She thought of Boots, now staying with his grandmother, and laughed out loud. She missed the little monster, and she knew Hugo did too. He loved children. He had asked how big the little baby inside her was and when she had spaced her hands just so and said it was about the length of a good cigar, he christened the fetus "Romeo/Julietta." The name covered both the options he had pointed out.
But men weren't perfect. He had soon shortened the name for convenience to Romeo. To balance matters out, Kathleen used Julietta.
Neither really minded what sex the new arrival might be just as long as he or she was the child of Hugo and Kathleen Fitzduane.
*****
The long-wheelbase limousine that had picked up Fitzduane from the apartment had tinted windows.
The heft of the door confirmed his initial impression. It was armored. ‘Bulletproof’ was overly optimistic in a world where armor-piercing RPG launchers were part of every fanatic's standard equipment. Technology, unfortunately, helped all sides.
Based on what Cochrane had said when he had called, Fitzduane expected to see a couple of hard-faced heavies in the front seats. Instead, a quite stunning redhead in her late twenties had ushered him into the vehicle, and when the driver turned he saw that the slim neck and smooth blond hair belonged, not to a rather elegant-looking male with a talented barber, but to a woman as similarly attractive as the redhead.
If this was security in Washington, D.C., he was sorry it had taken him so long to get here.
"Dana," said the redhead with the kind of stunning smile that could blow away a line of marines, "and this is Texas."
The blond head bobbed a greeting. She was otherwise occupied accelerating the limo through Arlington as if were a sports car instead of multiple tons of armored deadweight.
The dividing panel slid shut. This was a pair who focused on their work, which was currently the matter of keeping his body in one piece. Fitzduane thought there was a great deal to be said for travel. There were some sights and sounds and customs he really did not run across much back in Ireland. Dana and Texas certainly came into that category.
The limousine purred on. The internal loudspeaker pinged tactfully and then Texas's voice cut in. She managed to combine crystal-clear diction with a mellifluous twang.
"Lee asked me to point out Langley as we passed. If you look to your right, Mr. Fitzduane, you'll see the turnoff for the CIA. A short time back, an Iranian pulled up beside a row of cars waiting to turn and went down the line and shot each driver in turn with a Kalashnikov. Four dead. The CIA said it was an isolated incident."
"Wasn't it?" said Fitzduane.
"No, sir," said Texas quietly, and there was a further ping as the speaker shut off.
Fitzduane stopped thinking about voices like corn syrup and wondered again about the late Patricio Nicanor.
The assault was being passed off by the administration as an outrage against the subcommittee by Japanese extremists. The fact that a Mexican citizen had been among those killed had been attributed no special significance. This was an attack by the Japanese Red Army against the United States of America. Senor Nicanor's death was a regrettable accident. He certainly had not been specifically singled out.
It seemed to Fitzduane that being manually decapitated with the equivalent of a razor-sharp cheese wire was about as specific and unaccidental as you could get. But clearly the administration did not want any attention focused on Mexico.
Why not? Because the administration wanted free trade with Mexico, and that meant presenting Mexico as an expanding democracy – which was not exactly the way things were.
And why had it been so important to kill Nicanor before he could talk?
*****
The turnoff was heavily wooded. The limo slowed and a pair of unmarked gates opened.
The limo entered and halted. The gates closed immediately behind them. They were on a paved drive carved out of the wooded terrain. The drive curved ahead of them and then vanished behind a bend.
"Mr. Fitzduane?" It was Texas's voice. "Could you please step out of the car?"
Fitzduane opened the door. He could see no guardhouse, nothing but trees, but he had a definite sense of being observed."
As he looked around, he noticed a hydraulically operated spiked vehicle barrier in front of the limo and a space beyond that, a rather deep space.
Forcing the barrier would not have been a good idea. This place was protected by the equivalent of a moat and who knew what else. Someone was very serious about security; very low key but very serious. The whole approach? Someone with an interesting mind.
"Mr. Fitzduane?" said Texas pleasantly. "When you're ready."
Fitzduane stepped back into the limo's air-conditioning with alacrity. Virginia summer weather was doubtless an acquired taste.
How had these people fought in this stuff? His respect for Grant and Lee and Longstreet and all their good people ramped up a notch or two. This was his mother's country, and it had been hard won.
The car surged forward.
*****
Fitzduane gazed around him.
He was in a room that screamed military.
Of operations. Of missions planned and implemented and of the consequences.
The V-shaped table, the bank of giant screens, the lectern for the briefer. And the security.
The security here was of the more traditional kind. Armed, uniformed guards outside the door. Dana and Texas vanished.
He was underground. The limo had dipped without warning. He had been told the Pentagon was like this. You could recognize all the people who really counted by their pale skins. They rarely saw daylight or their families.
Fitzduane interrupted his musings to examine a large version of the logo that he had noticed on the shoulder patches of the uniformed guards and various other locations as he was ushered in.
In this case the logo was incorporated in an embossed shield that was mounted on the light oak paneling just behind the central chair at the head of the V. It showed a black Vietnam-era Cobra helicopter gunship head-on against a dark blue background. The contrast was slight. The helicopter silhouette was almost invisible. At the base of the shield were the letters ‘STSF.’
