surprisingly nostalgic about the place, when one small item caught his eye. It would normally have interested him about as much as a dissertation on yak hair, but his increasing feeling of unease linked with his current thoughts about the Hangman focused his mind.
The item said that Wednesday, May 20, was Geranium Day – the day chosen that year for all the good people of Bern to festoon their city with that particular flower. A sudden display of crimson.
The timing was too convenient for it to be merely a coincidence, and it fit precisely the Hangman's macabre sense of humor.
He unpacked the radio and called Kilmara. Sound quality was good, but the colonel wasn't available. Fitzduane decided that a message about geraniums passed through an intermediary would only serve to convince Kilmara that he had temporarily gone round the bend.
'Ask him to call me most urgent,' he said. 'Over and out.'
'Affirmative,' said Ranger headquarters.
Fitzduane went to help with the bed making. The Bear had phoned from the airport. He had brought his nurse with him – he hoped Fitzduane wouldn't mind – and Andreas von Graffenlaub had an Israeli girlfriend in tow. They were waiting for Henssen and overnighting in Dublin, then planned to leave early and arrive on the island in time for lunch.
Fitzduane wondered if he had explained that his castle – as castles go – was really quite a small affair. The next unexpected guest was going to have to sleep with the horses.
The evening was going splendidly, but try as he might, Fitzduane couldn’t get into the right frame of mind to enjoy himself.
He smiled and laughed at the appropriate times, and even made a speech welcoming his guests that was received well enough, but Etan wasn't fooled. His reply was that he was probably suffering from some kind of reaction to the whole Swiss affair didn't entirely satisfy her either, but she had Murrough's guest, Harry Noble, on her right to distract her and de Guevain flirting outrageously across the table, so Fitzduane was allowed to sit peacefully for a time, alone with his thoughts.
When dinner had reached the liqueur stage – by which time the fishing tales were growing ever more incredible – Fitzduane excused himself and retired to his study to try Kilmara again. This time he was patched through immediately. He was not reassured by the conversation that followed.
He was still staring into the fire when Etan came in. She sat on the floor in front of the fire and looked up at him.
'Tell me about it,' she said.
He did, and this time he held nothing back. Her face was strained and silent when he finished.
Fitzduane slept fitfully and rose at dawn.
He rode for several hours around the island, trying to see if the landscape itself would yield some clue to the Hangman's intentions. A picture of idyllic peace and harmony greeted his eyes and made him doubt for a time the now-overwhelming feeling of foreboding.
The mist of dawn burned away in the sunlight, and it was shaping up to be a truly spectacular day. The sky was cloudless. The strong westerly had abated to the merest hint of a breeze. Washed by the recent rain, the air was clear and balmy. Insects buzzed, and birdcalls filled the air. Faced with this image of rural tranquility, Fitzduane found it hard to anticipate what the Hangman could have in mind, and he wondered if he wasn't letting his imagination run away with him.
The obvious target was Draker, and given the Hangman's proclivities, the objective would be kidnapping. God knows -and the Hangman surely did – that the students' families were rich enough to make the game well worth playing.
There was some security now. Discreet lobbying by Kilmara meant that six armed plainclothes policemen had been temporarily assigned to the college. They lived in the main building and should be able to deal with any threat – or at least buy time until help could be summoned. The Achilles' heel of that arrangement was, of course, the length of time it would take to get assistance to the island. The location was isolated – none more so in Ireland – and it would be several hours at best before specialist help could arrive. The local police might get there sooner, but what they could do against terrorist firepower was another matter.
Fitzduane had suggested to Kilmara that the parents, if they were so rich, might be persuaded to finance some extra security. He hadn't been thinking when he made the suggestion. The facts of life were explained to him: If the parents received the slightest hint of danger, all the students would be whipped away back to Mommy and Daddy in Saudi or Dubai or Tokyo faster than a bribe vanishes into a politician's pocket. No students would mean no college, and no college would mean no income for the local community. Without proof to back up these vague theories of a threat, it was not a good suggestion; downright dumb, in fact.
The sea, often so gray and menacing, now presented an image of serenity. The color of the day was a perfect Mediterranean blue – a deceptive ploy, Fitzduane thought, since the temperature of the Atlantic waters, even at this time of year, was only a few degrees above freezing.
'All this peace and harmony is an illusion,' he said to Pooka. 'But how and when the shit is going to hit the fan is another matter.' The horse didn't venture a reply. She went on chewing on a tuft of grass.
Smoke was trickling from the chimney of Murrough's cottage. He distracted Pooka from her snack and cantered toward the house. Murrough leaned over the half door as he drew near, and Fitzduane could smell bacon and eggs. He suddenly felt ravenously hungry.
'You're up bright and early,' said Murrough. 'What happened? Has Etan slung you out?'
Oona's face appeared over Murrough's shoulder. 'Morning, Hugo,' she said. 'Don't mind the man – he's no manners. Come on in and have some breakfast.'
Fitzduane dismounted. 'I'm persuaded,' he said. 'I'll be in in a minute. I just want to pick Murrough's brains for a moment.'
Oona grinned and vanished toward the kitchen. 'Best of luck,' she called over her shoulder.
Murrough opened the bottom half of the door and ambled out into the sunlight. 'I must be dreaming,' he said. 'There's not a cloud in the sky.'
'Murrough,' said Fitzduane, 'last night, when you were bringing me up-to-date on the local gossip, you mentioned that a plane had landed here recently. I didn't pay much heed at the time, but now I'm wondering if I heard you right. Did you meant that a plane landed on the mainland or right here on the island?'
Murrough took a deep breath of morning air and snapped his braces appreciatively. 'Oh, not on the mainland,' he said. 'The feller put it down on this very island, on a stretch of road not far from the college, in fact.'
'I didn't think there was room,' said Fitzduane, 'and the road is bumpy as hell.'
'Well,' said Murrough, 'bumpy or not, the feller did it – several times, in fact. I went up to have a look and talked to the pilot. He was a pleasant enough chap for a foreigner. There were two passengers on board – relatives of a Draker student, he said.'
'Remember the student's name?' said Fitzduane.
Murrough shook his head.
'What kind of plane was it?'
'A small enough yoke,' said Murrough, 'but with two engines. Sort of boxy-shaped. They use the same kind of thing to fly out to the Aran Islands.'
A Britten-Norman Islander,' said Fitzduane. 'A cross between a flying delivery van and a Jeep. I guess with the right pilot one of those could make it. They only need about four hundred yards of rough runway, sometimes less.'
'Why so interested?' said Murrough.
'I'll tell you after we've eaten,' answered Fitzduane. 'I don't want to spoil your appetite.' He followed Murrough into the cottage. Harry Noble was sitting at the pine table with his hands wrapped around a mug of
