'Around a dozen, including himself,' said Kilmara, 'of which no fewer than nine have some kind of military training. I'm beginning to wonder if I did the right thing giving him that weaponry.'
'You think it's a false alarm,' said Gunther.
Kilmara stared grumpily at nothing in particular. 'That's the trouble. I don't – but that's pure instinct and faith in Fitzduane's vibes. The evidence says that the action is going to be here in Dublin. My guts tell me we've got our people watching the wrong mouseholes.'
'Despite the Japanese? Or the seventy-two Middle Eastern travel agents – who the Irish Tourist Board had never heard of until the agents approached them – flying in tonight?'
'Despite everything,' said Kilmara. 'I've been thinking. I don't believe the Hangman gives a fuck about politics. Why would he want to hit the U.S. Embassy? What's in it for him? He's a bottom-line man.'
'The Hangman's dead,' declared Gunther.
'Don't talk like a bureaucrat.'
Gunther grinned. 'The rescheduling is finished.'
'So what have we got apart from an over-budget overtime bill?' said Kilmara.
'For starters, we've got far too many people tied up on this embassy thing. It's ridiculous.'
'It's politics, but don't tell me what I know already. I want to know what kind of unit we can field as a reserve now we've done our computer games.'
'About a dozen,' said Gunther, 'and of course, there is you – and me.'
'That's not so crazy. I'm fed up sitting behind a desk.'
'The helicopter situation is not good,' reported Gunther. 'All the Air Corps machines are assigned to cover the embassy, the ambassador's residence in PhoenixPark, and the airport, and anyway, they're all going to be grounded at dusk. I wish we had night-flying capability.'
'Road would take five to six hours,' mused Kilmara.
'More like six,' said Gunther, 'if we're talking about Fitzduane's Island. The roads are terrible once you get past Galway, and at that point we'd be driving at night with heavily loaded vehicles.'
'And that bridge on to the island is all too easy to cut,' said Kilmara. 'If we're going to do it, we'll have to do it by air.'
He sat in thought for several minutes. On the face of it, his existing deployment was correct. There had been clear evidence of a threat to the U.S. Embassy in Dublin. The arrival of the Japanese – two of whom had already been identified as being associated with militant terrorist groups – confirmed that threat. Monitored conversations indicated that the Japanese were the advance guard and would link up with a substantial group that was flying in late that night under the cover of a convention of travel agents from the Middle East. The Irish Tourist Board, which would normally have been actively involved in such a visit, had merely been informed at the last minute – an irregular procedure – so it really did look as if the terrorist threat were about to become a reality. He could pick up the Japanese now, but he had no line on the weaponry involved, and it made much more sense to wait until that, too, could be identified.
All very fine, but an all-too-predictable response. His instincts screamed ‘setup,’ but even if it was a diversion, he knew that the Hangman – if it was indeed him – was sufficiently ruthless to make the diversion a reality in its own right.
Even with the Hangman out of the picture, there were other possible threats to be considered. At all times the Rangers should have a reserve ready to deploy. The root problem at the moment was the way in which the Rangers were being used. Instead of being deployed as a reaction force in the specific antiterrorist role for which they were trained, they had been pushed to the front to handle something that should have been given to the police and the regular army.
Reluctantly he came to a decision. 'Gunther, there is nothing more we can do for Fitzduane right now except monitor the situation and put the reserve on standby at Baldonnel. Sending them across by road is out. The facts that the Hangman is obsessed with flowers and that Fitzduane has funny feelings are not good enough reasons for me to lose my reserve.'
Gunther rose to his feet. 'Fair enough.'
'Hold it,' said Kilmara. 'I haven't finished. If we do have to move, we'll have to do it very fucking fast – and we may be up against heavier firepower than we're used to. I want the Optica armed and the unit to be in heavy battle order.'
'The Milan, too?'
'The whole thing. And I'll command from the Optica.'
'And what about me?'
'You like jumping out of airplanes. Why miss a good opportunity?'
'This is a fun job,' said Gunther as he left the room.
'It changes as you get older,' said Kilmara to himself. 'Your friends get killed.'
Fitzduane's Castle – 1715 hours
The heat haze had increased. Murrough handed Fitzduane the binoculars. Fitzduane stared at the distant spot indicated by Murrough for about thirty seconds, then lowered the glasses.
'Hard to tell,' he said. 'Visibility at that distance isn't so good. All I can make out is a blur; most of it is cut off by the headland. Some kind of freighter, I suppose.' He turned toward Murrough. 'There have been boats passing in the distance every hour or so all day. What's unusual about this one?'
Murrough took back the binoculars and had another brief look. 'The haze has got worse all right. I should have called you earlier. It's hard to be absolutely sure, but I think our friend over there has been stopped for a while.'
'How long?'
'About twenty minutes. I can't be certain.'
'Which way did it come? Did you get a look at it earlier?'
'From the south,' said Murrough. 'It was far out and moving slowly. It's a cattle boat, one of those new jobs with the high superstructure and lots of ventilators like mushrooms on the top.'
'How big are those things?'
'I don't know exactly. But big enough to hold over a thousand cattle and all their feed. Maybe the boat's stopped to feed the cattle.'
Fitzduane lifted the binoculars to his eyes again and commenced a 360-degree sweep. It was the same boat he'd seen earlier in the afternoon. He continued sweeping and stopped with the glasses pointing at the bridge. A station wagon crossed over it onto the island and pulled to the side of the road. Two men got out and looked around. He passed the binoculars to Murrough.
'Fishermen,' said Murrough. 'I can see fishing rod cases, and they're wearing fishing gear.'
'But what do fishermen use ropes for?' said Fitzduane. Retrieving the binoculars, he watched one of the men lower the other below the bridge supports. The man then lowered a bulky package. He opened his fishing rod case and extracted something. When he clipped it into place a bulky banana-shaped object, there was no longer any doubt as to what he was holding.
'Christ!' shouted Fitzduane. 'He's got an AK-47. I'll bet even money the fuckers are going to blow the bridge.'
Murrough brought up his sniper's rifle to his shoulder and took aim. The man under the bridge scrambled up the rope, and both men ran for cover. There was a dull explosion and a small puff of dust, and smoke and debris flew into the air. The bridge didn't appear to move.
'They made a balls of it,' said Murrough. He choked on his words when the bridge suddenly collapsed at the island end and the whole structure slid down into the sea. The two saboteurs rose from cover and went to review their handiwork. They stood by the cliff edge and looked down. Then one of them turned and began examining the castle through binoculars. Seconds later he gesticulated and brought his AK-47 up to the point of aim. The muzzle faced the keep and winked flame. A burst of automatic fire gouged the ancient stonework.
Fitzduane and Murrough fired at the same time. There was little kick from the SA-80; the weapon was as accurate as promised. Both terrorists died before they hit the submerged debris of the bridge. The spume of the sea
