Rules of the Hunt (26 page)
After the men had walked for five minutes, the sky became black and
menacing and suddenly it began to rain in sheets.
Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled in the
distance.
The Bear's moustache began to droop.
He was soaked from the thinning hair on his head to the well-designed
tips of his expensive Bally shoes — a gift from Katia and not typical Bear
apparel.
Not for the first time, he
thought the Irish climate was ridiculous.
He wondered why he was prepared to behave in a decidedly uncautious and
un-Bernese way when in Fitzduane's ambit.
Somehow, this damned Irishman brought out the adventurer in him.
The Bear straightened and began to whistle a Bernese marching song.
Behind him, the two uniformed guards, who had
had the sense, being local, to wear uniform caps, long raincoats, and
at each other and, when they had got the hang of it, joined in.
Behind them, the detective checked the condom
on the muzzle of his Uzi for effectiveness in conditions which might be deemed
somewhat harsher than its normal design parameters — and beat time with his
hand slapping against the receiver.
Soon, they were all marching in step.
Ahead of them as they rounded a bend
lay
the
Fleming bungalow.
There was a light on at the back of the house.
10
February 1
There is a rule of thumb in the traditional military world that the
attacker needs more manpower — three to five times is recommended — than the
defender to ensure success.
Paradoxically, in terrorist and counterterrorist operations, the reverse
has often turned out to be true.
A small
attacking force armed with high-firepower weapons has time and again inflicted
damage out of all proportion to its size.
That does not invalidate traditional military lore.
It merely means that in the world of
terrorism, the attacker rarely needs to seize and hold territory.
Instead he is primarily interested in the
logistically simpler task of inflicting maximum destruction in a strictly
limited period of time.
In his favor, he
had tactical surprise on his side.
He
can choose when and where and how to strike.
He can ensure that, though outnumbered and outgunned on an overall
basis,
at the point of contact he has
superiority
.
Kilmara, whose entire military career had been spent in the world of
special forces
and counterterrorism, knew the rules of the
game as well as anyone.
It was why he
disliked being on the defensive.
To
Kilmara, the initiative was everything.
Temperamentally, he was not a believer in the big battalions.
He had more faith in planning, timing,
audacity, and firepower.
But he was also a pragmatist.
On
an operation, he rarely allowed himself to be distracted by aspirational
thinking.
He worked within the context
of the situation, and if it was not to his liking he merely swore more than
usual and worked even harder.
He was a
believer in the work ethic in his arcane
special forces
world.
He could not understand why all
military men did not follow this creed, since the alternative was, not
infrequently and quite predictably, death.
The hard core of the IRAP unit was only three men, Kilmara knew, but that
was often fleshed out with manpower drafted in for a specific operation.
Reviewing past IRAP operations on his
computer linked to Ranger headquarters in
he noted that as many as twenty terrorists had been involved in some attacks,
and that in some instances, armed with heavy firepower, they had stood their
ground and gone head to head with regular army troops.
It was generally thought that the terrorists bombed and sniped and
immediately ran away, but that was not always the case.
And IRAP, in particular, liked to play
hardball.
McGonigal was a murderer and
arguably a psychopath, but he did not lack either bravery or daring.
On the side of the angels, he would be
considered a hero.
He was sitting in a swivel chair in Room Number 4 of the private wing,
looking at a bank of television screens linked to microminiaturized cameras
that had been installed to cover all key points both inside and outside the
hospital.
Apart from light from the
television monitors, the room was in total darkness.
A dense black fabric had been pulled down
over the windows and stapled in place.
The same had been done to every room on the private ward.
In the corner of the room, Fitzduane, tired from talking to Kilmara
earlier, was asleep.
*
*
*
*
*
Mary Fleming was evidently fond of home baking.
Eamon had found freshly baked soda bread in the kitchen, together with a
pound of creamery butter and some homemade raspberry jam.
He put his AK-47 on top of the dishwasher,
rooted in the drawers for a bread knife, and went to work with a will.
He was in seventh heaven.
You could take your French cuisine and stuff
it.
The
bread and jam at his mother's table, and this little feast evoked strong and
pleasant memories.
The weather outside was atrocious.
It was so dark that without the light on in the kitchen he would have
been scarcely able to see, and sheets of rain lashed at the windows and made
looking outside a matter of squinting and peering.
It was like looking through Vaseline.
But in these conditions nobody would be out
walking and he would hear any car that drove in.
Even with the noise of the rain, the wind,
and distant thunder, there was a loose cattle grid at the entrance that clanged
noisily when driven over.
He had the radio on quietly in the corner.
It was really very pleasant, this cocoon of
warmth, light, and comfort in the midst of the worst the elements could do.
As his hunger was being satisfied, his other needs surfaced.
