Rules of The Hunt f-2

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  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.

  "What that English expression about the importance of detail?" said the Bear.

  It occurred to Fitzduane that if any nation should know about detail, it was the Swiss. "The devil is in the detail," he said.

  "Exactly," said the Bear. He raised his huge automatic in demonstration.

  A nurse came in carrying a kidney basin containing something unpleasant. Fitzduane had developed a profound dislike of kidney basins. Either he was being sick into one or a syringe was being transported in the damn thing, with some part of his anatomy as its destination. He was generally off needles. And kidney basins were what they used, he had been told, to carry away bits of him that had been cut out. These were not nice thoughts.

  The nurse screamed and dropped the tray.

  The Bear ignored her. "The problem with the .45," he said, "is that it hasn't got the range or the penetrating power. It is a big bullet with loads of shock value, but it doesn't have the velocity."

  The door smashed open. A Ranger stood there with an Aug Steyr automatic rifle in his hands. The Bear ignored him, too.

  Fitzduane suddenly noticed that he was in the line of fire. It would be ridiculous to be killed by some gung-ho idiot in the higher purpose of saving his life. Also, he had been shot up enough for one year.

  "DON'T FUCKING WELL SHOOT!" he shouted.

  "WHY THE FUCK NOT?" shouted the Ranger. Fitzduane looked at him in shock. He couldn't instantly think of a good reply. This was a ridiculous thing to have to debate. He just glared at the Ranger and then relaxed. The man was grinning. It was Grady, who knew the Bear.

  "So," said the Bear triumphantly, "I looked for a cartridge which would combine the strengths of the 9mm and the .45 without the disadvantages. I wanted stopping power, flat trajectory, good penetration, range, and sheer shootability. I wanted a nice big magazine."

  He released the magazine from his weapon. "It's a 10mm Desert Eagle. Trust the Israelis to know their weapons."

  It was then he noticed the Calico in its holster clipped to Fitzduane's bed. "What's that?" he said. Fitzduane showed him.

  "And the caliber?" said the Bear.

  "I don't want to steal your thunder," said Fitzduane, who couldn’t help grinning. "10mm."

  "Oh," said the Bear, a little sadly.

  * * * * *

  Kathleen, exhausted from the night shift and the shock of her ordeal, was dozing when the front doorbell rang.

  She awoke feeling sick and disoriented, but associating the familiar sound with help, with good news, with some positive development. Visitors were a regular feature of the Fleming household. Neighbors dropping in for a cup of tea were always welcome. Traditional Irish hospitality had not been eroded by television. In fact, they had no television. This was not from some deeply felt conviction. It was merely that the nearby mountains made adequate TV reception impossible.

  The chair she sat on and the carpet were saturated and sticky with drying blood. The body on the floor, half covered with a newspaper, was her father. Shock hit her again, and she started to retch.

  "Shut up, you cow, if you know what's good for you," said the terrorist by the window.

  There was the sound of animated conversation from the hall, which continued for several minutes. Then the door opened and the leader, Paddy, came in. He moved to one side and gestured to others behind him to enter.

  Two other men entered the room, and then a figure who looked singularly out of place. Unlike the others, who looked Irish and were dressed in casual clothes, the man standing in the doorway was smartly dressed in a dark suit and white shirt with a club tie. His shoes were highly polished. And he was Asian, Chinese or Japanese.

  "This is the nurse?" he said.

  "The very same," said McGonigal.

  "And you are satisfied with her information?" said the Japanese. His accent was pronounced, but he spoke clearly.

  McGonigal smiled. "Oh yes," he said. "The wee girl saw reason" — he reached out and grabbed Kathleen's mother and again the knife was in his hand — "and there's still one blood relation to go." Kathleen swallowed a scream. "You told us everything, didn't you?"

  Kathleen nodded weakly.

  "And the phone call?" said the Japanese.

  "She answered it," said McGonigal, "with me listening in. It was the matron inquiring could she do day shift next week."

  Kathleen swallowed the bile in her throat and then spoke hesitantly. "We work a rota system. Sometimes someone is sick or needs time off and the matron makes the arrangements."

  The Japanese looked at her for a little time before speaking again. Something about the phone call bothered him. "What time was the call?" he said to McGonigal.

  "Twenty past nine, something like that," answered McGonigal. "Why? I heard the whole conversation. There was nothing to it. It was just as the girl said."

  The Japanese was still staring intently at Kathleen. He was about to decide whether the operation went ahead or not, and this time he was going with the assault team. He didn't want to put his life on the line if the operation was blown. At the same time, the assignment must be completed. It was a matter of duty.

  "It's a small hospital, the woman had just come off night shift," said the Japanese. "The matron would know that and would expect her to be asleep at the time she called." He slapped Kathleen hard across the face. "Is that not so? So why did she call?"

  Kathleen spat blood. It was clear the bastard had never worked in a hospital, did not understand the pressures, the need to perform a task now. It was clear he did not know her matron. Inside herself, she smiled. He was a clever little sod, but he was on the wrong track.

