Games of The Hangman f-1

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  Fitzduane and de Guevain got into the front of the saboteurs' station wagon, and the other four members of the group squeezed themselves flat in the back. Etan blew Fitzduane a kiss through the window. He almost seemed, she couldn't help noticing, to be smiling. The son of a bitch, she thought. Of course, danger is what this man is used to; putting himself in harm's way is what he does. War is what he is good at.

  How will I react to danger? She wondered. The next few hours would tell. The image of the death of red-haired Anne-Marie Fitzduane in the Congo nearly two decades earlier came to her, and it was as clear as if she had been there. Death by decapitation. She imagined the blade into her flesh and the shock and the agony and her blood fountaining, and she felt sick with fear and horror. Would this be her fate? She caressed the wooden stock of the Mauser she had been issued and resolved that it would not. She felt the adrenaline flow, and with it, courage.

  26

  Outside Fitzduane's Castle — 1755 hours

  The frogmen of Phantom Unit had trained in the relatively balmy, if polluted, waters of the Mediterranean. Although they had been warned otherwise, the clear skies and hot sun of that unusual Irish day had lulled them into a false sense of familiarity with their environment. It could almost have been the Mediterranean. The unpleasant reality of the near-freezing temperatures of the Atlantic came as a shock despite the wet suits all four men wore. As the long swim progressed, the cold sapped the energies of the men, and their responses slowed. They would make it, thought Giorgio Massana, Phantom Unit commander, but at a price.

  Spare tanks of compressed air and other specialized equipment traveled with them on a battery-powered underwater sled called a SeaMule. The SeaMule was capable of pulling two men in addition to its normal load, but there was a penalty to be paid in terms of battery life, and the lack of physical activity as one was towed meant body warmth drained away faster. Massana allowed only one man to be towed at a time, and then only for brief periods. He had had batteries cut out on him before, and he needed that equipment if he was to get into the castle. There was no way they could pull the SeaMule by themselves.

  They had swum from the Sabine, which was anchored off the headland. Nearing the coastline they encountered shoals of seaweed dislodged by recent storms, which in turn his numerous submerged rocks. They had to proceed with the utmost care, and their progress was labored. Maneuvering the SeaMule through this underwater obstacle course was both difficult and exhausting.

  It const them the life of one man. Alonzo, a fellow Sardinian and the best swimmer in the group, was smashed into a kelp-disguised rock when the undertow threw the sled temporarily out of control. There was no discernible noise and little blood, but the skull of the one person in the world whom Massana really cared about was crushed effortlessly as the Atlantic flexed its muscles. They left Alonzo floating semi-invisible in the seaweed. In his black wet suit he already looked like part of the undersea world. The undertow smashed him again and again against the rocks, and brain matter leached from the ripped hood.

  They came ashore on seaweed-covered rocks with the gray mass of Fitzduane's castle above them. Near invisible against the rocks in their black suits, they rested for a couple of minutes. As he gathered his strength, Massana wondered why a seaborne assault by a specialized group was necessary against only three or four unarmed civilians who would certainly not be expecting an attack. He had been briefed on the likely presence of Hugo Fitzduane and two people who worked for him in various capacities and who were sometimes in the castle. A radio report from Draker had warned that there might be some guests. To Massana, such targets were scarcely worthy of his team's special skills. They certainly weren't worth losing Alonzo for. He felt a sudden hatred for Kadar; then his training reasserted itself. He signaled his two companions to move. They unpacked the assault equipment.

  Three rubber-coated grapnels trailing ropes hissed from their compressed carbon dioxide-powered launchers and lodged inside the castle defenses. Massana and one other frogman began to climb. The third frogman, a silenced Ingram at the ready, surveyed the keep and battlements, ready to lay down suppressing fire.

  Massana reached an aperture in the battlements and vanished from view, closely followed by the second frogman. A hand beckoned. The third frogman, who would now be covered by the first two, slung his Ingram and began to climb.

