening men want? Silently, she determined to resist when and how she could. If everybody fought these kind of people as best they could, they would be defeated.
Paddy McGonigal looked into her eyes. He could read the pain and the defiance. How little these people know, he thought. How fragile their lives are. How irrelevant in the scheme of things.
I bend my finger and she dies. An effortless physical act. That is all there is to it. And they think they matter, that somehow they can resist. The dreams of fools. He felt anger. Why do they not understand how fucking unimportant they are, these little people, these pawns of fortune?
"I need to know about the hospital," he said. "There is a fellow called Hugo Fitzduane I want to visit. I want to know where he is. I want to know about the security. I want the routines and the passwords and all the little details."
Kathleen had removed her nurse's headgear on going off duty but was still wearing her uniform under her cloak. The cloak was navy, but the lining was of some scarlet material. The effect over the crisp white of her one-piece garment was striking.
For the first time, McGonigal looked at her as a woman. She was, he realized, a very beautiful woman. Her eyes were particularly striking, her breasts were full, her legs were long and slender. He noticed that her dress buttoned up the front. The skirt had risen above her knees.
"I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I'm afraid you've got the wrong person. I don't know who you're talking about."
McGonigal reached out with his automatic and placed the silencer and barrel under her skirt and lifted it. He undid the bottom button of her skirt with his left hand and then started on another button. There was the hint of lace.
Noel Fleming leaped to his feet at the same time that Kathleen's hand cracked full force against McGonigal's face. He could taste blood. Jim, the terrorist leaning against the radiator, jumped forward and smashed her father back onto the sofa with the butt of his gun.
Mary Fleming screamed and clasped her husband. A long gash had opened in his skull, and crimson leached into his silver hair and soaked his wife's blouse. He lay against her, dazed and in pain and bewildered by what was happening.
McGonigal put a hand to his lip. There was blood on his finger when he took it away. He licked his lips and swallowed, but the metallic taste remained in his mouth. The left side of his face hurt. This was a strong woman. But vulnerable.
"Kathleen," he said "you're brave and you're beautiful, but you're foolish. How does it help you if you make me angry? Now answer me that."
Kathleen shook her head. The feeling of paralysis had left her since she had struck this man in front of her. She no longer felt quite so helpless, so afraid. She remembered that she hadn't called in. She had to buy time.
McGonigal stood up. He transferred the automatic to his left hand and removed from his pocket what looked, at first, like a large pen-knife. There was a click and a longer thin blade glittered dully in a shaft of light coming through the blinds. He looked at the portrait.
"You've a nice family," he said, looking down at Kathleen. "Close-knit is the phrase, I think." He transferred his gaze back to the portrait and slowly cut a large X through her image. The sound of the canvas parting under the pressure of the blade was unsettling. To Kathleen it was an obscene, wanton gesture.
"I could hurt you, Kathleen," he said, "but where would that get me? It's you I need to hear from." He turned back to the portrait. "Life is about choices," he said. "It just isn't possible to have everything."
He brought the blade up again and seemed to hesitate. He turned and looked carefully at her parents, then nodded to himself. His gaze reverted to the portrait.
He raised the blade again. "It wouldn't surprise me at all," he said, "if you weren't just a little bit keen on Hugo. He a wounded hero and all that. Romance has blossomed at many a bedside — and has died in many a bed." He laughed. "But the thing is, darling, you can't have it all." The blade sliced through the image of her father.
Kathleen cried out. The terrible fear had returned.
Her mother screamed. "No! No!" she said. "This is — this is wrong. It's all wrong. You must go. You can't do this."
Anger flared in McGonigal. He turned and thrust the automatic pistol in his hand at the bald-headed terrorist, then grabbed Kathleen's father by his bloodied white hair and hauled the elderly man to his feet.
"Fuck you," he said. "Fuck all you little people. You know nothing." He placed the edge of his knife under Kathleen's father's ear and cut and pulled, severing his throat from ear to ear.
There was a dreadful, rattling, gagging sound that was mercifully brief, and blood fountained from the severed arteries and cascaded over McGonigal and Kathleen.
When the blood had stopped pumping, McGonigal released his grip on the dead man's hair and the body sagged to the ground. Mary Fleming had fainted. Kathleen looked at him, deep in shock. He slapped her face.
"I have little time," he said. "Your mother is next. It's your choice."
It was several minutes before Kathleen could speak. McGonigal used the time to wash himself off and lay the hospital plans out on a table in the living room. Then Kathleen told him almost everything she knew.
Her fingers still smeared with her father's blood, she outlined the security procedures and marked out the layout of Fitzduane floor and the location of the control zone and other security procedures. She was questioned again and again, and finally McGonigal was satisfied. It all tied together with what he already knew. Kathleen was completely broken. They always broke.
When it was all over, he placed his pistol against Mary Fleming's head, but at the last second took his hand off the trigger. Hostages were handy in this kind of situation. They could be disposed of after the operation had gone down.
Kathleen had stripped off her cloak and uniform and was now huddled in a terry-cloth bathrobe in a state of shock. Her skin was cold and clammy. Her gaze was unfocused.
McGonigal was looking at her and mentally undressing her when the telephone rang for the first time since they had arrived.
9
ConnemaraRegionalHospital
February 1
Fitzduane looked at his visitor with affection.
He was very, very fond of the Bernese detective.
The Bear had slimmed a little after he had met Katia — his first wife had died in a traffic accident — but had now reverted to his normal shape. Fitzduane was relieved. Katia
was a lovely woman and meant well, but the Bear was not really destined by nature to be lean and mean and to dine off bean sprouts. He was kind of big — well, closer to massive in truth — and round and gruff and had a heart of gold. And he was a good friend. Fitzduane valued his friends.
The Bear gave him a hug — a gentle hug. Fitzduane was not wearing his Skunkworks T-shirt that day, so the visible bandages inspired caution. Even so, a ‘gentle’ hug from the Bear caused him to wince slightly. The main hazard was the Bear's shoulder holster. It contained a very large lump of metal.
"Men don't hug in Ireland," said Fitzduane, who enjoyed the cultural contrasts between the Swiss and the Irish. We're not really a very touchy-feely nation. It's something to do with the church and sex and guilt, I think. What's the hardware?"
The Bear removed the largest automatic pistol Fitzduane had ever seen. "Everybody in Europe tends to use 9mm because that is what everybody uses. The manufacturers are tooled up for it. The ammunition is relatively cheap because of economies of scale. The round is easy to shoot because it has a good range and a nice, flat trajectory and doesn't kick like your mother-in-law. And you can fit fifteen rounds or more in a magazine, so you can generate some serious firepower. Everybody's happy.
"But the problem with the 9mm," he continued, "is that it lacks stopping power. Analysis of actual gunfights in the States shows that a hit on a vital spot puts the victim out of action only about fifty percent of the time where 9mm is used, as opposed to over ninety percent when a .45 is involved."
Fitzduane was beginning to think that this conversation was somewhat lacking in tact. He remembered that he had only recently been shot. Still, the subject seemed to be doing the Bear some good. "So use a .45," he said helpfully.
"Aha!" said the Bear triumphantly, "so one might think. But..." He paused.
"But?" said Fitzduane.
"But..." said the Bear. He paused again.
Fitzduane felt as if he was in a slow tennis match and should be flicking his head from side to side to watch the shots. "But?" he said again. He couldn't resist it.
Fitzduane 02 - Rules of The Hunt Page 13