"‘Son Tay Semper Fi’" explained Cochrane as he emerged from a nearly invisible door in the paneling. It hissed closed behind him. They were alone in the room.
Fitzduane did not feel a whole lot wiser. Son Tay had been a famous U.S. raid into North Vietnam during the Vietnam war to rescue American prisoners. The raid had been a military success except that the prisoners had already been moved.
Semper Fidelis. Literally, “Always faithful.” The motto of the marines. “Keep the faith,” in modern parlance.
Easy to say. Hard to do.
There was a persistent rumor that the CIA had known in advance about the removal of the prisoners but had not told the raiding party. They had not wanted the North Vietnamese to be upset, so went the rumor, because the peace negotiations were at a difficult stage.
Fitzduane was far from sure he believed the rumor, but felt the story said a great deal about the chronic internecine warfare inside the U.S. military and intelligence communities. And that was before the administration and Congress got into the picture.
"STR – the STR Corporation," said Cochrane, "was founded by a Son Tay raider called Grant Lamar. Grant felt there were things that needed to be done in defense of this country that traditional structures were not really well-equipped to do. Too much red tape, too much oversight, too much media attention. His judgment was correct. His operation has been very successful. There are quite a number of companies like STR in and around Washington, but Grant is a major player though little known outside the community. He prefers discretion to prominence."
"An interesting man," said Fitzduane.
"He is," said Cochrane simply, "and he is a friend, which is why we are meeting here. The Hill has become all too public recently."
"It's your party, Lee," said Fitzdu
ane.
Cochrane gave a slight smile. "I hope to change that, Hugo," he said, and Fitzduane felt conflicting emotions. There was the lure of the hunt, which brought a surge of adrenaline, and then there was an interjection of guilt and concern as he thought about Kathleen and Boots and Romeo and Julietta.
There were ventures he should not engage in now that he had a family. No matter how much he was tempted. He had, he knew, a high tolerance for risk, but for those who waited behind it was much worse.
Besides, he wanted to know without cheating which it would be. Romeo or Julietta. Boy or girl?
*****
The conference room had filled up somewhat, though nowhere near its full capacity.
Dan Warner and Maury were both there. Fitzduane had also been introduced to Grant Lamar, and then Cochrane had said he would introduce other people in the course of the briefing. He wanted to move matters along.
Since Maury was actually sitting down, Fitzduane surmised he must either know all the assembled company or be on Prozac. When Maury got through the initial introduction stage, he was actually quite affable. It was breaking the ice that seemed to freak him out. Yet Fitzduane warmed to him. As he had sensed during the terrorist attack, Maury was sound.
Cochrane, head down, standing behind the lectern to one side of a giant screen, cleared his throat. The sound system was working. The room became silent, expectant. He looked up.
"Three days ago, Patricio Nicanor and five staff members of the Task Group were killed and others wounded. The purpose of this meeting is to cover the events leading up to it, discuss our findings, and to implement an appropriate response. As we know, no action is being taken elsewhere, for reasons which we will be discussing. I shall be covering some ground most of us are already familiar with for the benefit of our guest from Ireland, Hugo Fitzduane. I think everyone here knows his track record in counterterrorist work."
There were approving nods and looks from various people around the table, and then Fitzduane caught the eye of a familiar-looking face. He was sure he had not met the man before, yet the cast of features undoubtedly rang a chord.
The man was in his forties, good-looking if somewhat overweight, with a tousled crop of graying black hair and a thick mustache. He wore half-glasses and looked over them when he spoke. He had the air of an academic. He eyed Fitzduane with some interest before turning back to Cochrane.
"The Task Force came into being because some of us were concerned that the United States of America was not taking terrorism seriously enough. And I would like to add that although as Americans our first concern is for this country, we feel many of our neighbors and friends face the same threats and we should work together to counter them."
Here Cochrane made a gesture of acknowledgment toward the Hispanic-looking academic, and with a shock Fitzduane realized who he was. The man was Valiente Zarra, the founder and head of the Popular Reform Party of Mexico. He was generally considered the one man who was capable of toppling the PRI – the ‘Pree,’ the current ruling party in Mexico. The party that had ruled Mexico through fair means, and others decidedly more dubious, since the thirties.
Media reports all described Zarra as ‘charismatic.’
Right now he looked tired, as if he had slept in his clothes, but interested. Even involved. And this was significant, because the Mexican presidential elections were only months away and Valiente should have had other priorities than socializing secretly in Washington.
Fitzduane had strong doubts that ‘socializing’ was the appropriate term. He was more of the view that Zarra needed something. Needed it quite badly.
His followers, who worked with the same passion that supporters in the past had worked for John Kennedy, were known as ‘Zarristas.’
The Congress of the United States of America, Japanese terrorists, Mexico, and the Zarristas. It was becoming a decidedly rich stew. Nonetheless, Fitzduane had the strong feeling that there were more ingredients and he could just end up as one of them.
