"None," said the newcomer. "They both drank the tea we brought them."
"Five out of six with cyanide," said the figure with the knife. "Who called it right?" He was referring to the pool they had organized among themselves. There were ten Irish pounds riding on the result.
"I did," said the figure with the Ingram.
Brogan's death throes provided a background to their conversation. His head and torso rose from the ground, and blood gushed from his mouth as he died. The body collapsed.
"Let's take them," said the one with the knife. He removed Brogan's locker key and opened up the arms locker. He loaded an Uzi and put spare clips in his pockets.
* * * * *
Fitzduane's Castle — 1746 hours
Fitzduane — no sexist by most standards — had always had the strongest objections to women being put on the firing line. Seeing dead women in a dozen wars, often leaving orphaned children sometimes still being suckled, had hardened these views. In this case, however, more than a third of his little force was female, and that element was not prepared to be placed in a cellar out of danger. He also had to admit that like it or not, he need the extra manpower: the word personpower stuck in his throat.
He compromised on the basis of training and experience. He wasn't entirely happy with the result. Katia Maurer was no problem. As a nurse she had a clear role, and a medical facility was established in one of the empty storerooms in the tunnel complex. The Bear was visibly relieved. Oona was the logical person to take charge of the meals. She know the castle and the location of all the supplies. She got organized in the kitchens off the great hall.
The Israeli girl, Judith Newman, shot so competently in the target practice they had arranged in the main tunnel (wearing earplugs against the deafening noise), and it was so clear that she wanted a combat role — and had the experience to back it up — that he assigned her along with Murrough, de Guevain, Andreas von Graffenlaub, and Henssen to go with him to Draker.
That left Etan, inexperienced but determined to fight if she had to. The only consoling fact was that under the Bear's expert eye, she had begun to shoot well. Despite the need for combatants, Fitzduane had tried to dissuade her from active involvement. He had pulled her away from the others and had closed the door of his study, and for a few intense minutes he had argued with her. She had waited until he finished, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him gently. Then she had looked into his eyes. "This isn't the Congo," she had said. "I'm not Anne-Marie. It's going to be all right."
Fitzduane had started at the mention of his dead wife's name, and then his arms had tightened around her and he had hugged her to him and held her until called away.
Apart from Tommy Keane, who had relieved Murrough on the fighting platform, the entire party had assembled in the bawn. Everyone's clothes reeked of burned propellant and gun oil from target practice in the tunnel — Fitzduane wanted the existence of their weapons to remain a surprise — and everyone, including Katia Maurer and Oona, he noticed, was armed. He had made them all look at Dick Noble's body. He could see from their expressions that the reality of their predicament was beginning to sink home.
"I don't like splitting our group," said Fitzduane, "but our phones are down and our long-distance radio has been destroyed, and we've got to try to do something about those kids. Several of us here have already had experience of the opposition we're up against, and they are not the kind of people you negotiate with. They don't bluff; they kill. If we don't get to the students before they do, there will be no good ending.
"Draker is too big and sprawling; it's indefensible. My intention now is to head over there and bring the kids and the few faculty members back to the castle, and then hole up until help comes. We can hold out here for an adequate time — that's what a castle is all about — and it's a plan I've already discussed with Colonel Kilmara of the Rangers.
"I don't know what the Hangman's plan is, but I would guess his objective is a mass kidnap for money. Intelligence reports indicate that he has trained a force of seventy or so, and I'd venture that most of them are going to land from that cattle boat at the headland. Some may have come overland as well, I don't know. And there may be a plane involved in this thing. The point is that we are going to be pitted against a superior force with superior training and firepower. That means we don't fuck around. I want no heroics or thoughts about the Geneva Convention. This isn't war. It’s a fight for survival. We kill or we get killed — and no prisoners unless I order it. We can't afford the manpower to guard them.
"If possible, I'm not going to use the students in this fight. I'm sure some of them have weapons training, but unfortunately we don't know who we can trust, as our recent tragedy so clearly shows. Besides, whether they are old enough to vote or whatever, I'm fed up with seeing kids who've had no chance to live getting killed. Keep one thing in mind: no strange faces. If the face isn't one of ours, shoot it. If you've any questions, they'll have to wait. Get to your posts. Draker team, mount up. Let's get the fuck out of here."
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 a
gain 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 irritating 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?"
Fitzduane 01 - Games of The Hangman Page 49
