GAMES OF THE HANGMAN

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  "The little fucker doesn't miss a trick," said Fitzduane. "I take it you tried to put him off?"

  "Need you ask?" said Kilmara. "I told both him and his press guy that the time wasn't right, and anyway, the place isn't secure."

  "But he didn't believe you," said Fitzduane.

  "No," said Kilmara. "He did not."

  "Why don't we kill him?" said Fitzduane. "I've had a lot of practice lately."

  "On live television," said Etan, "and in front of half the Irish media? And me without my makeup on."

  "I'll help," said the Bear, "but who are you talking about?"

  "Our Taoiseach," said Fitzduane, "one Joseph Patrick Delaney, the prime minister of this fair land. He screwed us in the Congo, and he's been screwing this country ever since. He's coming here to kiss babies and pin medals on the wounded—and make a short speech saying he did it all himself. He's corrupt and a class-A shit and decidedly not one of our favorite people."

  "Oh," said the Bear. "I thought the Rangers were responsible for keeping him safe."

  "This is a very mixed-up country," said Kilmara. "I think I'll get drunk."

  Fitzduane's castle—0623 hours

  It had started to rain shortly after dawn, and the wounded man lying concealed under the remains of the homemade tank greeted this downturn in the weather with relief. The cold rain soothed his horribly burned body and helped conceal him from the searching soldiers.

  The man hadn't been wounded in the tank itself, but near the walls. He had been caught by a Molotov cocktail blast as he prepared to throw a grapnel, and for some seconds before his comrades had beaten out the flames he had been a human torch. By the time he recovered consciousness the comrades who had saved him had been killed. He had found their bodies one by one as he crawled his way to the cover of the tank and temporary safety.

  He was within a few seconds of the cooling wreckage of the tank—the journey seemed to have taken hours—when a random burst of automatic-weapons fire smashed into his legs, splintering the bones and destroying any lingering hope that he might have a future. He could perhaps, surrender, but the best he could hope for would be life as a revoltingly disfigured cripple—and he had no home to go to, no country to go to. The idea of a future in a refugee camp—if he wasn't shot or imprisoned—had no appeal. And he would be penniless. Ironically, for many the whole point of this mission had been to make enough money to give themselves completely new lives. And for a time it had looked as if they might make it.

  Well, it was the will of Allah. Now all that remained was to die in the most suitable manner—to die avenging his comrades and so to meet them again in the Gardens of Paradise.

  He had lost his AK-47 when he was hit by the gasoline bomb, and that he regretted, for a true soldier never abandons his weapon; but crawling to his steel sanctuary he had found something far more deadly: an RPG-7 rocket launcher. It was loaded, and although there were no spare rockets, he was confident that one would be enough for his purpose. He doubted very much that he would have the opportunity to fire a second time. It would be as Allah willed. Each man had his own destiny, and out of apparent disaster often came good.

  The man with the burned body and smashed legs moved his weapon into firing position when he heard the sound of helicopter rotors coming ever closer. The pain was truly terrible, but he embraced it and used it to keep himself conscious for those last few precious seconds.

  The helicopter came into range. The RPG-7 was a straightforward point-and-shoot weapon with no sophisticated guidance system, so it was vital that he be accurate.

  The helicopter was going to land in front of the castle. Through the 2.5 magnification telescopic sight it looked as if there were only one person inside it, but he must be someone important because soldiers were bracing themselves and an officer was shouting commands.

  All eyes were on the helicopter. No one noticed the tip of the RPG-7 pointing out of a slit in the wrecked tank. The helicopter was less than seventy meters away when the dying man fired.

  The Taoiseach of Ireland was actually thinking of Kilmara, and the bittersweet irony that the man he had betrayed so long ago was now going to enhance his political reputation through reflected glory, when he saw the 1.7-kilogram rocket-assisted fin-stabilized missile blasting toward him. For an infinitesimal moment he thought his victorious troops were firing some kind of victory salute.

  The HEAT warhead cut straight through the Perspex canopy, making two neat, round holes as if for ventilation. There was no explosion. Fitzduane, Kilmara, the Bear, Etan, and the other survivors of the original defenders watched the missile strike—and plow through the cabin harmlessly—with absolute incredulity.

  There was a barrage of shots as the firer of the missile was cut down.

  Kilmara put down his high-power binoculars. He had been looking directly at the Taoiseach in the approaching helicopter at the precise moment of the free-flight missile's impact.

  "Well, I guess we can't win them all," he said slowly as the Taoiseach headed too fast toward a decidedly rough landing. "Too much vodka on the RPG-7 production line, I suppose." His eyes lit up. "Still, that'll teach him to listen to my advice. What a hell of a way to start the day."

  "How did you do that?" said the Bear to Fitzduane.

  "And without moving your lips," added de Guevain.

  "I didn't," said Fitzduane, "though it was tempting."

  "Probably a spell," said de Guevain.

  "Great television," said Etan. "The bastard will make the news yet again."

  "Nonstick politician or not," said Kilmara with some satisfaction, "I think he'll need a fresh pair of pants. Oh, well, his day will come."

  The media helicopter had arrived and was obviously torn between wanting to get close-ups of the perforated aircraft and a not unreasonable desire to avoid receiving the same sort of treatment as the Taoiseach. Camera lenses sprouted from open doors and windows. The pilot—manifestly without combat experience—made a series of quick forays and then darted away. Fitzduane expected this amateur jinking to dislodge one of the cameramen any minute and for a body or two to come flying through the air.

  "What's the time?" asked the Bear.

  "About six-thirty," said Fitzduane. "Time for all good Irish men and women to be in bed."

