The Devil's Footprint (25 page)

"The house?"

"It's about four hundred meters up ahead," said Hillgrove.
 
"Clapboard farmhouse, kinda
run-down.
 
A barn and
some other outbuildings.
 
A rusty tractor and no animals.
 
Two cars parked outside, but no lights on
inside the farm that we can see.
 
The
drapes are closed.
 
And that's about all
we know."

"It's surrounded?" said Fitzduane.

"Yes, sir," said Hillgrove.
 
"The state troopers have it sewn up every which way.
 
We only got here ten minutes ago."

"My wife?"

Hillgrove's face reflected compassion and caution.
 
According to Sheriff Jacklin, the woman had
been grabbed the previous afternoon and a helicopter had been involved.
 
That suggested that she had already been
flown out of the area.
 
Still, you could
never be certain.

He shook his head.
 
"We just
don't know yet, sir.
 
An
electronic-surveillance team are
moving into position now.
 
They'll try and drill through and place a few
miniature probes in position.
 
But it
will take some time.
 
Best get some rest,
sir."

Fitzduane absorbed the news.
 
He
was exhausted, he knew, and still in shock.
 
He was not thinking clearly.
 
There was information he should pass on to the FBI man, but he could not
think what it was.
 
He felt dizzy.

"Glass of water, sir," said Hillgrove, his voice concerned by
distant.
 
"You'd better sit
down."

Fitzduane could feel his vision dimming, and there was a ringing in his
ears.
 
Someone took his arm and eased him
onto a chair.
 
He took the water with
both hands and drank greedily.
 
God, he
was making all the classic errors.
 
He
was in shock, he had let himself get dehydrated, and he hadn't eaten.
 
He was way overtired.
 
He was personally involved.

He would have to get a grip.
 
He
closed his eyes.
 
In the background he
could hear the constant chatter of radio communications and the sound of
footsteps as people walked to and for.
 
The floor creaked.

Hillgrove seemed to know what he was doing, Fitzduane reflected
sleepily.
 
But there is something I
should tell him.
 
He dozed.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

"Tac One," said a voice in Hillgrove's earpiece.

"Roger, Five," said Hillgrove.

"We're inserting now," said
Five
.
 
"Should come up on
video any second."

Hillgrove had a mental picture of the surveillance team withdrawing their
drill bits very slowly, careful to avoid the slightest sound, and inserting
cameras and sound probes no bigger than the head of a matchstick.

He stared intently at the three video monitors.
 
Any moment the first picture would come
through.
 
Whether there was light inside
or not would make no difference except to the quality of the images.
 
The miniature cameras had night-vision
capability.

The first camera was coming on stream.
 
The focus was slightly off and was adjusted.

"My God!" said a voice in absolute shock.
 
"What have they done to her?
 
What's that stuff hanging out of her?
 
Oh My God!"

The wide-angle lens distorted the image and the picture had the greenish
negative quality of night vision, so flesh tones could not be seen.

Nonetheless, the content was clear.

The naked woman's arms had been tied to the rafters and her legs spread
and tied apart.

Her throat had been slashed, and her body and the floor beneath her were
black with blood.

She had been gutted.

The voice was a harsh whisper, a cry of hatred, pain, and the very depths
of despair.
 
The name was drawn out, a
long sibilant sound.

"Oshimaaaaaa!
 
Oshimaaaa!" whispered Fitzduane.
 
"That's how she kills."

Hillgrove's mouth was dry.
 
He
swallowed.
 
Fitzduane had woken and was
staring intently at the monitor.

"Is it — do you recognize...?"

"I—I don't know," he whispered.
 
"Her face.
 
They've cut off her face."

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

Hillgrove continued the electronic surveillance for an hour.
 
The findings were clear enough.
 
The killers, whoever they were, were long
gone.

The entry
team were
moving into position when Fitzduane
remembered.
 
"Don't go in," he
said suddenly.

"Wait one," said Hillgrove into his mouthpiece.
 
"What did you say, sir?" he said to
Fitzduane.

"I know these people," said Fitzduane, "and they know
us.
 
As soon as they find a safe house,
they prepare to move on.
 
The house then
becomes a trap.
 
They know we will find
it sooner rather than later, and they know roughly how long it will take
us.
 
The place will be mined."

"Then why the body?" said Hillgrove.

"To make us angry, to stop us thinking," said Fitzduane.
 
"To lure us in.
 
And it's working."

Hillgrove exhaled.
 
He had been
caught up in the immediacy of the entry routine and this distraction was
disorienting.
 
He was tempted to shut the
man up or have him forcibly removed, but despite the torn, bloodstained
clothing and the exhausted, haunted look on Fitzduane's face there was
something about the man's bearing that made him credible.
 
According to Sheriff Jacklin, this Irishman
knew the world of terrorism, which was more than Hillgrove did.

"What do you suggest?" he said.

"Pull back and send in an ordnance disposal team.
 
Tell them to take their time and to be very
careful," said Fitzduane.

"But your — your — the victim?" said Hillgrove hesitantly.
 
