He rode for several hours around the island, trying to see if the landscape itself would yield some clue to the Hangman's intentions. A picture of idyllic peace and harmony greeted his eyes and made him doubt for a time the now-overwhelming feeling of foreboding.
The mist of dawn burned away in the sunlight, and it was shaping up to be a truly spectacular day. The sky was cloudless. The strong westerly had abated to the merest hint of a breeze. Washed by the recent rain, the air was clear and balmy. Insects buzzed, and birdcalls filled the air. Faced with this image of rural tranquility, Fitzduane found it hard to anticipate what the Hangman could have in mind, and he wondered if he wasn't letting his imagination run away with him.
The obvious target was Draker, and given the Hangman's proclivities, the objective would be kidnapping. God knows —and the Hangman surely did — that the students' families were rich enough to make the game well worth playing.
There was some security now. Discreet lobbying by Kilmara meant that six armed plainclothes policemen had been temporarily assigned to the college. They lived in the main building and should be able to deal with any threat — or at least buy time until help could be summoned. The Achilles' heel of that arrangement was, of course, the length of time it would take to get assistance to the island. The location was isolated — none more so in Ireland — and it would be several hours at best before specialist help could arrive. The local police might get there sooner, but what they could do against terrorist firepower was another matter.
Fitzduane had suggested to Kilmara that the parents, if they were so rich, might be persuaded to finance some extra security. He hadn't been thinking when he made the suggestion. The facts of life were explained to him: If the parents received the slightest hint of danger, all the students would be whipped away back to Mommy and Daddy in Saudi or Dubai or Tokyo faster than a bribe vanishes into a politician's pocket. No students would mean no college, and no college would mean no income for the local community. Without proof to back up these vague theories of a threat, it was not a good suggestion; downright dumb, in fact.
The sea, often so gray and menacing, now presented an image of serenity. The color of the day was a perfect Mediterranean blue — a deceptive ploy, Fitzduane thought, since the temperature of the Atlantic waters, even at this time of year, was only a few degrees above freezing.
"All this peace and harmony is an illusion," he said to Pooka. "But how and when the shit is going to hit the fan is another matter." The horse didn't venture a reply. She went on chewing on a tuft of grass.
Smoke was trickling from the chimney of Murrough's cottage. He distracted Pooka from her snack and cantered toward the house. Murrough leaned over the half door as he drew near, and Fitzduane could smell bacon and eggs. He suddenly felt ravenously hungry.
"You're up bright and early," said Murrough. "What happened? Has Etan slung you out?"
Oona's face appeared over Murrough's shoulder. "Morning, Hugo," she said. "Don't mind the man — he's no manners. Come on in and have some breakfast."
Fitzduane dismounted. "I'm persuaded," he said. "I'll be in in a minute. I just want to pick Murrough's brains for a moment."
Oona grinned and vanished toward the kitchen. "Best of luck," she called over her shoulder.
Murrough opened the bottom half of the door and ambled out into the sunlight. "I must be dreaming," he said. "There's not a cloud in the sky."
"Murrough," said Fitzduane, "last night, when you were bringing me up-to-date on the local gossip, you mentioned that a plane had landed here recently. I didn't pay much heed at the time, but now I'm wondering if I heard you right. Did you meant that a plane landed on the mainland or right here on the island?"
Murrough took a deep breath of morning air and snapped his braces appreciatively. "Oh, not on the mainland," he said. "The feller put it down on this very island, on a stretch of road not far from the college, in fact."
"I didn't think there was room," said Fitzduane, "and the road is bumpy as hell."
"Well," said Murrough, "bumpy or not, the feller did it — several times, in fact. I went up to have a look and talked to the pilot. He was a pleasant enough chap for a foreigner. There were two passengers on board — relatives of a Draker student, he said."
"Remember the student's name?" said Fitzduane.
Murrough shook his head.
"What kind of plane was it?"
