"There is a tendency in hostage situations for the authorities to drag out the negotiations in the belief that the kidnappers—us in this case—will not carry out their threats to kill their victims. As a matter of fact, hijackers have a track record of bluffing much and killing little, so the approach of the authorities would seem to be justified. In this case, it is essential that we convince the Irish government and the parents that we are deadly serious. To that end the faculty and ten students—those with less affluent parents and of no political significance, naturally—will be killed immediately. The executions will be photographed and videotaped. Arrangements have been made to radio photographs to our agents so that the parents of the surviving students will be in no doubt from the beginning as to our intent. The video will travel in the Islander, and copies of it will be issued subsequently, if necessary.
"You will note that we are contacting both the parents and the Irish authorities simultaneously. This is to prevent the authorities from endeavoring to resolve matters on their own and to exert the maximum pressure in the shortest possible time. Further, we have made sure that both parents in every case will be informed.
"The protocols regarding details of payments and so on have already been drawn up and are with our intermediaries in Libya. They will supervise our withdrawal from the island on a government-to-government basis. It won't be the first time they have performed such a role. They rather enjoy appearing as honest brokers in these situations.
"When the bridge has been replaced by the Irish authorities—a matter of hours using a military structure—the force will depart from the island in a bus convoy and will travel to Shannon Airport, where a Libyan jet will fly us to safety. The hostages will travel with us. They will fly with us to Libya and be released on arrival"—he paused and smiled enigmatically—"unless, of course, I come up with a more entertaining notion."
Kadar looked at the unit commanders. "Any questions?"
There was silence at first. The commanders were confident, forceful men, but Kadar awed them. He was brilliant, he was violent, and he was unpredictable—but he rewarded results. Experience had shown that blind obedience was the best policy most of the time. Questions were not normally expected, but Kadar seemed to want to talk. He was justifiably enthusiastic, almost euphoric; it was a thorough plan, and all three commanders were convinced it would work.
The commander of Phantom Unit spoke first. "The next couple of hours will be critical. Is there any chance of interference from the Irish Navy or these people that I have heard so much about, the Rangers?"
Kadar was amused. He was conscious that he was showing off a little, but he was enjoying his minor moment of glory. It was no more than his due. It was unarguable: his planning had anticipated everything.
"The Irish have over three thousand kilometers of coastline to guard," he said, "and only four ships to do the entire job. The chance of a naval service ship turning up at the wrong moment is statistically most improbable. However"—he paused for effect—"arrangements have been made to divert the one ship on duty on the Atlantic coast. The primary task of the Irish Navy is fishery protection. An anonymous tip has decoyed the vessel Eimer to chase a fleet of Spanish fishing boats fishing illegally off the Kerry coast."
"And the Rangers?" said the Phantom Unit commander.
This time Kadar laughed outright. "They could have been a problem, but they have responded magnificently to a diversion we have prearranged in Dublin." He looked at his men. "They think we are mounting an operation against the American Embassy, and they are defending it in depth."
"So there is nothing to stop us," said the Icarus Unit commander.
"Nothing," said Kadar. He felt a sudden twinge in his hand. His missing finger throbbed. "Nothing."
Fitzduane's castle—1645 hours
Fitzduane disliked talking about the tunnel system; it was the hidden card in Fitzduane family history. In this case, however, he felt he had no choice but to reveal part of what lay underneath the castle; still, he confined his tour to the upper level. Access in this case was from the ground floor of the tower.
Fitzduane flicked a switch as they passed through the concealed door. A ramp sloped down to a passage with a vaulted roof. He motioned the others to follow him. The passage ran straight to the gatehouse across the bawn. A circular staircase wound its way to the second-floor level. They emerged in the windlass room, from where the portcullis was controlled. Murder holes and firing apertures allowed the guards to control both the entrance below and access to the gate.
He led the group back into the tunnel. "Now you know how to get from the keep to the gatehouse without having your ass shot off. That's the good news. The bad news would be the discovery of that tunnel by the other side. It can be blocked from the keep—a heavy iron door slides into place—but how long that would stand up to high explosives is another matter. Swords and lances were more the thing when this was built."
De Guevain was looking around curiously. "How was the tunnel constructed? From the outside the castle looks as if it were built on a solid block of granite, and the sea is so close. I'd guess we are near to being below sea level."
Fitzduane smiled. "We are below sea level when the tide is in, but there is nothing to worry about. It's the very geology of this location that made my ancestors settle here. What appears to be a solid block of granite is, in fact, more like a doughnut in shape. The possibilities of that were obvious. The family has been digging on and off ever since."
"You, too?" asked the Bear.
"I don't like tunnels." Fitzduane walked on toward a heavy metal-shod door. The key turned silently. "This is the armory." He beckoned the group to enter the room. He switched on the main lights when all were inside.
There were expressions of surprise. Swords, knives, battle-axes, maces, pikes, bows and arrows, armor, muskets—hand weapons of every type lined the room from floor to ceiling or stood in racks.
"Incredible!" exclaimed de Guevain. "This collection must be priceless."
"It used to be bigger," said Fitzduane, "but some of the finer pieces were sold by my grandfather to ease his later years."
