turned momentarily pink.
'Show time,' said Fitzduane. 'Stay here. I'll send someone to relieve you in a couple of minutes; then I want you down in the bawn. We're going to retrieve that station wagon and go calling.'
His walkie-talkie crackled. 'Get down to the study,' said a voice strained with tension.
Fitzduane slung the SA-80 and headed down the circular stairs. The study door was open. Etan was slumped in a chair looking dazed, a bloody cloth pressed to the side of her head. The radio given to him by Kilmara had been smashed to pieces. It was irreparable. Ambassador Noble stood just inside the door with a Browning automatic in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other. He was ashen gray with shock. He was staring at a figure that lay sprawled on the ground facedown. A knife of an unusual design lay by the dead body's hand.
Fitzduane turned the body onto its back. A grotesque wolf mask stared up at him. The shirt below was matted with blood where several rounds had struck.
Ambassador Noble spoke dully. 'I heard Etan scream and saw this dreadful figure strike her and then turn to attack me. He had a knife, so I fired instinctively.' As Fitzduane pulled off the mask, Noble fell to his knees. 'Oh, my God,' he said. 'What have I done?' He took his son's body in his arms, and tears streamed down his cheeks.
There was silence in the room. Then Fitzduane spoke. 'It's not your fault. There was nothing else you could do.'
Harry Noble stared at him blankly. 'Dick belonged to this cult you spoke about,' he said, his voice flat.
'So it seems.' This is the way the Hangman operates. He corrupts and manipulates, and young people are always the easiest to manipulate. I'm sorry.' There was nothing else he could say.
Noble bent down and by his son again and kissed him, then picked up his Browning and looked at Fitzduane. 'I shouldn't have doubted you. Whatever has to be done, let's do it.'
Etan sobbed without tears, and Fitzduane held her in his arms. Soon she was quiet. 'So it's really going to happen,' she said.
'Yes,' said Fitzduane.
The Bear stood in the doorway. 'The phone is dead,' he informed them, 'and the electricity is out. We're trying to get the generator going now.'
'There's a knack,' said Fitzduane. He felt more than heard a faint throbbing sound as the big diesel cut in. The lamp on the study desk came on.
'There are only twelve of us now,' said Etan.
'It'll do,' said the Bear.
DrakerCollege – 1745 hours
Pat Brogan, the sergeant in charge of the security detail at the college, always looked forward to the departure of the staff minibus. There was a rotating element in the catering and cleaning staff that could permit some dangerous person to infiltrate, and in any case they were just more bodies around to keep an eye on. After the bus left, he had only the students and a few known faculty members to consider, and he felt he could relax.
All in all, it was a pretty good assignment, he thought, if a trifle boring. They had comfortable private rooms – not barracks smelling of sweat and socks like up on the border – and a study had been set aside where they could lounge in easy chairs, watching television or making tea or whatever. The college had thoughtfully provided a fridge for milk, which the guards kept well stocked with beer, and it was a cold beer he had in mind as he handed over to the evening shift.
It had been a long, hot, glorious day, and all was well with his world except that his face was brick red from too much sun. He had read somewhere that pale Irish skins were especially vulnerable to the sun: not enough pigmentation or something. Apparently redheads had the worst time. To judge by O'Malley's state, it was all too true.
He snapped the magazine out of his Uzi submachine gun as he entered the rest room and put the weapon in the arms locker. He kept the. 38 Smith amp; Wesson revolver he wore in a Canadian-made pivot shoulder holster. Orders were to be armed at all times, even when off duty, and wearing a handgun was now as routine to him as wearing a shirt.
The television was on, and the chairs were in their accustomed positions facing it. He knew he'd find the three other off-duty guards already comfortably dug in. He hoped they hadn't made too much of a dent in the beer. The hot day had encouraged the stock to shrink as the hours passed. He took a can of beer from the fridge, noting subconsciously that some kind soul seemed to have replenished the drink supply. The unit was practically full.
Normally he would have popped the can immediately and taken a long swallow before going to his chair, which was situated, as befitted his seniority, in the center of the row directly facing the screen. But this time an item on the television caught his attention. Unopened can in hand, he went to his chair.
The smell of beer and some other odor was strong as he approached the row of seats. Some sod has puked, he thought, suddenly annoyed at this breakdown of self-control and discipline. People should be able to draw the line between making life comfortable and being downright careless. He looked to see which stupid fucker was responsible, and froze.
All three guards were sprawled in unnatural positions in their chairs, their faces twisted and distorted in a record of their last agonizing moments. Vomit stained their clothes. The beer can in O'Malley's hand had been twisted into an almost unrecognizable shape in the last few seconds of horror before death won out.
Gripped by fear, Brogan stumbled backward, knocking the television set to the ground in a cascade of sparks and broken glass. A figure with the head of an animal stood in the doorway. Brogan's thoughts went to rumors he had heard when he first came on the job. 'Students playing games,' he had been told. 'Keep an eye on them, but don't make too much of it.'
Holy Mother of God, he thought, some games!
'Aren't you curious?' whispered the figure in the doorway. 'Professionally curious, I mean. Don't you want to know what killed them?'
The figure moved forward into the room, holding a knife in one hand. Brogan reached for his revolver, but a second figure stood in the doorway with an Ingram submachine gun in his hands. A burst of fire smashed into the wall beside him. The gun made little noise. He could see the bulky silencer fitted to the otherwise compact weapon. His revolver had only just cleared the holster. He dropped it onto the floor and slowly raised his hands. He realized that he had never truly believed there was any threat to the college – nor, it seemed, to judge by the tone of the briefing, had his superiors. Terrorist attacks were a media event, something for the television news. They didn't happen to real people. The figure with the knife spoke again. It had moved around to Brogan's right. It was close.
'We used cyanide. Not terribly original, but you must admit it works, and it's quick, though I'm afraid you can't say it's painless. Injecting the cyanide into unopened beer cans took some practice' – there was amusement in the voice – 'but I think you'll agree we mastered the art.'
Brogan tried to speak, but his mouth was dry. The figure laughed. 'Afraid, aren't you? Afraid of a bunch of kids. That's how you thought of us, wasn't it? Very shortsighted. The average age of our band is nineteen: old enough to vote, to join the army, to kill for our country. Old enough to kill for ourselves. You really should have taken us more seriously. You did find out about us, didn't you? We read your briefing files. Your security was atrocious. You thought only of an external threat and even then did not take that seriously.'
'Why didn't you shoot me?'
'You've no imagination,' said the figure. It thrust the knife under Brogan's rib cage into the thoracic cavity and watched him drown in his own blood.
Another figure appeared in the doorway. 'We got both of them.'
'Any noise?' said the figure with the knife. He was pleased that it had all gone so smoothly. They had killed six armed men without a shot being fired against them. The remaining faculty and students had assembled for daily review. The entire college would be theirs in a few minutes. Kadar and his force would arrive to find the job already done. He'd be pleased. He rewarded success on the same scale that he punished failure. And if Dick had done well at the castle on the other end of the island…
'None,' said the newcomer. 'They both drank the tea we brought them.'