  Bloodlust rose in him as he relived past kills and anticipated the shedding of more blood in the imminent future. There was nothing so exciting as the taking of human life. He reached the battlements and dropped between two crenellations to land in a crouch on the parapet. He moved to unsling his weapon and at the same time checked his surroundings.

  Massana and the second frogman lay in pools of blood to his left. A distinguished-looking man in a fishing jacket with a bloodied sword in his hand stood over them. Too late the third frogman realized that the cuff of the hand he had seen had been dark brown and not black. He almost had the Ingram in firing position when the point of a halberd emerged from his chest.

  The Bear looked down at the dead frogman. "Any more?" he asked Noble.

  Noble stood there with a blood katana — a Japanese samurai sword from Fitzduane's collection — in his hands, impressed at the power of the weapon and the simplicity with which it killed. "Not for the moment."

  The Bear put his foot on the frogman and wrenched the halberd free. It took effort. He had thrust with all his force. He waited for a few moments to get his breath back before he spoke.

  "They've got some kind of powered platform down there," he said. "I'd like to check it out, but it would be wiser not to until the others get back."

  Noble nodded in agreement. He was staring at his bloodstained hands as if mesmerized. "I've been involved in the antiterrorism business for years," he said, "but it's all been theory. Reports, papers, meetings, seminars — none of them prepares you for this." He gestured toward the crumpled bodies.

  "They'd have killed you if you'd hesitated," said the Bear. "Believe me."

  "I do."

  "The Bear looked over in the direction of Draker. "I wonder how Fitzduane and the team are getting on."

  * * * * *

  Aboard The Sabine — 1806 hours

  Kadar stood on the ‘monkey island,’ the small open deck on the roof of the Sabine's enclosed bridge, which represented the best observation point on the boat, short of climbing the three-legged radio mast rising above him. He was looking through powerful tripod-mounted naval binoculars. He could see the aircraft but not yet hear it. As it flew closer, he made a positive identification. It was the Islander carrying the airborne Phantom Unit — Phantom Air.

  Ziegle, his radio operator, who was wearing a Russian back-mounted military radio, confirmed it: "Phantom Air reporting in, sir. They say that the bridge has been blown. The bridge unit seems to be on the way back to Draker by vehicle as arranged. They want to know if they should land immediately."

  "Any news from PhantomSea?"

  "They reported arriving at the base of the castle," said Ziegle, "but nothing since then. The signal strength was not good. The castle walls may have interrupted further transmission."

  Kadar was not overly concerned by the reply. Taking out Fitzduane's castle was a sideshow. The key was the securing of Draker and the hostages. With the hostages under his control, any other problems were matters of detail.

  "Any news from Draker?"

  Ziegle clasped his earphones to his ears and bent his head in concentration. His gesture reminded Kadar that however brilliant his planning, his acceptance of Soviet-made radio equipment from the Libyans for interunit communication had been a mistake. Ziegle's heavy back-mounted set was powerful enough, but the smaller radios used by the field units were on the margin of acceptability. Fortunately their short range and poor quality would not matter once they were all positioned in Draker, and for other communications, such as with the authorities, they had the backpack unit and the powerful Japanese-made ship's radio. The error was irritatin
g but not serious.

  Ziegle looked up. "Draker is secure. The leader of the Sacrificers reports no casualties on his side. All the guards are dead. Two of the faculty members had to be killed. The remaining faculty and all students are under guard in the assembly hall. They are moving on to the next phase."

  Kadar felt a surge of relief, though his face remained impassive. His farsighted decision to use a suborned group of students had paid off. The security people had never expected an attack from within.

  Kadar believed that a strong force such as his would probably have succeeded in capturing Draker without internal help, but the risks would have been much greater. Help could have been summoned, and the weak points in the sea landing could have been shown up as fatal. The fact was that while disembarking, the terrorists were vulnerable to even a small force on the cliffs above, and they were even more vulnerable while ascending the tunnel that led from Draker's small jetty to the college buildings at the top. Getting up that tunnel against any sort of armed opposition would have meant, at best, heavy casualties.