It was hard to imagine that hideous thing
hanging from the rafters as living flesh and blood.

Your
wife
was unspoken.

"It's — it's too late for her," whispered Fitzduane.
 
He was having trouble getting the words
out.
 
"If you could have done
anything, I'd have let you go in and to hell with the risks.
 
But she's dead, and what's the point of more
people following?"
 
There was agony
in his voice.

"Who are these people?" said Hillgrove.

Fitzduane did not answer.
 
Tears
were streaming down his face.

Hillgrove hesitated.

"Tac One?" said a voice in his ear.
 
"Ready to go."

"Pull back," said Hillgrove.
 
"Get back fifty meters and get your heads down."

"What's—"

"DO IT!" snapped Hillgrove.

The entry
team were
still pulling back when two
tons of homemade explosive ignited.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

The noise was persistent.
 
Fitzduane
heard it through waves of sleep.
 
He knew
he was supposed to react in some way, but something told him that he did not
want to wake up.
 
There were matters he
would have to face that he did not want to have to deal with.
 
Sleep was safer.
 
His body screamed for more rest.

The phone went silent.
 
The hours
passed.
 
Fitzduane slept on.

"Hugo," said a familiar voice.
 
The tone was gentle, sympathetic.
 
He felt a hand on his shoulder.

He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt leaden.
 
His throat was dry.
 
He felt muzzy.

"Kathleen," he whispered.
 
There was something important he should remember, he knew, and Kathleen
was involved.
 
"Kathleen," he
said again.

"Hugo, you've got to wake up," said Kilmara.

Fitzduane struggled to open his eyes.
 
He sat up slowly and took the proffered glass of orange juice.
 
He drank greedily.

The room was in semidarkness, but chinks of light around the drapes
suggested it was daytime.

Suddenly he remembered.
 
A long,
low cry as of physical pain escaped him.
 
Internally, Kilmara winced.
 
He
felt helpless and inadequate in the face of such suffering.

"What time is it," said Fitzduane.

"Nearly four in the afternoon," said Kilmara.
 
"Don't feel bad.
 
You did all you could before you crashed, and
even then you were sedated.
 
Grab a
shower and you'll feel better.
 
But first
I've got one bit of good news.
 
The dead
woman in that house was not Kathleen."

Fitzduane felt a rush of relief followed by renewed anxiety.
 
"Kathleen?
 
Has she been found?"

"No," said Kilmara heavily.
 
"It looks like she's been kidnapped, all right, but they are
keeping her alive.
 
And Chifune has
turned up.
 
The dead woman was her
agent.
 
She'll explain."

"Where is she?" said Fitzduane.

"Down the hall in my room waiting for you to wake up," said
Kilmara.
 
"Oga's
with her."

Fitzduane swung his legs out of the bed and sat on the edge and rubbed
his eyes.
 
"Sergeant Oga?" he
said.
 
"Good man.
 
What the hell is he doing here?"

"Inspector Oga now," said Kilmara.
 
"And on the same
assignment as Chifune."

"Oshima," said Fitzduane heavily, and headed into the bathroom.

"Oshima," said Kilmara to his friend's back.
 
He had been in counterterrorism most of his
life and tried to remain professionally detached.
 
Oshima was personal.
 
But for a Delta sniper called Al Lonsdale,
Oshima would have already killed his friend.
 
It had been damn close.

Fitzduane was in the bathroom for ten minutes.
 
When he emerged, his distress was no longer
evident.
 
He was pale but his manner was
calm.

There was coffee and toast on the table.
 
Fitzduane poured two cups and forced himself
to eat a little food.

"Where are we?" he said.
 
"I remember that damned house and the explosion and then a whole
lot more questions from the feds.
 
Then I
was given something to drink and I don't remember much more.
 
I guess I dozed off in the helicopter."

Kilmara smiled grimly.
 
"You
didn't doze.
 
The feds gave you enough
jungle juice to knock out an elephant and then flew you back to
Fayetteville
.
 
We're in a hotel about two miles from the
Bastogne Inn.
 
They want us to stick
around for a few more days until they've made sense of all this."

"Who's they?" said Fitzduane.

"Just about everybody who carries a badge," said Kilmara.
 
"
Which is a whole lot
of people in this part of the world.
"

"Do they know anything?" said Fitzduane.

"Not really," said Kilmara.
 
"But it's early."

Fitzduane was silent.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

Chifune had tried to prepare herself mentally for the encounter, but when
Fitzduane entered the room it was if she had learned nothing about protecting
herself from the emotional rigors of the world.

A mature woman, she felt defenseless.
 
Her self-possession deserted her.
 
Her heart pounded and a wave of feeling swept over her.
 
She remembered the last time they had seen
each other.
 
It had been on the aircraft
as Fitzduane was about to leave
Tokyo
to fly
back to
Ireland
and Kathleen.
 
To marry
Kathleen.
 
The man she, Chifune,
had fallen in love with.
 
Was still in love with.
 
It hurts, Hugo.
 
It hurts
.