  "Losing sleep is pretty normal in our business," she said. "People don't get ill on just a nine-to-five basis."

  "The caller — the matron — apologized when she called," said McGonigal. "She said that she had actually rung up to leave a message with the woman's mother. Our lady friend here" — he indicated Kathleen — "actually said very little. Just ‘it doesn't matter’ and ‘yes’ and a couple of phrases like that. Of course, she sounded tired, but then she would, wouldn't she? She was just off duty and games with her boyfriend." He grinned lasciviously at Kathleen.

  Sasada was torn between the logic of what had been said and his instincts. In truth, nothing could be more normal than a brief phone call about a rota change, yet he would have felt much happier if this woman had never been allowed near the phone at all. Despite her rough handling and the killing of her father in front of her and the manifest shock that this had induced, there was still the faintest spark of defiance in her eyes. This was a strong, resourceful woman. Could she somehow have managed to warn the hospital?

  "Why did you allow this person" — he pointed at Kathleen — "near the phone at all?" he said to McGonigal. He needed time to think.

  McGonigal shrugged. "I've been through this hostage business before," he said. "The thing is to keep things as normal as possible from an outsider's perspective. Anybody who knows these people would have expected the phone to be answered. Secondly, I didn't want some neighbor calling round because she couldn't get through."

  He looked squarely at the Japanese. "Anyway, man, my hide is on the line, too, and I'm telling you — she didn't say anything. There was no keyword, no password, no unusual phrase. I'm sure of it." His northern accent became more pronounced as he emphasized his words. There was a noticeable increase in tension in the room.

  "Why didn't you
use the mother?" said Sasada, indicating Mary Fleming, who sat motionless on the sofa, her face a blank, her eyes unfocused.

  "Jaysus, Sasada, just look at her," said McGonigal. "She would have sounded like shit on the phone. There was no way she could have come across normal."

  Sasada was convinced by McGonigal's denial. The reality of the situation was that the IRAP were vastly more experienced at this kind of thing than he was. The latest wave of IRA violence had been operating without a break for the best part of a generation. The younger members had grown up in a culture of violence. They had never known anything else. They learned about the techniques of terrorism in much the same way as the young in a normal society learned to drive.

  He drew a knife from under his coat. Its blade was very slightly curved and the tip was angled. The shape, though much smaller, was very like that of a Japanese sword.

  He is going to kill me, thought Kathleen. Sasada: I now know his name: I know what he looks like; I can identify them all. There is no way that they will let us live. A terrible sadness and feeling of regret swept over her, so strong that it dominated even her fear.

  She thought of all the things in life she had not done and wanted to do. She thought of Fitzduane and his smile and his injured body that she so wanted to love and be loved by. She thought of her mother, who would now need her more than ever. She thought of the pain of dying at the hands of these terrible people, and suddenly felt weak with terror. She closed her eyes to try to mask her fear. If she was going to die, it would be with some dignity.

  She felt the knife at her throat and then the warm trickle of her own blood.

  * * * * *

  Studying a map in one of the empty private rooms on Fitzduane's floor, Kilmara silently cursed the British and their road-building sins of the past centuries — most of their bloody little roads were narrow, winding things, but there were too many of them to block — and reviewed his options.

  He was in an isolated hospital in an isolated part of the country with a target that was undesirable to move, and no safer location to move him to anyway. His defensive manpower was decidedly limited, particularly if unarmed police were factored out. There were too many roads and back lanes to block. He did not know how and when the opposition would strike.

  He did not actually know anything. He suspected a great deal. Still, in the counterterrorism business you mostly worked with bits and pieces. You rarely had the luxury of complete intelligence. If you fucked up, well, you fucked up. People might die, but the world went on. One had to be philosophical. People killing each other was not globally threatening, like destroying the ozone layer. It was actually quite normal. But it was inconvenient for those involved.

  Kilmara did not like to involve Fitzduane, who was supposed to be recovering from serious wounds and resting, but it was hard to deny that he had a vested interest in the outcome of what was happening. Also, Hugo had an excellent tactical sense. He had fought his own wars and covered others for twenty years. He had seen it done right and he had seen it done wrong, and he had learned from this experience in a way few people did.

  As he reentered Fitzduane's room, Kilmara looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after ten in the morning. Fitzduane was being examined by a doctor and two nurses, and the Ranger general was peremptorily asked to wait outside. Ten minutes later, the doctor emerged.

  Kilmara tried to enter but was again shooed away by the nurses. Eventually, they emerged. One held a partially covered kidney basin containing something bloodstained. The other held a similar basin in which there was a syringe.

  It crossed his mind that Fitzduane, though now lucid and apparently recovering, was still a very sick man. He hesitated by the door. It then occurred to him that his friend could be a very dead man if they didn’t come up with something pretty soon.

  Fitzduane was propped up in his amazing new bed, eyes closed, looking disconcertingly pale. He had looked much better before his recent visit by the medical team. His bed, on the other hand, was beautifully made. The corners were a joy to contemplate. The sheets were crisp and smelled of starch. The blankets — taut, tucked, and without blemish — would have made a marine drill instructor's lip tremble.