  The advantages of the sea to land a large force were overwhelming, and his use of the Sacrificers backed up by Phantom Air — an excess of caution, it now seemed — had compensated for the risks.

  Ziegle was looking at him.

  "Tell the Sacrificers' leader congratulations," said Kadar. "Ask him to confirm that the top end of the tunnel is secure. Tell Phantom Air to circle the island to see if anyone is out there and then to land in ten minutes."

  Ziegle spoke into his radio microphone. Kadar watched the Islander bank to starboard and then, at a height of about a thousand feet, commence a slow perusal of the island. "Reconnaissance is seldom wasted," he said to himself, using the old army adage.

  "the jetty access tunnel is secure," said Ziegle, "but there is only one man on guard there. Another man is on guard at the main entrance. Sacrificer leader himself needs the other three to guard the hostages. He requests that you land reinforcements as soon as possible."

  Kadar, feeling at that moment, he thought, more exhilarated than General MacArthur could ever have felt even when he had retaken the Philippines, gave the order to land. At Kadar's signal the waiting terrorists, laden with weapons and explosives, climbed down scrambling nets into inflatable assault boats and headed for shore.

  Kadar followed with Ziegle and his personal bodyguard. As they landed on the jetty, they received a message that a figure wearing the black combat gear of PhantomSea had waved from the keep of Fitzduane's castle. Several bodies had been sighted as well.

  So at last Fitzduane was dead. Kadar felt a sense of relief at the news. Although probably by instinct rather than deliberation, Fitzduane had a bad habit of turning up at the wrong moments. News of his death was comforting: it was a good omen for the mission.

  * * * * *

  The road to DrakerCollege — 1806 hours

  Fitzduane resisted the urge to press the accelerator to the floor. High speed would look suspicious, and anyway the road surface was not in great shape.

  He could now guess at some of the elements in the Hangman's plan. In hindsight, making his move just after the staff bus was off the island had been obvious. The landing would be taking place right now. The question was, were the Sacrificers being used as he feared?

  Henssen was lying on his back, squeezed between Murrough and the left side of the Volvo station wagon's wheelhousing. He held de Guevain's strung longbow in his hands, and an AK-47 they had found in the car rested between his knees.

  He looked out through the rear window. "We've got company. Some kind of small twin-engine plane. Maybe it's the good guys," he added hopefully.

  "I wouldn't bet on it," said Fitzduane. "On the basis of the timing, I think we're going to be between a rock and a hard place if we're not careful. Does it look as if it's going to land?"

  "Shit!" cried Henssen. The Volvo had hit a pothole, and the AK-47 bounced and crashed back into his balls.

  Fitzduane turned his head quickly and saw what had happened. "Silly place to keep a weapon."

  "That's a very unfunny remark," said Henssen, rubbing his private parts with his free hand. "The plane is banking by the looks of it. It's probably going to circle until we get out of the way. If it's landing here, we're screwing up its airstrip."

  Fitzduane's eyes were fixed on the road ahead. DrakerCollege was coming up fast. He could see a figure by the gate. "I know all the guards by sight. If we see one, then maybe we're in time. If it's something else" — he glanced at de Guevain — "you're on. Think you can do it from eighty meters?"

  "We'll know soon enough." De Guevain was wearing a checked keffiyeh that he'd found in the car. Fitzduane was similarly attired. The Frenchman's manner was withdrawn and focused, and his hands were clasped around the slender shaft of a heavy hunting arrow.

  The figure in the animal mask up ahead waved at them with his left hand. His right hand was clasped around the pistol grip of a Uzi submachine gun. Fitzduane slewed the car to a halt, using the hand brake to demonstrate a suitable degree of fishtailing. The rear of the car was seventy-five meters from the Sacrificer.

