Rules of The Hunt
( Fitzduane - 2 )
Victor O'reilly
In a masterful tour de force of shattering intrigue, O'Reilly joins the ranks of Robert Ludlum and Ken Follett with a story of fatal games and hidden players. When photographer Hugo Fitzduane finds a hanged body, it's ruled a suicide. But when the body of a terrorist is found with the same strange tattoo, Fitzduane is plunged into a firestorm of violence as he tries to expose the link.
Rules of The Hunt
Hugo Fitzduane 02
by
V i c t o r O ' R e i l l y
Prologue
Off Fitzduane's Island, Ireland
January 1
The killing team needed a cover story for their presence.
As Japanese in a Western environment, they were more likely to be noticed and remembered.
They decided to come in as a film crew. Gold had been discovered in the region amid some of the most scenic terrain of the West of Ireland, and there was controversy as to whether it should be mined. It was a classic environmental issue and attracted international media attention. Film crews came and went, and most hired some kind of aerial transport. Ireland looks glorious from the air.
The team carried out their initial reconnaissance in a four-seater Piper Aztec. Discretion minimized their amount of flight time over the island itself, but it was sufficient for them to become comfortable with the lay of the land. On the second day, to allay suspicion, they telephoned Fitzduane's castle, explained the story they were working on, and requested permission to film from the ground to add some local color. They were politely refused.
The island itself was like a finger, ten kilometers long and four kilometers across at its widest, pointing west into the Atlantic toward America some three thousand miles away. It was joined to the mainland by a bridge set into the cliffs over a treacherous-looking divide; land access elsewhere looked impossible. The jagged coastline consisted of high, overhanging cliffs or, in the few places where the fall of land was more gentle, was guarded by concealed rocks and changing currents.
From the air they could see shadows of darkness in the sea and in two locations the remains of ancient wrecks. The sea seemed beautiful, moody, and dangerous. It was not a hospitable-looking spot.
There were two castles on the island.
The westward castle, Draker, was a sprawling Victorian Gothic structure which they knew had once been an exclusive school but which was now boarded up.
The castle nearer the landward side was Fitzduane's castle, Duncleeve.
It was this that interested them. It stood on a rocky bluff at one end of a bay. Inland was a freshwater lake overlooked by a small, white, thatched cottage.
Their reconnaissance covered many things: access, terrain, population, security, cover, threat assessment, and weather conditions. But their main concern was with confirming the killing ground.
They booked the helicopter and a faster, longer-range aircraft for the last two days. They explained that they were on a deadline and had to fly some exposed film to make a connection in London. Their credentials were double-checked by a cautious reservations clerk but were verified as satisfactory.
They would contour-fly in at fifty feet or less by helicopter, and land on the north side of the island in a clearing to seaward of one of the hills. They would be neither heard nor seen. They would then proceed on foot to the spot they had chosen. Fitzduane tended to vary the route he took on his daily ride, but there was one spot he normally visited either coming or going.
The child and his desires were the man's weakness. A watcher had monitored his movements for several weeks before the killing team had moved in.
The team members were experienced, well-trained, and totally motivated. After the hit, they would escape on foot to the waiting helicopter, fly to the aircraft, and enplane immediately for France. There, they would vanish.
It was now down to implementation and that intangible — luck.
* * * * *
Tokyo, Japan
The bodyguard tensed as he saw the gates in the outer perimeter wall swing open and the gleaming black limousine enter the drive.
The gates should not have opened without his checking the visitor on the TV monitor and, even more to the point, without his activating the release of the electronic lock. The master received a constant stream of visitors and petitioners at certain specified times of the day, so black limousines were more the rule than the exception. But this was seven in the morning, and the master's insistence on privacy while he bathed and prepared himself for the day was well-known.
It was a running joke in the circles of power that more careers were made and broken by the decisions made by Hodama-san while he soaked in his traditional copper bath than by the rest of the government put together. The joke had more punch when you realized that Hodama held no official position.
The drive through the formal gardens to the single-story traditional Japanese house was short. Even though KazuoHodama was one of the wealthiest men in Japan, custom dictated a certain modesty of lifestyle. Overt displays of power and wealth were frowned upon. Further, Hodama's simple house and grounds were in the exclusive Akasaka district of Tokyo. The ownership of a property at such a location was a message in itself. Tokyo property prices are the highest in the world. Hodama's dwelling and grounds, not much more extensive than a typical American ranch-style bungalow and yard, were valued conservatively at tens of millions of dollars.
The bodyguard, a grizzled veteran in his sixties, was kept on less for his physical skills than for his memory and sense of protocol. Threats were not seriously feared. Those days were long over. Hodama's power and influence were too great. Instead, the bodyguard was primarily concerned with the procedural niceties of controlling the flow of visitors. Appearances and appropriate behavior were of enormous importance. The wrong greeting or an inadequate bow by one of Hodama's retainers could be misinterpreted, and damage the harmony of the relationship between visitor and Hodama himself. And Hodama attached great importance to his relationships. The people he knew and influenced, the people he flattered and pampered and manipulated and betrayed, were the basis of his power.