"Where do they come from? And why so many?" asked Henssen.
"A castle is first and foremost a fighting machine," said Fitzduane, "and most of the weapons you see here belong to the castle's own armory. Over the centuries techniques and weapons changed, and the family modernized but without, as you can see, throwing much away. They were a thrifty lot."
"There's nothing more modern here than a Brown Bess musket," said Ambassador Noble. "And though they were fine for Waterloo, I don't see how they'd rate against the kind of firepower today's terrorists carry."
Fitzduane nodded. He crossed the room and worked a mechanism. A section of racking slid away to reveal a door. He opened it and led them through. This room was smaller, though still good-sized. It was painted white and was brightly lit. Tools, power equipment, and workbenches took up most of one wall. Wooden racks containing late-nineteenth and twentieth-century weapons took up most of another wall, and four long boxes lay open on the floor. There was a waist-high work surface in the center of the room with a series of firearms laid out on it.
"Now that's more like it." De Guevain held up an M-16. "Where did you get this?"
"Vietnam."
"And this?" said Noble, indicating an AK-47 Kalashnikov assault rifle.
"Lebanon."
"And this?" The Bear held up a long-barreled broom handle Mauser pistol; a wooden shoulder stock was attached.
Fitzduane laughed. "A bit before my time. That's a souvenir of the War of Independence—Ireland's independence, that is. It's a relatively unusual nine-millimeter Parabellum version."
"And these?" asked Andreas von Graffenlaub. He was pointing at one of the open boxes. Fitzduane went over and extracted a weapon, a short, stocky-looking automatic rifle with the magazine fitted behind the trigger guard instead of in the traditional in-front position. A compact telescopic sight was cli
pped to a bracket above the receiver.
"I'd better explain," said Fitzduane. He spoke very briefly about Kilmara and the Rangers. He then continued. "So I've got some firepower on loan, though not enough for all of us. This"—he held up the automatic rifle—"is the new Enfield SA-80 automatic rifle that has been adopted by the British Army. It's what they call a bullpup design. Having the magazine behind the trigger guard makes for a thirty percent shorter weapon for the same barrel length; it's easier to maneuver in a confined space." He pointed at the telescopic sight. "And with its four-power magnification sight, you've got one of the most accurate combat assault weapons yet made. Mind you, at nearly eleven pounds fully loaded, it's a heavy bugger for its size, but that pays dividends when you're firing on full auto. You can control this gun.
"In terms of modern weapons, we've got four SA-80 rifles, four nine-millimeter Browning automatic pistols, a Hawk grenade launcher, grenades, and some other equipment, including Claymore directional mines. That sounds impressive until you realize what we may be up against. The opposition will have automatic weapons, too, and there may be far more of them." He didn't add that in the main, they would be younger, fitter, and more recently trained.
There was silence in the room. The sight of the modern weaponry—not some collector's curiosity piece to hang on a wall or to show to friends after dinner—had a chilling effect.
Ranger Headquarters, Dublin—1708 hours
Kilmara put down the phone. The red light indicating that the scrambler was active was extinguished. He shrugged. "I've just been talking to the sergeant in charge of the security detail at Draker. It's a beautiful day. All the students are doing whatever students in the middle of nowhere do—and two of his men sat out in the sun too long and have gone bright red."
"Sounds like a rough detail," said Günther. "What about Fitzduane?"
"I was talking to him, too. He remains convinced something is going to happen on the basis of no proof at all. He's organized that castle of his as if Geronimo were on the prowl—and he now intends to go over to Draker to give a hand. With our luck these days the guards on duty there will think some of Fitzduane's people are terrorists and they'll all shoot each other."
"How many people has he got?"
"Around a dozen, including himself," said Kilmara, "of which no fewer than nine have some kind of military training. I'm beginning to wonder if I did the right thing giving him that weaponry."
"You think it's a false alarm," said Günther.
Kilmara stared grumpily at nothing in particular. "That's the trouble. I don't—but that's pure instinct and faith in Fitzduane's vibes. The evidence says that the action is going to be here in Dublin. My guts tell me we've got our people watching the wrong mouseholes."
"Despite the Japanese? Or the seventy-two Middle Eastern travel agents—who the Irish Tourist Board had never heard of until the agents approached them—flying in tonight?"
"Despite everything," said Kilmara. "I've been thinking. I don't believe the Hangman gives a fuck about politics. Why would he want to hit the U.S. Embassy? What's in it for him? He's a bottom-line man."
"The Hangman's dead," declared Günther.
"Don't talk like a bureaucrat."
Günther grinned. "The rescheduling is finished."
"So what have we got apart from an over-budget overtime bill?" said Kilmara.
"For starters, we've got far too many people tied up on this embassy thing. It's ridiculous."
"It's politics, but don't tell me what I know already. I want to know what kind of unit we can field as a reserve now we've done our computer games."
"About a dozen," said Günther, "and of course, there is you—and me."
"That's not so crazy. I'm fed up sitting behind a desk."
"The helicopter situation is not good," reported Günther. "All the Air Corps machines are assigned to cover the embassy, the ambassador's residence in Phoenix Park, and the airport, and anyway, they're all going to be grounded at dusk. I wish we had night-flying capability."