  * * * * *

  Draker College — 1809 hours

  They'd done it, they'd actually done it, the Sacrificer on guard at the main gate was thinking. His father was a Spanish industrialist who had prospered under the Franco regime but now felt it expedient to keep a low profile. He spent more and more time pursuing various business interests — and women — in South America. His younger son, Carlos, was something of a disappointment. The lad lacked the realism necessary to survive in this world, and the machismo. He was, to be frank, an embarrassment. DrakerCollege was an ideal place to put him until something could be worked out. His father did not spend much time thinking about what that solution might be. He was a master practitioner of the ‘out of sight, out of mind’ philosophy, and there were so many more enjoyable distractions.

  Carlos's hatred of his father created a void. The camaraderie of the Sacrificers filled that void and gave Carlos a sense of power and self-esteem which, up to that time, he had very obviously lacked. He was impressed by his own daring. Only minutes before he had actually killed two human beings with cyanide. Now he waited for the saboteurs of Phantom Unit who had been assigned to blow the bridge. He didn't know them by sight, but he had been briefed on the make and registration number of their car, and he knew their estimated time of arrival.

  The Volvo had stopped just out of easy shooting distance, as if it had hit a rock or had some mechanical trouble. Maybe it had a flat tire; the way it had slewed suggested that. He made a thumbs-up sign to show that they had taken the college successfully and walked forward to give them a hand.

  The driver and the passenger got out, and the driver kicked the left rear wheel in irritation. The other man opened the back of the station wagon and peered inside. Carlos could see the tip of what looked like a tire iron. He was torn between going to help and staying at his post as instructed. He cupped his hands to shout that he would like to help but that he was under orders.

  The passenger stepped out from behind the car with something in his hands that seemed pointed above Carlos's head. His brain, pre-conditioned to see a spare wheel or a jack, rejected the initial message of his eyes. His brain was still making an attempt to process what he was seeing when the arrow struck the center of his chest, smashing through his ribs and penetrating his lungs. A second arrow followed almost immediately and hit him lower in the abdomen. He collapsed without a sound. He was thinking as he died that the day had gotten colder.

  * * * * *

  Draker College — 1810 hours

  De Guevain was temporarily stunned by the consequences of his act. His face lost all its color, and he stood, unmoving, the bow dangling in his hands. Fitzduane tore the bow from his grasp and threw it into the back of the Volvo, then pushed de Guevain roughly into the passenger seat and slammed the door after him. With the tailgate still open, he accelerated the car and roared through t
he main entrance into the forecourt inside.

  The place was deserted. Several cars stood there with their hoods open and engines wrecked.

  "Do it very fucking fast," said Fitzduane.

  Murrough, how knew the college layout, signaled Andreas to follow. Together they ran around the back of the college to where the jerry tunnel emerged. Murrough, his .303 sniper rifle strapped to his back, had an SA-80 in his hand with the fire selector switched to auto. Andreas carried Fitzduane's pump-action Remington and the Hawk grenade launcher. The Hawk was, essentially, a giant semi-automatic two-handed weapon loaded with twelve 40 mm grenades in a rotary magazine that it could discharge in six seconds. It was heavy and took practice to use accurately, but as a close-assault weapon it was devastating.

  They could only hope that the attack force had not yet made it out of the tunnel. It was the one location where they might hold off a superior force. They had been instructed not to fire, if possible, until Fitzduane had secured the hall, where he knew the students normally assembled. "Right now we've got surprise on our side," he said, "but that's strictly a one-shot deal."

  Murrough's heart gave a leap when he saw that the mouth of the jerry tunnel was empty. He was fifteen meters away when two camouflaged figures emerged. He hit the ground, and Kalashnikov fire sliced the air around him. There was a double roar as Andreas's Remington went into action. A hail of fire was returned from the tunnel, which had suddenly filled with men.

  Murrough lay on the ground, the fire too intense to permit him to move. A grenade tumbled through the air and blew a garden water butt to pieces beside him, drenching him. Sick at heart, he knew they were too late. They couldn't hold the tunnel.