"A small enough yoke," said Murrough, "but with two engines. Sort of boxy-shaped. They use the same kind of thing to fly out to the Aran Islands."
A Britten-Norman Islander," said Fitzduane. "A cross between a flying delivery van and a Jeep. I guess with the right pilot one of those could make it. They only need about four hundred yards of rough runway, sometimes less."
"Why so interested?" said Murrough.
"I'll tell you after we've eaten," answered Fitzduane. "I don't want to spoil your appetite." He followed Murrough into the cottage. Harry Noble was sitting at the pine table with his hands wrapped around a mug of tea.
"Good morning, Mr. Ambassador," said Fitzduane.
Harrison Noble's jaw dropped. "How on earth do you know that?" he said in astonishment.
Fitzduane sat down at the table and watched appreciatively as Oona poured him a cup of tea. "Friends in high places," he said.
Ambassador Noble nodded his head gloomily. He had enjoyed being incognito. Now a bunch of U.S. Embassy protocol officers would probably parachute in. So much for a quiet time fishing.
"I want to share a few thoughts with you," said Fitzduane, "which you may well find not the most cheerful things you've ever heard."
Oona brought the food to the table. "Eat up first," she said. "Worry can wait."
They ate, then Fitzduane talked.
"Hmm," said the ambassador when he'd finished. "Do you mind if I'm blunt?"
"Not at all," said Fitzduane.
"Lots of gut feeling and not much fact," said the ambassador, "and your law enforcement authorities have been informed of your suspicions. It seems, on the face of it, most unlikely that anything at all will happen. You're probably jumpy because of your recent experiences in Switzerland."
Fitzduane nodded. "A reasonable reaction," he said, "but I run on instinct — and it rarely lets me down."
Murrough went to a cabinet and removed a bolt-action rifle equipped with a high-power telescopic sight. It was a .303 Mark IV Lee-Enfield customized for sniping, a version of the basic weapon of the Irish Army until it was replaced by the FN in the early sixties. He had used one just like it in combat in the Congo. He stripped down the weapon with practiced hands. Noble noticed that he didn't look at what he was doing, but his touch was sure.
"Mr. Noble," said Murrough, "sometimes we don't know how things work even though they do." He indicated Fitzduane. "I've known this man a long time, and I've fought with him — and I've been glad we were on the same side. I've learned it pays to listen to him. It's why I'm alive."
The ambassador looked at Murrough's weather-beaten face for some little time. He smiled slightly. "Only a fool ignores the advice of an experienced gillie," he said. Murrough grinned.
The ambassador turned to Fitzduane. "Any ideas?" he asked.
"Some," said Fitzduane.
* * * * *
The Bear had to admit that his initial reaction to Ireland was — to put it mildly — not exactly favorable. The grim weather didn't help, of course, but it merely served to exacerbate his views. Even allowing for the depression induced by a cold wind and a sky the color of lead — it had been warm and sunny in Switzerland when they had left — the most charitable observer of Dublin (all he had seen of the country on that first evening) would have to agree that it was — he searched for the right word — ‘scruffy’.
On the other hand, the city had a vitality and a bounce that were not so apparent and energy and a sense of fun, and the whole place reeked of tradition and a volatile and unsettled history. Some of the old buildings were still pocked with bullet marks from the rising again
st the British in 1916.
Their first evening out was marked by friendly and erratic service, excellent seafood, music that aroused emotions they didn't even know existed — and too much black beer and Irish coffee to drink.
They got to bed in the small hours and didn't breakfast until eight in the morning. The Bear woke up confused and decidedly unsure what a couple of weeks in Irelandwas going to do to him. The others said they hadn't had so much fun in years. It was all decidedly unSwiss.
When they drove onto the island, pausing by the bridge to look down at the Atlantic eating away at the cliffs below, Fitzduane's castle lay ahead of them against a backdrop of blue sky and shimmering ocean.
"Incredible!" said the Bear as they climbed out of the car to greet Fitzduane.