  "Time for breakfast," said the Bear.

  "Typical bloody Swiss," said Fitzduane.

  Author's Note and Acknowledgments

  Games of the Hangman is a work of fiction—with all that such a convention implies—but it was inspired by a true event that happened very much as described at the beginning of this book.

  I caught the body as it was cut down and felt much as Fitzduane did. Samuel Johnson remarked: "Depend upon it, Sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully." To which I might add: so does finding a hanging body.

  This book would not have been possible without the help of a great number of people who gave of their time and enthusiasm. It is not the convention to include detailed acknowledgments in a work of fiction, but conventions evolve, and in this case I feel it would be ungracious—not to mention plain unfriendly—to fail to acknowledge the cooperation and assistance I have been rendered. Literally hundreds of people and dozens of organizations were involved—too large a number to mention all individually—but I have included some to represent the many. Certain people, particularly those involved in counterterrorism and certain other military specialties, would prefer not to be mentioned at all for obvious reasons.

  Ranks, titles, and positions mentioned were those held at the time of the research.

  The list of those organizations and individuals to whom I would like to express my gratitude and appreciation is as follows:

  Ireland: The Irish Army: Captain Peter Byrnes; Commandant Des Ashe;

  Commandant Martin Egan; Commandant Des Travers; Captain Howard Berney; Sergeant John Rochford of the Infantry Weapons School.

  The Irish Police, the Gardai Siochana: Se
rgeant Vincent Bergin; Superintendent Matt English. Their Forensic Science Laboratory: Dr. Jim Donovan; Dr. Tim Creedon; Mary O'Connor.

  The U.S. Embassy: Colonel Haase, Military Attaché; John Dennis, Cultural Attaché; Margo Collins.

  RTE, Ireland's national television service: Joe Mulholland, editor of "Today Tonight"; Olivia O'Leary; Pauline O'Brien; Deirdre Younge; Tom McCaughren The Irish Times: Niall Fallon.

  Special tribute to Liz O'Reilly; the Clissmann clan; and Budge and Helmut and Conn and Sandra and Frank and Dieter and Mary in particular.

  Tony Gunning and the staff of AIB Clonmel.

  Kate Gillespie; Sibylle Knobel; Joe and Christiane Hackbarth; Alan Dooley.

  Switzerland:

  The Swiss Army: Oberst Stucki; Hauptmann Urs Gerber; Major Stahli; Etienne Reichel; Korporals Thomas Aebersold and J. Hanni.

  The Bern Criminal Police: Adjunkt Amherd, Chief of the Kriminalpolizei; Detective Sergeant Heinz Boss.

  The Swiss Federal Police: Dr. Peter Huber; Commissaire Jordan.

  Der Bund: Christine Kobler, Ulrike Sieber.

  Many thanks to: Anne Marie Buess; Eva and Walo von Buren; Jacqueline Vuichard; Luli Fornera; Vreni and Gotz; Ursula Meier; Hans Rudi Günther; Hanna Trauer; Alfred Waspi; Xavier Roller; Beat and Chloe Hodler; Carmen Schupbach; Mario and Brigitte Volpe; Suzanne Bondallaz-Reiser; Niklaus and Anke von Steiger; Oskar Ludi; Daniel Eckman; J. J. Gauer of the Schweizerhof; Peter Arengo-Jones, John Wicks of the Financial Times; W. Mamie; N. Vogel; Vincent Carter; Mario-Michel Affentranger; Rolf Spring; Professor Leupi; Dr. Guido Smezer; Dieter Jordi, Notar; Examining Magistrate Yester; Dr. Janos Molnar; Professor Ulrich Imhof; Dr. Strasser Yenni; Mr. Studen of the Bürger-gemeinde; Dr. George Thorman; Dr. Christophe de Steiger; Marcel Grandjean; Dr. Frei; Isidor J. Mathis of the Bellevue Hotel; Garni Florian of the Aarbergerhof.

  Germany:

  The Bundeskriminalamt and Wiesbaden: Gitta Wenssen.

  Great Britain:

  Leonard Holihan of the Arc Institute and Optica; Chris Chadwick of Optica.

  Hugh Townsend of Pilatus Britten-Norman Islander.

  Pete Flynn of Powerchute.

  Geoff Sangster of Royal Ordnance.

  Ken Salisbury of Pilkington Defence.

  Peter Barnes; Colin White; John Drewry; Chester Wedgewood; Annie Lapper; Pilar Pelaez.

  The United States:

  The U.S. Army, via Dr. William F. Atwater and Armando Framarini of the Ordnance Museum of the Aberdeen Proving Ground.

  Bonnie Carlson, Michael Kaplan, and the staff of Sterling Lord Literistic; Vicki Kriete.

  Alan Williams, Publisher; Peter Schneider; and the other personnel of Grove Weidenfeld.

  Al Russo and Joe Bradley of Stardate Computer Systems of Brooklyn.

  Chris and Jane Carrdus—special thanks; Elliott Erwitt; Denis Martin; John Pritchard; James T. Miley; Jimmy Ziede; Caleb and Barbara Davis; Pat Martin; Donetta De Voe; Ellen and Gerard Coyle; Jim and Jean Edgell; Nomenida Lazaro; Ron Levandusky; Jack Clary; Art Damschen.

  Fellow writers: Sam Llewellyn; Mike de Larrabeiti; and Stuart Woods.

  It's a long list—but then it's a long book—and the Hugo Fitzduane stories are far from over.

  If I'm missing an umlaut or two, I ask my Continental friends to forgive me.

  I thank you all.