Out of sight, the attractions of the nurse
increased.
He conveniently forgot the
bloodstained upper body, the knife nicks on her throat and breasts.
Instead he remembered slim thighs and long
legs.
She was wearing only a bathrobe
and panties.
He felt pressure against
the front of his pants.
He would have a
couple more slices of bread and jam and then service this woman.
He might as well.
She would be dead meat soon enough.
He did not fancy fucking a corpse.
It was obscene.
He had left the bread board on the counter by the window.
As he picked up the bread knife, there was
sudden flash of lightning and a loud crack and the kitchen light went out.
He looped up at the lifeless tube,
then
noticed
the radio had gone dead.
Either the
lines were down or a couple of fuses had blown.
Ah, well, it was of little matter.
What he planned to do next was as often as not done in the dark.
And with Kathleen in her present condition,
it might be better that way.
He turned around to finish cutting his bread, and screamed.
Through rain-smeared glass he could see a
face looking down at him.
The face was
like something out of a nightmare.
It
was large and hairy and grim, and the man himself was a giant.
He wore some kind of matted mud-smeared
garment.
The window in front of him exploded into shards of glass and a massive
hand reached out for him, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him off his
feet.
Desperately, he lashed out with the bread knife, felt the blade make
contact, and pulled free.
There was a crash at the front of the house, and he could feel the wind
whistle down the corridor.
Someone had
broken in, but that was the least of his worries.
His AK-47 was on top of the dishwasher only
feet away.
He dived for it and knocked
it onto the floor as he grabbed.
He rolled, found the weapon, and turned.
The massive fist holding the largest handgun he had ever seen was
pointing right at him.
There was a stab
of flame, and he felt a terrible blow on his right shoulder.
The weapon slid from his arms and he slumped
back, half lying on the floor but partially propped up against the kitchen
unit.
He could see blood seeping from his body, but he could not move and he
felt nothing.
He heard more smashing of
glass and then a huge figure came through the kitchen door, kicked away his
automatic rifle, and stood looking down at him.
Eamon found he could not raise his head.
He noticed that the mud-stained figure was wearing wet, muddy, but
expensive shoes.
They were Swiss, he
recalled, but he could not remember the name.
The plainclothes detective came into the kitchen.
His grandfather had been in the old IRA in
the fight for freedom against the British and he had served on the border in
What today's terrorists did
made
him sick.
And
time and again, they seemed to evade the security forces through legal
technicalities and playing one side against the other.
How could you fight a completely ruthless terrorist organization within
the context of a legal framework designed for peacetime civilian application?
One of the uniformed
gardai
had
broken down the door, but the detective, being armed and experienced in such
things, was the first man to enter the house.
The front room was on his right.
With one of the uniforms keeping an eye on his back, he kicked open the
door, but kept to one side, half expecting an answering burst of fire.
There was nothing — which was just as
well.
The protection of the thin
partition wall was an illusion.
He entered the room in a sudden movement and rolled to find cover.
He could see very little.
There was no light and the blinds were
drawn.
Outside, the rain had stopped as
abruptly as it had started, but the sky was still overcast with black clouds.
There was a disturbing sweetish metallic
smell in the air.
It set his nerves on
edge.
It was the smell of blood and body
matter and fear, the odor of the slaughterhouse.
His eyes adjusted to the gloom.
Tentatively, he stood up, glanced around, and opened the blinds.
The floor and furniture and part of the walls
were drenched in blood.
There was
something on the floor half covered in a newspaper.
He pulled the paper aside and gagged.
The man's throat gaped at him and the
expression on his face was that of utter horror.
One of the uniforms came in.
"Jesus, mother of God," he said, and crossed himself.
He then went across to the two bound figures
in the corner and, removing a clasp knife, cut their bonds.
One of the figures, the younger woman, was trying to say something.
Her face and upper body were sticky with
blood, and she smelled of vomit.
The
policeman suppressed his nausea and put his head close to hers.
"I had to," she said.
"I had to."
The policeman did not understand.
He tried to say something reassuring, but the bloody figure reached out
a hand and gripped his arm with such intensity that it hurt.
"They made me talk," she said.
"They killed my father."
She started sobbing.
"They
killed my father.
They killed my
daddy."
The policeman was a kindhearted man, used to dealing with farmers who had
not licensed their cars and poachers who were overly fond of other people's
salmon.
He felt tears come to his eyes,
and he put his arms around the woman.
Her grip tightened.
"Now they
are going for Hugo," she said, "in the hospital."
The she was silent, and the policeman could
see her gathering her strength.
Her next
words came out almost in a shout.
"They know everything," she said.
"They know everything, the guards, the
layout,
the
routines."
She made a final effort.
"But I told them the wrong room.
I told them Room Number 4."
