de Guevain was momentarily numb with shock and fear. He gave a cry of desperation and horror, more animal than human, and ran from the locker room into the salle.
The action was futile. His bodyguards, Pierre and Vincent, the marks of bullet perforations from automatic-weapons fire clearly visible, lay sprawled in bloody heaps.
He was facing a semicircle of five people. Four held silenced submachine guns. At the apex was a woman, a very beautiful Japanese woman.
She held a sword.
* * * * *
Fitzduane's Island, Ireland
May 29
Kathleen was in Boots's room in the Keep when she heard the faint cry, but at first did not know what to make of it and then dismissed it.
It was not repeated, and the mind sometimes played tricks in an old house when you were tired. A storm was raging outside and the wind off the sea whistled around the old stonework, and with such a backdrop, sometimes the cry of an owl or some other night creature sounded eerily human.
It was after midnight and all the guests had retired, so now she was going about the final business of the house, checking Boots. She enjoyed Boots and they had become very close. Asleep, he looked adorable. His bed was dry. He was well-covered. All was in order.
There was an unusual draft on the stairs, and the hangings over the double-glazed arrow slits blew in the breeze and the air was cold and chill. Methodically, she checked each of the slim windows, but all were closed. She had already checked the external doors, but she verified it again by looking at the security alarm repeater.
That left only the door to the fighting platform on the roof.
As she passed Fitzduane's room, she noticed his door was open and his room empty. A coil of fax papers lay on the floor by the doorway. She picked it up to put it somewhere where it would not be trodden on, and glanced at it as she did so. And her blood ran cold.
She read on. There was a handwritten note from Kilmara and it had clearly been sent immediately following a telephone conversation between the two men. It was a translation of a French police report, and photographs had been faxed with the text. The photographs had been transmitted at high resolution, and though they were in black and white and the quality was far from perfect, the essential details were all too apparent. Nausea swept over her and she felt bile rise in her throat. The papers fell from her hand, and she collapsed against the ancient oak doorway and retched.
Suddenly, the significance of that earlier cry hit home, and, near panic, she turned and ran up the worn stone stairs.
Thick heavy ice-cold rain driven by wind gusting over sixty miles an hour hit her as she emerged onto the fighting platform. Instantly, she was soaked and chilled to the bone, and temporarily blinded as her hair was driven across her eyes.
She had a sense of complete disorientation as the horror of what she had read combined with her fatigue and the violence of the storm.
She reeled backwards, confused and in shock, and then felt a violent blow against her lower back as she smashed into the battlements. A gust or rain-sodden wind hit her again and she scrabbled desperately for a handhold, suddenly conscious of where she was and the danger of being swept through the battlement crenellations to fall onto the rocks and heaving sea below.
The granite fortifications were ice cold and slippery to her hands, but she gained enough purchase to pull herself upright and regain her balance.
She swept her hair out of her eyes. She tried to shout for Fitzduane, but her cry was lost in the fury of the storm. Wind, sea, thunder, and rain combined in a terrifying cacophony.
The darkness was near absolute. Only a dim shaft of light from the stairway provided any illumination, and that was obscured by the rain and lost in the blackness of the night.
Fitzduane was there. He must be. This was where he liked to come to think, she knew, even in weather as vile as this. This is where he came to watch the sunrise and the sunsets and just to feel the force of the elements. Duncleeve and this wild land were deep in his blood.
She had asked him about it and he had tried to explain, but it was clear that words alone only hinted at what he felt.
"It's impossible to describe," he had said, with a slight smile. "I like the sheer aggression of the wind, violent and exhilarating at the same time, and the sting of the spray and smell of iodine from the sea, and the sense of being as one with all this incredible beautiful energy. And it's part of my childhood and part of what I am. And that is really all I can say."
He was an impossible man, with the spirit of an adventurer and the soul of a poet. And that was a terrifying combination in a world that was reckless with life.
But she loved him. Foolish and impossible though it was, she loved him. And that carried a burden. It was almost certainly futile, but she was responsible for this man. For the time she had, she would do what she could. Everything she could.
This is where he would come if he was deeply troubled, hurt, grieving, desperate... as he would be, because Christian de Guevain was dead and he was a friend and his death was horrible. Truly, a thing of horror.
And yet there was nothing.
The wind gusted again, this time from a different direction, and there was a crash as the door was blown shut.
Now the blackness of the night was absolute.
Kathleen went down on one knee, her head bowed, her fists clenched, as she fought panic and tried consciously to assess the situation.
It was ridiculous. She had no reason to be afraid, she told herself. Darkness in itself posed no danger, and she had been here literally dozens of times. It was not some strange cellar reeking of menace. This was no more than the flat roof, the fighting platform, of Fitzduane's Castle, and should be safe and familiar.
But she could not see. She was blind. And the storm was of an intensity that could blow her over the edge of the platform if she did not take care.
Sheer terror coursed through her as a hard, wet, snakelike body lashed at her and wrapped itself around her neck. She rose to her feet and her hands scrabbled at her throat as she fought to free herself.