With these thoughts in his mind, and concerned not to upset some dignitary, the bodyguard took no action for the few seconds it took for the long black vehicle with its shining chrome and tinted windows to sweep around in front of the house and purr gently to a halt. The sight of the license plate and the discreet symbol it bore was instantly reassuring. The bodyguard relaxed, immensely relieved that he had not initiated any precipitative action and caused embarrassment and loss of face. The opening of the perimeter gates was now explained. The limousine belonged to one of Hodama's intimates.
The driver's door opened almost as soon as the vehicle came to a halt, and the chauffeur, immaculate in navy uniform and white gloves, jumped out and opened the rear passenger door.
The bodyguard had also been hastening down to open the passenger door, as one of the gestures of respect he would employ for the distinguished visitor. Now, his first actions rendered unnecessary by the speed of the chauffeur, he stumbled to a halt and bowed deeply, his eyes cast down in respect, as the limousine door was opened.
A pair of expensively trousered legs emerged.
Something was wrong. Decades of bowing had made the bodyguard expert at making quick assessments with his head at waist height. Something just did not look right with the trousers. His master's visitor was very particular and consistent. His suits were exclusively English-tailored, and these trousers were definitely of Italian material and cut.
There was the sound of spitting — three distinct short spitting sounds — and the bodyguard's uncertainties were abruptly
terminated, as three 9-mm hollow-point bullets entered the top of his skull, expanded as designed as they smashed through the bone, and then wreaked fatal havoc as they ricocheted around inside.
The bow became abruptly even more respectful until gravity exerted itself to the full and the bodyguard's corpse collapsed in an undignified heap. Blood from his head wound trickled its way into the carefully raked gravel of a Zen stone garden.
The chauffeur spoke one word into a miniature two-way radio, and seconds later another black limousine sped into the grounds of the Hodama residence and the gates were closed. A total of ten attackers had now emerged from the two cars. Their sureness of movement revealing much training and rehearsal, the attackers swiftly surrounded the house and then entered simultaneously at one command.
Inside the house, Hodama was looking forward to the simple pleasure of a good long soak in a hot bath. Although U.S. bombers had destroyed the original property which had been on the site and the house was merely a meticulous reconstruction, the bath itself was an original and had been specially built into the new house, which was otherwise equipped with the most modern of plumbing.
Special construction had been required because the bath, a heavy, open-topped copper cylinder with a curved base that made it look more like a deep cauldron than a Western bath, was heated by a small fire located directly underneath it. For convenience to the external woodpile, the firebox was placed in an outside wall and was accessible only from the outside. Inside the bathroom, the copper bath was built in flush to the tiled floor. Operation was a matter of filling the bath with water, lighting the fire until the water reached the required temperature, putting out the fire, and then — having carefully tested the water again — stepping gingerly into the steaming water and sitting on the built-in wooden seat to luxuriate in the soothing heat.
Hodama was deeply attached to his copper bath. He liked to say that it had been in his family for more generations than he could count. He could sit in it with the water up to his chin and his legs dangling and think in a way that did not seem to be possible in a chilly, drafty, low-slung Western bath.
That morning, his manservant, Amika, who had the responsibility for lighting the fire and making the other preparations, had just told Hodama that the bath was ready.
Slowly, Hodama shuffled into the tiled bathroom. He was feeling mentally alert but physically every one of his eighty-four years. He no longer slept much and had already been working for several hours. The soothing water beckoned.
Hodama was wearing a light cotton yukata, a form of kimono, with the left side over the right side. Right over left was used only for corpses. The yukata was held together by a simple obi. Over this he wore a haori, a half coat like a cardigan. At his age he was susceptible to the cold, particularly in the chill hours of early morning. On his feet he wore sandals.
The bathroom was a good-sized room with a place to change his clothes and a massage table, in addition to the washing and changing areas. When he was younger he had enjoyed many women on that couch. Now it was used merely for its formal purpose.
Amika helped Hodama to undress, hung up his clothes, then followed him across to the bathing area. Wooden boards placed across the tiles allowed drainage. There Hodama sat on a small wooden stool and soaped himself down. When he was ready, Amika ladled water from a wooden bucket over him until the last trace of soap was removed. He would enter the bath clean and thoroughly rinsed, in the Japanese fashion. The idea of soaking in his own effluvia, as Westerners did, was repellent.
The water temperature was perfect. Hodama smiled in anticipation and nodded approvingly at Amika. The manservant acknowledged the look with the deferential smile and slight bow that was appropriate for his status as a long-serving retainer, and then the front of his face dissolved and he leaped headfirst into the steaming copper bath.
Crimson leached into the water.
Hodama gave a cry and staggered back in shock. He felt himself being seized and then flung facedown on the massage table. His hands and feet were held and then bound with something hard and thin that cut into his flesh. He was then hauled to his feet.
