"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.
She bowed formally. Beside her, Oga bowed also.
Fitzduane returned their bows. As Chifune straightened their eyes met fleetingly, and suddenly she knew that Fitzduane had not forgotten and that she was very important to him and that this would never change. She wanted to embrace him, to console him. It was not appropriate.
"Tanabu-san and Oga-san, it is good to see you again," said Fitzduane.
Oga beamed. He had been suspicious of the gaijin when they had first met, but that initial reserve had evolved into high regard. His one reservation concerned Chifune. He was devoted to Tanabu-san and did not want to see her hurt any more.
"Fitzduane-san, we deeply regret we could not have done more," said Chifune, "but we believe we can help."
"Kathleen is alive," said Fitzduane flatly, "and we're going to get her back. That is one of two certainties. The other is that this time Oshima will be stopped permanently."
"Fitzduane-san," said Chifune cautiously, "it is not certain that Oshima has Kathleen."
"But it is probable?" said Fitzduane.
"Yes, Fitzduane-san, it is probable," said Chifune.
"Let's talk," said Fitzduane. "How much time do you have?"
"As long as is necessary," said Chifune. "Oga-san was in the Japanese airborne, you may remember, Fitzduane-san, and the airborne have an expression which sums up our situation."
"‘All The Way,’" quoted Oga.
The thought came to Kilmara that Oshima seemed to have much the same motto. She would stop at nothing.
* * * * *
Three hours later, Fitzduane was acutely conscious of not having had enough sleep and strongly suspected that whatever the FBI medic had pumped into him was not the kind of thing you wanted to play with too often.
Still, fatigue and headache apart, some of the helplessness he had been feeling had evaporated and he felt a course of action was beginning to come clear. It might not conform to the standards of evidence the FBI required, but he, Fitzduane, ran on instinct and it seemed to work for him.
Chifune and Oga had gone, Fitzduane and Kilmara were going over what they had heard.
"Something to bear in mind," said Kilmara, "is that Chifune's position is not easy. Her own
side don't entirely trust her, or they would have told her that Oshima was still alive much earlier. Even more relevant right now is her situation in the U.S.. She can't just go to the FBI and pour out her life story. She's the agent of a foreign power, and currently she's working through a Koancho network set up in the U.S. Tell the feds all about this, and they'll roll them up quicker than the NRA blocking a gun-control bill."
"The Japanese are a friendly foreign power," said Fitzduane.
"That doesn't give them carte blanche to have a network of spies in the U.S.," said Kilmara. "And remember that friendly covers a multitude, including quite a dose of international espionage, which gives the feds gas pains. So friendly doesn't mean let's all trust each other and share secrets. Its more like how you treat your in-laws."
"Okay," said Fitzduane. "I understand that Chifune is here to track down Yaibo and is working through her own people, but why, when she got wind of action here, didn't she contact me? She knew I was around. She'd rung home. They know her. They'd told her where I was."
Because in my opinion she's still in love with you, Hugo, and did not know how to handle an encounter, Kilmara felt like saying, but this was not quite the time for such directness.
"I guess she was going to contact you," said Kilmara, "but all this shit blew up first. Also, Chifune and Oga are emphatic they did not know what was going to happen. They thought there was going to be some kind of terrorist meeting. They did not envisage any action, let alone this kind of carnage. Hell, who would!"
"But when Kathleen was brought to the terrorist safe house, Chifune made contact," said Fitzduane. "But then Kathleen was moved before we arrived."
"This time with Chifune following," said Kilmara. "Until they boarded a helicopter and headed out to sea. End of the trail."
"And the woman killed at the safe house by the terrorists was one of Chifune's agents left behind on watch," said Fitzduane. "What a mess!"
"The good news is Kathleen is definitely alive," said Kilmara, "and since they could easily have killed her it is reasonable to assume they intend to keep her alive for some purpose. They killed that unfortunate hitchhiker she gave a lift to without hesitation."
Fitzduane nodded. "But we don't know where Kathleen is or who is holding her. Oshima is a good guess, but here people were only one of several groups involved in the assault. Oshima herself was not seen. So Kathleen could be anywhere. Or held by anyone."
"You don't believe that, Hugo," said Kilmara.
"I guess not," said Fitzduane. "Every instinct tells me she's in Tecuno, but without proof the U.S. is going to do nothing. And even with proof, Mexico seems to be a no-go area."
"All true," said Kilmara, "but those kind of constraints never stopped us before, and this time I don't think we'll be alone. Have faith."
Fitzduane went over to the window and peered through the blinds. Night had fallen, and under the lights outside he could see the sheriff's deputies and state police. Off to one side a Humvee mounting a 40mm automatic grenade launcher was parked.
"Serious security," he said.
"One of these days we are going to learn to hit them before they hit us," said Kilmara.
"If they hit us tonight, I'm going to sleep through it," said Fitzduane. "I'm going to hit the sack."
"You've one more thing to do," said Kilmara. "Talk to Dana. She'd like to apologize about losing her charge." He stood up. "I'll go get her."
According to Captain Dana Felton, Kathleen had asked her three times to leave her alone. She was fed up with all this security and needed some space. Eventually, Dana had pulled way back out of sight and then lost her client when Kathleen had switched off the agreed-upon road.