  Fitzduane opened his eyes. He no longer looked dead, which was reassuring. "Anything new?"

  "We've had more intel in," said Kilmara. He hesitated.

  "Want to tell me about it?" said Fitzduane.

  "I'm not overburdened with good news," said Kilmara. "You stand a good chance of being cut off in your bullet-ridden prime."

  "As in killed?" said Fitzduane with a faint smile. "These people are obsessive."

  "I would guess that to be the intention," said Kilmara. "I'd like to move you, but where?"

  "Tell all," said Fitzduane, and there was no humor in his voice."

  "We heard a rumor a day or so ago that the IRAP were in the area. No big deal, though these are nasty people. Early this morning the guards picked up two of their local sympathizers with a scanner. They haven't talked yet, but a list of keywords was found on them — and you feature. Add to that, there is Kathleen. It's a standard ploy to suborn someone from the inside — the IRA have been doing it for years — so I arranged for all staff who entered this zone to ring in with a keyword when they went home and before they came back on duty. And Kathleen didn't ring this morning."

  "You didn't tell me about this," said Fitzduane.

  "You were supposed to be kept free of hassle," said Kilmara. "It was a procedure, nothing more. I didn't want you worrying about things you could do fuck-all about."

  "Kathleen could have forgotten," said Fitzduane.

  "People don't forget these things," said Kilmara. "This is life-and-death stuff, and I know how to get their attention. And they are reminded every time they go off duty. Anyway, we made a check call. She was very subdued — and no keyword."

  "So that's how you knew," said Fitzduane.

  Kilmara nodded. "Well, we still don't know. Strong suspicion is the phrase."

  "Shit," said Fitzduane.

  "The IRAP don't have anything against you?" said Kilmara.

  "Not that I know," said Fitzduane. "I have never run across them before in any shape or form, and I steer well clear of the North."

  Kilmara slid a piece of fax paper across to Fitzduane. "I faxed Dublin an hour ago and this came back." The paper showed a Japanese getting into a taxi outside a familiar-looking Dublin hotel.

  "You're losing me," said Fitzduane.

  "This is a small country and an island," said Kilmara, "with a small homogenous population and a terrorist problem right on our doorstep. Accordingly, the security services can — and do — watch the comings and goings of our visitors fairly closely, and we keep a particularly keen eye on the big hotels."

  Fitzduane nodded. Terrorism was normally associated with ideology, but it was surprising how often money entered the picture. Many terrorists liked to live well, arguing that since they put their lives on the line they deserved a good standard of living. A further justification for frequenting large expensive hotels was their supposed anonymity. In point of fact, these patterns of behavior allowed the security forces to focus closely on such well-frequented habitats.

  Luxury hotels were particularly easy to monitor. They wanted to keep on the right side of the authorities. Rooms could be bugged, the telephone system could be tapped, and television cameras could be emplaced with relative ease. Finally, the reception staff were easy to reach an accommodation with. And hotel staff notice things. They are trained to. That is how they respond immediately to a guest's needs and it is how they ensure that they are well-tipped. And the security services tipped even better for the right information.

  "A man with a Northern accent inquired at the Burlington reception for one of their guests, a Japanese. The accent rang bells and the combination was sufficiently unusual to get security to photograph the Asian. The Northerner was subsequently identified as Paddy McGonigal, the leader of the IRAP. The Japanese is a gu
y calling himself Sasada. He is actually a member of — guess who? Our old friends, Yaibo."

  Fitzduane was silent, trying to absorb these latest developments. The thought of Kathleen's plight made him feel helpless and guilty. Physically, he felt weaker than normal. The doctor had lectured him on taking it easier and had not been happy with his self-imposed work routine. He spoke again to Kilmara. "Any news of the Bear?" he said.

  "Nothing," said Kilmara. "And he's out of radio contact, thanks to these hills. He's got one armed detective with him and two unarmed uniformed cops. He'll do a reconnaissance. If it's a hostage situation, he won't be able to do much more except contain the situation until reinforcements arrive. Unfortunately, that's not going to be for some time."

  "How long?" said Fitzduane.

  "Two to three hours at least," said Kilmara, "possibly longer. And then only after we're sure they are needed. The problem is, the serious crime boys have a major operation on and the nearest army unit is tied-up with a search on the border. There was a shooting there last night. We're not high on the list of priorities. We've got suspicion. They are dealing with ongoing operations."

  Resources were a constant problem for the Irish security services. The mainly unarmed police and army together totaled not much more than twenty thousand, and only a small percentage of these were equipped to deal with heavily armed terrorists. Not unnaturally, they were concentrated in centers of population and likely trouble spots, like the border. The poor quality of the road system hindered fast vehicle deployment. Helicopters, the obvious solution, were in chronically short supply. And to further exacerbate the helicopter shortage, they were often monopolized by politicians visiting their constituencies. In the real world, chasing votes got a higher priority than hunting down terrorists.

  "If they've got Kathleen," said Fitzduane, "they are going to make her talk. That means they'll know where to hit, location and number of guards, weaponry — basically everything they need."