A gust of wind found her and blew her backwards, and the grip on her throat tightened and she was choking.
Suddenly, her fingertips told her what her attacker was, and relief coursed through her a as she unwound the familiar rope. One end of the flagpole line had worked loose and, whipped by the wind, had caught her as she stood. Every morning, the Fitzduane standard was hoist over the castle, and every evening, at sunset, it was lowered. Boots loved the practice, and many times she had helped him with the rope. The texture was familiar, and now that she realized what it was, it was reassuring.
She could not see, but she could feel and she could think.
She used the rope to guide herself to the flagpole mounted in one corner of the platform. She could feel the painted wood of the pole and the metal of the lightning conductor that ran up one side. Now she could orient herself. Better yet, her fingers touched the casing of the external floodlight switches.
She pulled the handles down one after another, neither remembering nor caring which was the right switch for the roof alone, and the mind-numbing blackness was erased as if a curtain had been whipped aside, and within seconds the whole castle was lit up. The battlements were silhouetted. The courtyard below was a pool of light.
It was a sight from the ancient myths. The sheets of gusting rain twisting and turning made the glowing castle seem to float and shimmer. It was unreal, something from a dream.
Fitzduane stood on the other side of the platform, blinking in the sudden light as if woken from a daze. He was wearing only indoor clothing and was completely soaked.
Kathleen ran across to him and took him in her arms. His body was trembling and icy cold, and on his face was a look of utter despair.
She felt strong and certain. She had seen this man come from the edge of death through weeks of pain, and he had always endured with courage. Never before had there been even a hint of despair. But now he ha
d been pushed beyond endurance and he needed help as never before. And she was there.
She led him off the platform and closed the heavy door behind her, and the violence of the storm was immediately muted.
She took him to his bedroom below and stripped off their clothes and stood with him in a hot shower, holding him as some warmth came back into their bodies. Then she put him into bed and lit a log fire in the old stone fireplace and soon the room was warm. But still he trembled, despite the heat of the room and the comforting weight of the bedclothes. And naked she took him into her arms and held his face to her breasts as if he were a young child. And he cried. And Kathleen cried with him until they slept.
* * * * *
Kathleen woke near dawn. The blazing log fire had died down but still glowed. Fitzduane slept in her arms, but he was restless.
She stroked him, massaging his back gently and then caressing down to his thighs. Soon she felt him hardening and she reached down and took him in her hand, parted her thighs, and bent her knees and slid him into her. She was warm and wet, and her need was total.
Fitzduane awoke with a feeling of extraordinary sensuality suffusing him. Long legs gripped him. Soft, firm breasts cushioned him. Her hands touched him in the most intimate places. He could feel her breath, and it was sweet.
His lips found Kathleen's and their tongues met and he could feel her nipples hard against him. At first his thrusts were slow and regular, but then her intensity beneath him increased and her tongue was in his ear and her breath grew rasping with passion.
He had no independent thoughts and no control. All he could focus on was this all-encompassing healing sexuality, a force made of physical sensation and waves of love.
Kathleen climaxed first, her body shuddering with release and a long cry of passion on her lips, and then she gripped him very tight and he came with enormous power and it seemed his orgasm would never stop. And then it was over.
* * * * *
They slept again in each other's arms, then Fitzduane got the fire going again and went and made tea and fresh orange juice and they talked in bed.
Unspoken was the thought that they were friends and not lovers and that now things were more complicated and that, perhaps, this was not the way it should be. All of this was true, but there was also the shared belief that what had happened was nothing but good.
Eventually and reluctantly, the talk moved to de Guevain. Fitzduane sat upright in the bed, staring into the fire as he talked, and Kathleen lay beside him, her arms around his waist, sometimes stroking him. He talked about how they had met, and fencing together, and his friend's family and the good times they had had together; and eventually, he spoke of the manner of Christian de Guevain's death. It was so horrible that Kathleen wanted to stop him, but he seemed to need to talk it through, to hear the words again so that he could accept them.
"Really, the reports and photographs said most of it," said Fitzduane grimly, "but they did not explain the significance of the method used. Ironically, Christian would have understood. We both studied edged weapons and the customs surrounding them. And one of the great debates was the efficacy of Western weapons contrasted with the Japanese. Japanese katana are considered by many to be the supreme examples of the swordmaker's art. They went to extraordinary lengths to achieve this.
"In medieval times in Japan, a sword had to be capable of cutting through the heavy metal and leather armor worn by warriors and still inflict a mortal wound with a single blow. This demanded blades with outstanding attributes, and since swords were handmade one at a time without the consistency of mass-production standards, the testing of swords was an important business. A sword that passed its tests was signed in gold by the examiner on the sword's nakago, or tang. Swords that failed were melted down to make spears — weapons for the lower orders.
"Thick rolls of straw were sometimes used for testing. Human-body testing was preferred and was common. Often, the samurai who tested swords was licensed by the shogun to execute condemned criminals. This supplied live bodies for testing, and the process was conducted as a formal ceremony. There were witnesses, special clothing was worn, particular strokes were made, and certificate of the results was issued. The sword used was equipped with a special testing handle made from two pieces of hard wood with adjustable holes secured by metal bands, which allowed maximum force to be exerted while carrying out the testing cuts.