"Road would take five to six hours," mused Kilmara.
"More like six," said Günther, "if we're talking about Fitzduane's Island. The roads are terrible once you get past Gal-way, and at that point we'd be driving at night with heavily loaded vehicles."
"And that bridge on to the island is all too easy to cut," said Kilmara. "If we're going to do it, we'll have to do it by air."
He sat in thought for several minutes. On the face of it, his existing deployment was correct. There had been clear evidence of a threat to the U.S. Embassy in Dublin. The arrival of the Japanese—two of whom had already been identified as being associated with militant terrorist groups—confirmed that threat. Monitored conversations indicated that the Japanese were the advance guard and would link up with a substantial group that was flying in late that night under the cover of a convention of travel agents from the Middle East. The Irish Tourist Board, which would normally have been actively involved in such a visit, had merely been informed at the last minute—an irregular procedure—so it really did look as if the terrorist threat were about to become a reality. He could pick up the Japanese now, but he had no line on the weaponry involved, and it made much more sense to wait until that, too, could be identified.
All very fine, but an all-too-predictable response. His instincts screamed "setup," but even if it was a diversion, he knew that the Hangman—if it was indeed him—was sufficiently ruthless to make the diversion a reality in its own right.
Even with the Hangman out of the picture there were other possible threats to be considered. At all times the Rangers should have a reserve ready to deploy. The root problem at the moment was the way in which the Rangers were being used. Instead of being deployed as a reaction force in the specific antiterrorist role for which they were trained, they had been pushed to the front to handle something that should have been given to the police and the regular army.
Reluctantly he came to a decision. "Günther, there is nothing more we can do for Fitzduane right now except monitor the situation and put the reserve on standby at Baldonnel. Sending them across by road is out. The facts that the Hangman is obsessed with flowers and that Fitzduane has funny feelings are not good enough reasons for me to lose my reserve."
Günther rose to his feet. "Fair enough."
"Hold it," said Kilmara. "I haven't finished. If we do have to move, we'll have to do it very fucking fast—and we may be up against heavier firepower than we're used to. I want the Optica armed and the unit to be in heavy battle order."
"The Milan, too?"
"The whole thing. And I'll command from the Optica."
"And what about me?"
"You like jumping out of airplanes. Why miss a good opportunity?"
"This is a fun job," said Günther as he left the room.
"It changes as you get older," said Kilmara to himself. "Your friends get killed."
Fitzduane's castle—1715 hours
The heat haze had increased. Murrough handed Fitzduane the binoculars. Fitzduane stared at the distant spot indicated by Murrough for about thirty seconds, then lowered the glasses.
"Hard to tell," he said. "Visibility at that distance isn't so good. All I can make out is a blur; most of it is cut off by the headland. Some kind of freighter, I suppose." He turned toward Murrough. "There have been boats passing in the distance every hour or so all day. What's unusual about this one?"
Murrough took back the binoculars and had another brief look. "The haze has got worse all right. I should have called you earlier.
It's hard to be absolutely sure, but I think our friend over there has been stopped for a while."
"How long?"
"About twenty minutes. I can't be certain."
"Which way did it come? Did you get a look at it earlier?"
"From the south," said Murrough. "It was far out and moving slowly. It's a cattle boat, one of those new jobs with the high superstructure and lots of ventilators like mushrooms on the top."
"How big are those things?"
"I don't know exactly. But big enough to hold over a thousand cattle and all their feed. Maybe the boat's stopped to feed the cattle."
Fitzduane lifted the binoculars to his eyes again and commenced a 360-degree sweep. It was the same boat he'd seen earlier in the afternoon. He continued sweeping and stopped with the glasses pointing at the bridge. A station wagon crossed over it onto the island and pulled to the side of the road. Two men got out and looked around. He passed the binoculars to Murrough.
"Fishermen," said Murrough. "I can see fishing rod cases, and they're wearing fishing gear."
"But what do fishermen use ropes for?" said Fitzduane. Retrieving the binoculars, he watched one of the men lower the other below the bridge supports. The man then lowered a bulky package. He opened his fishing rod case and extracted something. When he clipped into place a bulky banana-shaped object, there was no longer any doubt as to what he was holding.
"Christ!" shouted Fitzduane. "He's got an AK-47. I'll bet even money the fuckers are going to blow the bridge."
Murrough brought his sniper's rifle to his shoulder and took aim. The man under the bridge scrambled up the rope, and both men ran for cover. There was a dull explosion and a small puff of dust, and smoke and debris flew into the air. The bridge didn't appear to move.
"They made a balls of it," said Murrough. He choked on his words when the bridge suddenly collapsed at the island end and the whole structure slid down into the sea. The two saboteurs rose from cover and went to review their handiwork. They stood by the cliff edge and looked down. Then one of them turned and began examining the castle through binoculars. Seconds later he gesticulated and brought his AK-47 up to the point of aim. The muzzle faced the keep and winked flame. A burst of automatic fire gouged the ancient stonework.
GAMES OF THE HANGMAN Page 47