The rules of the bodyguard business were that your client's safety was more important than a client's feelings. On the other hand, when Kathleen needed her space it was an unwise person who got in her way, and she was eminently capable of losing her tail. Dana's story had the ring of truth, and in all honesty Fitzduane could not see that she could have acted in any other way.
Dana came in. Kilmara stayed outside.
"I feel like shit, sir," said Dana. "I should have known better. I was trained better. I have no excuses, sir. I feel sick about Mrs. Fitzduane. Anything I—"
Fitzduane held up a hand to halt the flood. "How many people does it take to provide real security on someone, Dana?" he asked.
"It depends, sir," said Dana. "Six at least if the threat is serious. One or two if you're going through the motions. Shit, sir, I didn't mean it that way."
"I know my wife when she wants to be alone," said Fitzduane, "and I know you did what you could, Dana. None of us anticipated this level of threat. If you'd been with Kathleen when she was jumped, you'd have been killed. Simple as that. You'd be dead like Texas, and I'm damn glad you're not."
Dana took several deep breaths. There was a glint of moisture at the corner of each eye.
"I miss Texas, sir. She was a good buddy. I'd like to even the score, sir. What can I do?"
Fitzduane smiled tiredly. "Keep me safe while I work on getting Kathleen back Can do, Captain?"
"HOOAH, SIR!" said Captain Dana Felton.
Kilmara returned after Dana left. He had a bottle of red wine and two glasses. "Better than pills," he said.
"What does hooah mean?" said Fitzduane.
"‘Fucking A’ or similar," said Kilmara. "It's also used to indicate the right stuff. If you are an Okay guy in the airborne or rangers, you are ‘hooah.’"
"What's the origin?" said Fitzduane.
"Rangers in World War Two had completed a hazardous mission and were resting when they were asked to go back into action. ‘Who, us?’ they said indignantly, but back they went. And ‘Who us’ became ‘hooah.’"
Fitzduane suddenly felt a rush of fatigue and emotion. His voice broke. "You know, Shane, in the middle of all this shit it does sometimes strike me that there are some really good people out there. Despite everything."
Kilmara filled their glasses. "Despite everything," he said with feeling. He raised his glass. "To Kathleen. We're going to get her back. Whatever it takes."
"Whatever it takes," said Fitzduane.
* * * * *
In the morning they heard that the murdered woman found in the trunk of the Dodge had been officially identified as Sergeant Jenny Pullman, a parachute rigger with the 82nd Airborne who had been hitching back from the coast after seventy-two hours' compassionate leave. She was an innocent victim who had been unlucky enough to hitch a lift with the wrong person.
The wreckage of the destroyed farmhouse was sifted through item by item. The body had been blown apart and pieces had been found over a wide area.
One arm was found sufficiently intact to take fingerprints. They were identified as belonging to Akio Taro, a Japanese freelance journalist doing an assignment on FortBragg. Chifune's agent.
The Dodge found by the state police had been rented by Kathleen Fitzduane. The rental company recognized Kathleen's photograph and the driver's license number checked out.
There was no longer any doubt about the identity of the kidnap victim.
They had also heard that apart from the terrorist attack on the special-forces exhibition, an explosive device concealed in a large, self-propelled floor-cleaning machine had gone off in the Oak Creek shopping mall in Fayetteville. The place was packed with shoppers at the time, including thousands of off-duty airborne soldiers and their families.
The cleaning machine was capable of washing, drying, polish application, and buffing, and contained tanks for its consumables. These tanks had been packed with more than two hundred pounds of miniature steel balls suspended in a gel. An odorless gas contained in a cylinder in the built-in storage compartment — normally used for spare buffing pads — had been released in advance.
The explosives combined with the gas to create a destructive effect considerably more powerful than the explosive on its own would have achieved. It was, in effect, a fuel air bomb.
The American military establishment was being attacked where it was most vulnerable by an unknown enemy following an unknown agenda. In strictly military terms, the casualties were of little significance.
But internationally, the political symbolism of the actions was considerable.
9
The meeting had been progressing for twenty minutes.
It had started calmly with a factual description of what had happened and the progress the various agencies were making, but the dispassionate recital of facts was beginning to give way to acrimony.
"In summary," said National Security Advisor Vernon Slade, "we have had a total of seven terrorist attacks on U.S. soil over the last six months and we appear none the wiser as to who is behind all this or why they are doing it or where they are based. Giving the resources we are deploying, that might be interpreted as a failure of leadership."
The Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Webster Grant, flushed. Slade had not mentioned any names, but the implication was clear. Since the FBI had statutory authority to investigate internal terrorism, their failure to date to identify and arrest the perpetrators could be attributed to him. And he was not a Slade supporter.
"Mr. Director?" said the President. Someone might have to be sacrificed, but he did not particularly want to play Vernon's game. He liked his FBI Director and did not want to lose him.
"Mr. President," said the FBI Director, "it is not true to say that we have made no progress in our investigations, or indeed that the terrorists have had it all their own way. Frankly, the problem seems to be that we may be after more than one organization. So far we have identified several members of Yaibo, a Japanese extremist group, two Iranians, and a number of other fundamentalists with connections in Lebanon, Egypt, and Syria. We also have two bodies we cannot identify. Both seem to be from Latin America. One is definitely of Indian extraction."
"Probably Cuban," said Slade. "Fidel had not changed his spots."
"They could be Americans, Vernon," said the President heavily. "We have citizens of every race, color, and creed these days. We cannot point the finger merely because someone looks as if he could be Cuban."
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