Fitzduane grinned. "You don't know the half of it."
* * * * *
"The thought occurs to me," said Henssen, "that we don't actually have to do anything even if the Hangman does show up. We start off with two advantages: we're not the target, and we have a castle to hide away in. All we've got to do is drop the portcullis and then sit drinking poteen until the good guys arrive."
The Bear was outraged. "Typical German fence sitter," he said. "Leave a bunch of kids to a ruthless bastard like the Hangman. It's outrageous. You can't mean it."
"You've got a lot of nerve talking about sitting on the fence," said Henssen cheerfully. "What else have the Swiss done for the last five hundred years except wait out the bad times eating Toblerone and then picking over the corpses?"
"Calm down, the pair of you," said Fitzduane. "Nothing may happen at all." The group fell silent. They were seated around the big oak table in the banqueting hall. The centuries-old table was immense. Its age-blackened surface could have accommodated more than three times as many as the twelve who were there now. They all looked at Fitzduane. "It's only a gut feel," he added.
The ambassador spoke. His son, Dick, had joined the group for lunch. The ambassador had not intention of letting him return to the college until this bizarre situation was resolved. A small voice privately wondered if he, the ambassador, could be on the Hangman's list. The head of U.S. State Department's Office to Combat Terrorism would look good stuffed on the Hangman's wall.
He cleared his throat. "I speak as an outsider," he said, "and to me the evidence is not entirely convincing." There was a murmur of protest from several of the others. The ambassador held up his hand. "But," he continued, "most of the people here know you and seem to trust your instincts, so I say we stick together and do what we can. Better safe than sorry."
He looked at the group. There were nods of agreement. "The next thing is to decide who does what," he said.
"Easy," said the Bear. "This isn't a situation for democracy. It's Fitzduane's castle and Fitzduane's island — and he knows the Hangman best. Let him decide what to do."
"Makes sense," said Henssen.
"Looks like you're elected," said the ambassador. There was a chorus of agreement.
Fitzduane rose from the table and went to one of the slit windows set into the outer wall of the banqueting hall. It had been glazed, but the slim window was open, and a breeze off the sea blew in his face.
He could see a ship in the distance. It was a small freighter or a cattle boat — something like that. It was approaching the headland where the college was located. The weather was still superb. He wished he were out on Pooka with the sun warming his body and the wind in his face rather than preparing for what was to come. He went back to the table, and Etan caught his eye and smiled at him; he smiled back.
"There's one thing before we get to the specifics," he said to the group. "I can only tell you what I feel — and I feel that what is to come will be pretty bad." He looked at each face in turn. "Some of us may get killed. Now is the time if anyone wants to leave."
Nobody moved. Fitzduane waited. "Right people," he said after an interval. "This is what we will do." He glanced at his watch as he spoke.
It was 3:17 p.m. — 1517 in military time.
25
Aboard the Sabine — 1523 Hours
Kadar held the clipboard in his left hand despite the discomfort, as if to convince himself that his hand was still intact. The physical pain was slight, and the wound was healing nicely, but the mental trauma was another matter. The sense of vulnerability induced by having had part of his body torn away remained as an undercurrent during all his waking hours.
The Irishman had been responsible. A shot from Fitzduane's pistol during those last frenetic few seconds in the studio had marred what had otherwise been otherwise a near-perfect escape. The round had smashed the third metacarpal bone of his left hand. Splinters protruding from the knuckle were all that had remained of his finger. He had been surprised. There had been no pain at first, and he had been able to follow his prearranged escape routine without difficulty — even managing the zippers and straps and buckles of his wet suit and aqualung with his customary speed.
The pain had hit when he emerged from the concealed chute into the icy green waters of the Aare. He had screamed and retched into the unyielding claustrophobia of his face mask. Just the memory made him feel queasy.