"It was not unusual, after the initial cuts had dismembered the body, for the pieces to be stacked up again and again until there was no piece of flesh left much larger than a hand or foot.
"And that was how Christian de Guevain was found. And to rub home the callous horror of it, a certificate was left by the bastards: Yaibo — the Cutting Edge."
Fitzduane bent his head. He felt rage, disgust, nausea, sadness. Action and reaction; this bloody business called terrorism never ended.
But it could be contained. Individual groups could be destroyed. Another would doubtless spring up, but that would be tomorrow's battle.
He focused on what needed to be done now. Then he looked down at Kathleen. "And about us..."
Kathleen looked at him steadily. Her face was glowing, her eyes loving. "Don't talk about the future, Hugo," she said, with calm emphasis. And then she smiled and ran her lips across his loins before looking up at him. "This is about us and now. Make love to me."
13
Fitzduane's Island, Ireland
June 5
Yoshokawa and the Spider had departed the following morning, their mood somber after they heard the news of de Guevain.
After they had left, Chifune stayed, and for a further week took Fitzduane through the files she had brought with her and prepared him in detail.
Fitzduane was strained and drawn for the first couple of days, but then he snapped out of his depression and reverted to his normal equable nature.
The manner of Christian de Guevain's terrible death was far from forgotten, but publicly Fitzduane preferred to focus on the happier memories of his friend. That would be the way Christian would want it, he thought. Grief returned in waves despite his best efforts, but mostly he was successful in hiding it. He also planned, with quiet intensity, an appropriate retribution.
Their groundwork complete, Fitzduane and Chifune flew to Dublin in the Islander and then on to Heathrow, London, by Aer Lingus. At Heathrow they switched to the international terminal and boarded a Virgin flight for Tokyo. The flight, via Helsinki and St. Petersburg, was to take over twelve hours.
* * * * *
At 35,000 feet somewhere over Siberia, most of the passengers were asleep, Chifune among them, her breathing deep and regular. The flight attendant had brought blankets and Fitzduane had tucked one around his sleeping companion. He looked at her for a long moment. She was small, slight, elegant, and very beautiful, but in a markedly un-Western way. Compared to Etan's leggy attractiveness or Kathleen's voluptuousness, Chifune was almost insubstantial. Yet, viewed without preconceptions, she was quite lovely.
He reclined in his seat and closed his eyes. His chest wound had healed completely, and his leg was not virtually fully recovered. The endless exercises and training had paid off. He was now actually fitter than he had been in some years. God knows, he was going to need every edge. Third-party protection could be relied upon just so far. He would have felt much happier if carrying a firearm. On this point, the Spider had been obdurate.
The Japanese had a history of antipathy toward firearms. During their closed period, the Shogun had structured society in a strictly hierarchical fashion and guns had been seen as its antithesis.
Anyone could use a gun regardless of rank.
This would not do. Accordingly, although guns had been used widely in Japan in the fifteenth century, from the sixteenth century on they had been virtually banned. The peasants were forbidden to be armed. Only the various ranks of samurai were permitted to be armed, and even then only with swords, bows, and spears. So who said you could never turn back
technological developments? The Japanese rejection of the gun had worked for nearly three hundred years.
Fitzduane had been well-briefed on the Hodama-Namaka-Yaibo triangle. He had been given an extensive dossier on the whole business, including a detailed summary of the police investigation to date. The file included photos of the principals, and he had been shown covert police videos. He felt he was beginning to know the opposition. He was even beginning to develop some theories as to what was going on.
Fitzduane's mind wandered onto the concept of ‘degrees of separation,’ the thesis that everybody, even in a world of five billion people, was only a handful of contacts away from everyone else. You always knew someone who knew someone who knew someone.
For instance, a perusal of the file revealed a shared interest with Kei Namaka in medieval weaponry. Namaka had even written several articles on Japanese arms for the Medieval Warrior's Society. Fitzduane was also a member.
In addition, Yoshokawa and the Namakas, as first-rank businessmen, were connected through the keidanren, the powerful Japanese employers' association. The keidanren was a major provider of finance for the LPD, the party whose strings Hodama had helped to pull before coming to a rather unpleasant end.
In Japan, it was not considered polite to approach an established figure directly. An introduction by a mutual friend or business contact of the appropriate status was essential. In Japan, everything and everybody was ranked. Yoshokawa-san would make the appropriate introduction. He scarcely knew the Namakas, but as the chairman of Yoshokawa Electronics and a fellow member of the Keidanren, he was entirely appropriate.
All in all, the whole damn thing was connected in one way or another. More and more it seemed to Fitzduane that the world was becoming a very small place. Very small and very dangerous.
He thought of Kathleen and Boots and what he was leaving behind, and then focused on what must be done.
Fitzduane 02 - Rules of The Hunt Page 23