Men in dark business suits, three or four that he could see, their faces covered in hoods of black cloth, faced him. Two, at least, held silenced weapons.
There was a sound of a heavy metal object dropping onto the wooden laths and someone started tying something to his feet. He looked down and saw a cast-iron weight.
Blood drained from his face. Suddenly he realized what was about to happen, and his fear was total.
"Who are you?" he managed to croak. "What is it you want? Don't you know who I am?"
One of the figures nodded grimly. "Oh yes, Hodama-san, we know exactly who you are." He gave an exaggerated bow. "That is precisely the point."
Two of the figures went to the edge of the bath, crouched down, then hauled Amika's dead body out of the bath and flung it into a corner of the room.
Hodama stood there bound, naked, slight, and wizened — smaller by several inches than the men around him — and tried to preserve what dignity he could. The heat increased in the room. The water in the bath began to bubble gently. As the bubbles increased, his composure collapsed.
"I have power," he screamed. "You cannot do this and hope to escape. It is madness…"
The figure who had bowed made a gesture and one of the other figures hit Hodama very hard in the stomach. He doubled up and fell to his knees and retched. Through a haze of pain, he looked up. There was something familiar about the figure. Both the laugh and the voice had struck a chord. "Who are you?" he said quietly. "I have to know."
The figure shook his head. "You have to die," he said grimly. "That is all you still have to do." He made another gesture.
Two of the hooded figures lifted Hodama, suspended him over the copper bath, and slowly lowered him into the bloody, boiling water.
1
Fitzduane's Island, Ireland
January 1
HugoFitzduane placed his Swiss-made Sig automatic pistol on a high shelf in the bathroom and reflected that firearms and small children did not mix well. On further consideration, he decided that much the same could be said about more than a few adults.
For his own part he had adjusted to being under terrorist threat as well as one reasonably could — security precautions were time-consuming and tedious — but then Peter had arrived on the scene, a small, pink, rather creased-looking little package with a dusting of blond fuzz at the noisier end, and Fitzduane had started looking at the world very differently.
He tested the water with his hand. He had read in one of the baby books that the right tool for this was an elbow, but that seemed a ridiculous way to go about such a straightforward activity, and Peter normally seemed quite satisfied with the result. If he wasn't, he yelled. Children, Fitzduane had found, were believers in direct and immediate communication.
"Boots," called Fitzduane, trying to sound stern and in command of the situation, "bath time." He added a threat. "Come here or I'll tickle your toes." Peter's nickname had evolved from the consequences of the weather in the West of Ireland. Given his fondness for running around outside and splashing into puddles and playing with mud, Peter had learned to ask for his red Wellington boots on one of his first determined forays into speech.
There was no response. Fitzduane checked the bathroom closet and behind the laundry basket, half-expecting to see a small, blond-headed three-year-old crouched down and shaking with barely suppressed giggles.
Nothing.
He felt mildly concerned. The castle in which they lived, Fitzduane's ancestral home on a remote island off the West of Ireland, was not large as such places go, but it had stone stairs and battlements and a high wall around the courtyard, and there were many locations where a child could come to harm. From the point of view of a nervous parent, Duncleeve was not the ideal place to bring up a child.
Frankly, Fitzduane was surprised that any of his ancestors had made it to maturity. An a
ccidental long drop onto the rocks below or into the freezing waters of the Atlantic seemed much more likely. But the Fitzduanes had tended to be a resolute and hardy lot, and they had survived.
He opened the bathroom door and looked around the dressing room. Still nothing.
The dressing room door-handle began to turn very slowly.
"Boots!" called Fitzduane. "Come here, you little monster."
There was silence. A sudden chill swept over Fitzduane, as disbelief battled intuition. He had feared the threat for so long, but never seriously believed in it. Now, perhaps, it had become reality.
He stepped back into the bathroom, picked up the Sig, slid it out of its holster, and removed the safety catch. A round was already in the chamber.
His mind ran through the available options. The windows of both the bathroom and dressing room had twentieth-century double glazing but had been designed as firing slits by the original Norman architect. No way in and certainly no way out for Fitzduane's six-foot-two frame.
The dressing-room door-handle began to turn slowly. Then it slid back noisily, as if suddenly released.
Fitzduane didn't think; he reacted at the potential threat to the person he loved most in the world. He flung the door open, his weapon traversing an arc of fire that took in the whole corridor. There was nothing. He looked down. The muddiest little person he had ever seen stood there, dripping. It didn't look much like anyone he knew, though the boots and body language seemed familiar.
"Daddy!" said the mud boy indignantly.
Fitzduane felt weak with relief. He slipped the safety catch back on the Sig and looked at the mud boy. "Who are you?" he said sternly.
"DADDY!" shouted the mud boy. "I'm PeterFizz…" He paused, a look of concentration on his face, to assess the situation. He had a problem with the Fitzduane part of his name. He brightened. "I'm BOOTS," he shouted.
Rules of The Hunt f-2 Page 1