Fitzduane: he should have had that damned Irishman killed at the very beginning instead of letting Erika have her way. But to be truthful, it wasn't entirely Erika's fault. He had liked the man, been intrigued by him. Now he was paying the price. So much for the famed nobler side of one's character. It had cost him a finger.
Kadar looked at the polished brass chronometer on the wall. It was an antique case fitted with a modern mechanism — typical of the care that had gone into the design of the cattle boat.
The vessel was perfect for his purpose. Not only did it attract no attention, but it was clean and comfortable. To his surprise and relief, there was no smell. Evidently modern cattle, even on their way to ritual throat cutting in Libya, expected — and received — every consideration. The parallels with his own operation did not escape him. There would be plenty of space and fresh air for his hostages. There would be none of the discomfort associated with an airplane hijack — heat and blocked toilets and no room to stretch your legs. No, the Sabine, with her excellent air conditioning system and spacious enclosed cattle pens, seemed to have been purpose-built for a mass kidnapping. It would be equally effective for a mass execution.
Operation Geranium: it was the largest and most ambitious he had mounted. He would finish this phase of his career on a high note. The world's antiterrorist experts would have to do some serious rethinking after his pioneering work became known.
Kadar enjoyed planning, but the period just before an operation when all the preparation was complete was the time he enjoyed most. He savored the sense of a job well done combined with the anticipation of what was to come.
The trouble with most hijacks involving large numbers of hostages was that the terrorists started on the wrong foot and then all too quickly lost the initiative. The first problem was that there were never enough men involved. Even in the confined surroundings of an airplane, half a dozen fanatics had a hard time keeping hundreds of people under guard over an extended period. The most extreme terrorist still needed to eat and sleep and go to the bathroom. His attention wandered. He looked at pretty women when he should be on guard — and then bang! In came the stun grenades and all the other paraphernalia of the authorities, and — lo and behold — there was another martyr for the cause. Pretty fucking futile, in Kadar's opinion. The argument that the publicity alone justified an unsuccessful hijack didn't impress him one small bit.
Another common difficulty was that hijackers, forced to use easy-to-conceal weaponry like pistols and grenades, tended to be under-armed. In contrast, the forces of law and order, galvanized into action by the media and the weapons merchants, had invested in a massive array of antiterrorist gadgetry and weaponry. The scales had never been tilted more heavily against the terrorist. Counterterrorism had become a complete industry.
But ev
en with the manpower and firepower issues left out of it, there still remained a key flaw in terrorist hijack tactics: the initiative, once the initial grab had taken place, passed almost completely to the authorities. The hijackers waited and sweated, and the authorities prevaricated and stonewalled. The only thing the terrorists could do was kill prisoners to demonstrate intent, but even that option was counterbalanced by that unwritten but well-known rule: Once the killing starts the assault forces go in, and too damn bad about the consequences. To make matters worse from a terrorist point of view, experience had shown that a specialist assault force could take out a hijack position with minimal casualties — most of the time. The Egyptians were the exception to that rule.
The final problem with hijacks was that either the terrorists didn't seem to know precisely what they wanted — Kadar, professional and Harvard man that he was, found this hard to swallow, but his research showed it was often the case — or what they demanded was obviously politically unacceptable or impossible. Often it was both.
It had to be admitted that unless you were a publicity hound — and Kadar was profit-oriented first and foremost, though he wasn't averse to a degree of media flirtation and had enjoyed his obituaries immensely — the hijack track record was not good.
"Room for improvement," as a schoolteacher would put it.
In Kadar's view, a fundamentally new approach was required — and Operation Geranium was the result.
* * * * *
Fitzduane's Castle — 1555 Hours
Fitzduane had phoned the police security detail at DrakerCollege and, for good measure, had also spoken to the acting headmaster. His concerns had been politely received but with thinly disguised incredulity. He didn't need to be psychic to know that he wasn't getting through. The sun continued to blaze in a cloudless sky. The idea of a serious threat in such an idyllic spot lacked credibility.
Fitzduane 01 - Games of The Hangman Page 46