'Legs,' said Gunther. 'They might have got away if it hadn't been for the girl's legs. The corporal in the back of the Land Rover was enthusing about them over his radio to a buddy of his stationed at another roadblock a few kilometers away. And then came gunfire and screaming for split seconds, and then silence.
'The warning was enough. The terrorists' car was intercepted in less than three kilometers, and there was an exchange of fire. The terrorists abandoned their car and made a run for it under cover of a driveway hedge. At the end of the drive they burst into a farmhouse located a few hundred meters off the main road. The army, in hot pursuit, surrounded the house and kept them pinned down until reinforcements arrived.
'So far two policemen, one soldier, and the farmer are dead. Another soldier looks likely to die, and a nurse who went to help got shot to pieces. As best we can determine, the corporal must have mistaken her for a terrorist and put a burst of Gustav fire into her legs. That makes a total of four dead – and two pending.' He was silent for a moment. 'That we know about,' he added.
'An obvious question,' said Fitzduane. 'Why?'
Gunther shrugged. 'We are pretty sure they aren't IRA, but other than that, we don't know who they are, what they were up to when they were intercepted, or anything much else about them.'
Kilmara stood in the doorway. 'We thought you might be able to help, Hugo,' he said. He placed two plastic- covered bloodstained rectangles on the table in front of Fitzduane. 'Look at them closely and think very hard.'
Fitzduane picked up the first of the international driver's licenses. The face was smiling into the camera, displaying shining white teeth under a drooping mustache. He studied the photograph carefully and shook his head. He picked up the second license. This time the expression on the face looking into the camera was completely serious, almost detached. Again he shook his head.
Kilmara leaned over and placed the licenses side by side on the table. 'Try looking at them together,' he said, 'and take your time.'
Fitzduane looked down at the small photographs and racked his brain for even the slightest hint of familiarity. Mentally he ticked off the assignments he had been on during the last few years. The girl was supposed to be Italian, but she could be Arab – or Israeli, for that matter. The facial types were often very similar. For his part, the man was dark enough to be of Middle Eastern origin, but despite the mustache he looked European.
Fitzduane pushed the two licenses across the table to where Kilmara and Gunther sat. 'The facial types are familiar enough, so I could be tempted to say maybe I've seen them before. It's possible – but if so, it must have been in the most casual way. Certainly I don't recognize them.' He shrugged.
A Ranger came in and set three mugs of coffee on the table. Wisps of steam rose in the air.
Kilmara placed a heavy book in front of Fitzduane. 'Hugo,' he said, 'we found this in the terrorists' baggage. It could be coincidence…' he smiled. 'But when you're involved, I tend to believe in coincidence just a little less.'
'Nice friendly reaction,' said Fitzduane dryly, looking at the familiar volume. It had sold surprisingly well, and he still saw it in bookshops and in airport newsstands when he traveled. The soldier with the dove had been killed two days after the photo had been taken. He'd heard that the bird had survived. He indicated the book. 'May I handle it?'
'Sure,' said Kilmara. 'Forensics have done their thing.'
Fitzduane examined the book slowly and methodically. He turned back to the flyleaf. On it was written in pencil a price, a date, anda code: For 195-12/2/81-Ma 283. 'A recent fan,' he said.
'A recent purchase anyway, it would appear,' said Kilmara.
'Francs?' asked Fitzduane.
'French, Swiss, Belgian, or indeed from a whole host of French colonies,' said Kilmara. 'We're looking into it.'
'Any ideas,' asked Gunther, 'why two killers should have bought your book? It's a heavy volume to carry if you're flying.'
'No,' said Fitzduane, 'but I'll think about it.'
'Hmm,' said Kilmara. 'Well, we've got other things to worry about right now. Thanks for coming. I'll get Grady to drive you home.'
Fitzduane shuddered. 'I think I'll be safer here. Mind if I hang around?'
Kilmara looked at his friend for a moment and then nodded. 'Gunther will give you some ID,' he said. 'You know the form. Keep a low profile and your head down. It's going to be a bloody night.'
Fitzduane expressed surprise. 'I thought a waiting game was the policy in a hostage situation.'
'It is,' said the Ranger colonel, 'when you have a choice. Here we don't have a choice. The nice young couple in the farmhouse have issued an ultimatum: a helicopter to take them to the airport at dawn and then a plane to some as yet unidentified destination – or they kill one hostage every half hour, starting with the youngest child, aged two, name of Daisy.'
'A bluff?'
Kilmara shook his head. 'We think they mean what they say. They killed the little girl's father for no other reason than to make a point. Well, they made it and we can't let them get away and we can't let the hostages die – so in a few hours we're going in.'
A Ranger poked his head through the doorway. 'Colonel,' he said, 'the cherry picker has arrived.'
The children were asleep at last. The three younger ones were sprawled on the king-size bed under the duvet. Rory, the eldest at nearly sixteen, lay in a sleeping bag on the floor. A large bloodstained bandage on his flushed forehead marked where the German with the black mustache had struck him savagely with the butt of his machine pistol.
The master bedroom was dimly lit by one bedside lamp. Maura O'Farrell, her eyes betraying the classic symptoms of extreme shock, sat knitting in an armchair near the curtained windows. The knitting needles moved automatically with great speed, and the nearly completed double-knit scarf coiled around her knees and draped down to the floor. The scarf had been meant for Jack to keep him warm as he worked the four hundred acres of their prosperous farm. He would be so cold now. She knew they wouldn't let her, but she wanted to go out and wrap the scarf around his neck. It would at least cover the wound.
She rose and went into the bathroom, whose door opened onto the master bedroom. Everywhere there were signs of Jack. His razor lay in its accustomed place, and his dressing gown hung behind the door. She unscrewed the cap of his after-shave and smelled the familiar, intimate odor; then she replaced the cap. She brushed her hair and checked her appearance in the mirror. She was a touch pale and drawn, which was understandable, but otherwise neat and well groomed. Jack was fussy about such things. He would be pleased.
She took a roll of adhesive tape from the medicine chest and returned to her chair. The knitting needles began to flash once more, and the scarf grew ever longer.
At regular intervals the young Italian girl checked her and the room and peered out of the small observation holes cut in the thick curtains. Maura O'Farrell paid her no heed. From time to time the children moaned in their sleep but did not wake. The makeshift sedative of brandy and aspirin mixed with sweetened warm milk had done its work. For a few hours they could rest, oblivious of the memory of seeing their father slaughtered like a pig.
For her part the young Italian girl felt tired but not too unhappy with their situation. They had been unlucky, but now things would work out. Those fools outside would have to give in. Killing the farmer had been a stroke of brilliance. It would cut short futile negotiations. At the agreed time of 3:30 a.m. the phone would ring and the authorities would announce their capitulation: a helicopter at dawn to the airport and then a requisitioned plane to Libya.
The Irish government would never allow a mother and her four children to be killed. Tina was looking forward to that phone call. She could feel the warmth of the Libyan sun on her face already. Ireland had the most beautiful countryside, but the wind and the rain and the damp cold were just too much for a hot-blooded woman.
The final preassault briefing took place in the twelve-meter-long Special Weapons and Equipment trailer. The