An Irish stew? Personally, he hated the stuff.
*****
Cochrane was speaking.
"About three years ago, we started paying attention to Mexico and particularly to the state of Tecuno. There was the Camerena affair where a U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration agent was kidnapped, tortured, and killed. Definite links between narcotics and terrorism were established, and the term ‘narcoterrorism’ came into use.
"The upshot was that more and more terrorist activities and incidents seemed to have some links with Tecuno. However, these leads were either never firm or merely a link in a chain of locations. It always seemed to be ‘soft intelligence.’ Nonetheless, connections were established with drug smuggling, money laundering, forgery, and incidents of terrorist violence and political assassination. It began to look to us as if Tecuno was becoming a haven for terrorists, much like Cuba, or East Germany when it was around, or Libya or the BekaaValley.
"It did not occur to us at the time that Tecuno was becoming much more than this. It was not merely an element in these various problems. Tecuno was the very source of such activities.
"But we might still be in the dark if it had not been for our good friend Professor Valiente Zarra." Cochrane gestured toward the Mexican presidential candidate. "I will let the professor explain his perspective."
Zarra stood up and went behind the lectern. He adjusted his half-glasses and then focused on his audience.
It was true, thought Fitzduane, the man did have something. There was the quality of a leader about him and that intangible called integrity. And when Zarra began to speak, there was also that extraordinary, quite compelling voice.
As a speaker, even in English rather than his native Spanish, well practiced after two decades of university lecturing, Valiente Zarra was dynamite. And charming. And, regardless of his academic background, highly political.
"My friends, I will start by making a confession. In my country we are rightly proud of our heritage, and it is not always a good thing to admit that one was educated for a time in the United States. Well, I attended Wharton for several years and that was how I met Lee. We were at university together. It is something, of course, I try to hide in my home country," he said with a smile, "but it is the reason I am here today.
"My interest in the state of Tecuno, senors, started off as a pure matter of politics. What I – my people – have discovered is why we are here today."
He spoke for another twenty minutes.
The punch line made the blood drain from Fitzduane's face.
Reiko Oshima!
It was the name of someone he had been absolutely sure was dead. Whom he had killed.
The name of a Japanese terrorist leader who had been the lover of the Hangman. Who had killed one of his closest friends, Christian de Guevain. Who had been the leader of the fanatical group Yaibo – in English, "The Cutting Edge." Whose people had come within a hairsbreadth of killing Fitzduane and his small son.
Reiko Oshima – also known as ‘The Lethal Angel.’
Fitzduane had seen her die, had seen her helicopter explode over TokyoBay as his rounds had pumped into it. No one could have survived that holocaust, he was sure. But the evidence was overwhelming.
She lived.
And if she lived, she was an active threat. She had to be stopped.
The rationale was indisputable. Cochrane and Valiente Zarra were passionate and persuasive advocates. Others joined in. Even Maury fixed Fitzduane with his soulful eyes.
"No," said Fitzduane.
"Hugo," said Cochrane. "You're the best-qualified man to do the job. It is a matter of fact, not opinion. You're the best there is at what needs to be done. We know what this woman has done to you and your son. You know she will try again. You can't leave it."
"No!" said Fitzduane heavily. "I cannot – my family comes first – and that is all there is to it."
*****
Kathleen lay back, glowing nicely from the aftereffects of making love.
/> She had heard that pregnancy could go one of two ways, but certainly she had not found her own ardor diminished, and Hugo, if anything, seemed sexier than ever.
He was, without question, a very passionate man. Since she had found out she was pregnant, he had announced that he was particularly turned on by the notion that their very own little human was growing inside her, and there was certainly frequent evidence that this was so.
There was a whine from the kitchen, and at irregular intervals high-speed chomping sounds as if sand and the tentacles of an octopus had gotten into the gears of the appliance.
Kathleen smiled and then laughed out loud. Since he had been shot, Fitzduane had been forced to take his health very seriously while convalescing, and since then had become a permanent convert to hard daily exercise and healthier eating. The results certainly showed. However, sometimes, Kathleen felt, Hugo carried things to excess. He read widely and had recently discovered ‘juicing.’ The health benefits of this were apparent enough, but some of Hugo's blends were a little weird. He liked to experiment.
Frankly, Kathleen would have preferred if he confined this tendency more to their sexual relationship and kept it away from the juicer. He had once juiced raw leeks and turnip, and the resulting concoction had nearly killed them both. Still, he had been learning then. His recent blends were quite promising.
Hugo came into the bedroom clutching two pint glass mugs of a thick, frothy, multicolored liquid that looked as if it should have a rum base and a Polynesian name and have little umbrellas sticking out of it. Both mugs sprouted bent straws. Fitzduane wore the pleased look of an inventor whose latest experiment has worked, but otherwise not much else except a towel. His hair was still damp from the shower.
Kathleen took her mug and sipped it warily. Hugo was rational on most things, but he would juice, she had the impression, anything that grew. She had strong doubts as to whether the potted plants in the apartment were going to survive much longer. She was sure she had caught her husband eyeing them contemplatively.
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