"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 against 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 w
hen 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 even 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.
Sergeant Tommy Keane from the police station on the mainland had showed up on his bicycle and, after a private discussion with Fitzduane, had reluctantly agreed to stay around for the next few hours. It was too hot for fishing anyway. He'd try to sneak away in the evening. Meanwhile, he might as well keep an eye on what his eccentric friend was up to — and try to keep him out of trouble.
Fitzduane's little army now numbered thirteen. Eleven, including Fitzduane, reassembled in the great hall. Murrough and his wife were on the fighting platform of the tower. Armed with powerful binoculars, they could observe the bridge onto the island and much of the surrounding countryside with ease. Visibility was generally excellent, though a thin heat haze had sprung up and obscured details in the distance.
Fitzduane spoke. "Our first priority is to secure this castle, so I want you all to be thoroughly familiar with the physical layout, hence the guided tour. I'll go through it again now and explain how the defenses — if required — will work."
He turned to a large plan of the castle painted on wood and resting on an easel. It had been made nearly three hundred years earlier, and the colors were faded. His mind wandered for a moment to the many other occasions when Fitzduanes had assembled to ward off a threat. Most of the time they had been able to talk their way out of trouble. Somehow he didn't think that talk would be the answer this day.
"As you can see," he said, "the castle is situated on a low outcrop of rock bordered on two sides by the sea. The sea approach doesn't guarantee security against trained individuals, but any major assault would almost certainly have to be made from the landward side. Even when the tide is out, the rock is steep and covered with seaweed, so maneuvering a body of men on the seaward approaches is well-nigh impossible."
"I'm going to use the term castle for the whole walled-in area, but of course, the castle actually consists of several component parts, mostly built at different times. The cornerstone of the castle — and the part that was built first — is the sixty-foot-high square stone tower known as the keep. On the top of the keep is what is called the fighting platform. That is the open area protected by a parapet. Under the fighting platform are five rooms, access to which is by the circular stone staircase. In all the rooms and on the stairs there are observation and firing points.
"Next to the keep and connected to it at second-floor level is the long rectangular building we are in, which is known as the great house. That was built when things were supposed to be getting more civilized around here but still with an eye on defense. It consists of three floors under a pitched roof. The top floor is this room and the kitchen. Underneath are the bedrooms, and under those are stores and utility rooms. The outside wall of the great house is part of the perimeter and is defended by the sea access and the normal fighting points, and it is overlooked by the top stories of the keep. However, there are no battlements here, and the pitched roof is vulnerable to plunging fire.
"The rest of the castle consists of the courtyard area, called the bawn, enclosed by a twenty-foot-high perimeter wall. Battlements run the length of the wall, and under these are the stables, bakery, smithy
, and other workshops. The weak point of the perimeter wall is, of course, the main gate, but that is defended by that small square tower, the gatehouse. The gate itself still had a working portcullis."
"What is a portcullis?" asked Andreas von Graffenlaub's Israeli girlfriend.
Fitzduane had learned that her family had been part of Dublin's Jewish community before emigrating to Israel. Her name was Judith Newman, and her looks were a strong argument in favor of making love and not war. She seemed quite unfazed by what was happening. Of course, she of all people would be used to terrorist threats. She came from a kibbutz near the Syrian border.
"It's the iron gate that looks like a grid. It rises and falls vertically. The idea is that it can be dropped in a hurry if any unfriendlies show up. There are spikes set into its base, so it's no fun if you are under it at the wrong time. It used to be operated by a big hand winch, but now there is an electric motor."
"But you can see through it," said Judith. "It's not solid."
"You can indeed see through it," said Fitzduane. "Which was partly the idea. It means you can also shoot through it. I imagine weight was also a consideration. A solid gate of that size would be impractical to raise and lower by hand on a routine basis."
"So the bawn could be swept by fire from outside?"
"The portcullis would stop much of it, because the metal bands are two inches wide with four-inch spacings, but yes, if the wooden gate were destroyed and only the portcullis were left, the bawn would be vulnerable to fire form outside. The solution is to move around on the battlements or to use the tunnel system."
"Tunnels," said the Bear.
"Tunnels," said Fitzduane. "They are one of the reasons the Fitzduane survived over the centuries. There is a network under the castle."
Games of The Hangman f-1 Page 46
