Joseph Patrick Delaney wanted Kilmara discredited was more serious and fundamental. Kilmara was a threat not just to the minister's professional ambitions but, if ever the soldier put certain information together, the politician's very life.
To put it simply, Delaney was a traitor. He had passed information about the plans and activities of Irish troops in the Congo to a connection in exchange for considerable sums of money, which had resulted in the frustration of some of the Airborne Rangers battalion's operations – and in the death and wounding of a number of men.
The minister had not set out to be a traitor. He had merely put his ambitions before his integrity, and circumstances had done the rest. The minister was convinced that Kilmara suspected what he had done – thought, ironically, he was wrong. Kilmara's undisguised contempt for him was based on no more than the typical soldier's dislike of a corrupt and opportunistic political master.
After his resignation from the Irish Army in the mid-sixties, Kilmara should have vanished from Irish official circles for good. But then, in the seventies, the specter of terrorism began to make itself felt. It had been largely confined to British-occupied Northern Ireland and to Continental Europe, but violence, unless checked, has a habit of spreading, and borders are notoriously leaky.
The Irish government was concerned and worried, but it was the assassination of Ambassador Ewart Biggs, ex-member of Britain's Secret Intelligence Service, writer of thrillers – all of them banned by the Irish censors – and wearer of a black-tinted monocle, was appointed British ambassador to the Republic of Ireland. It was a controversial choice at best, and it was to end in tragedy.
On the morning of July 21, Ewart Biggs seated himself on the left-hand side of the backseat of his chauffeur- driven 4.2 liter Jaguar. He was to be driven from his residence in the Dublin suburb of Sandyford to the British Embassy near Ballsbridge. Behind the Jaguar drove an escort vehicle of the Irish Special Branch containing armed detectives.
A few hundred meters from the residence, the ambassador's car passed over a culvert stuffed with one hundred kilograms of commercial gelignite. The culvert bomb was detonated by command wire from a hundred meters away. The Jaguar was blasted up into the air and crashed back into the smoking crater. Ambassador Ewart Biggs and his secretary, Judith Cooke, were crushed to death.
The killings sent a cold shudder through the Irish political establishment. Whom might the terrorists kill next? Would the British start revenge bombings, and who might their targets be? It wasn't a cheerful scenario.
The Irish cabinet went into emergency session, and a special committee was set up to overhaul Irish internal security. It was decided to appoint a special security adviser to the Taoiseach. It was an obvious prerequisite that such an adviser be familiar with counterinsurgency on both an international and a national basis.
Discreet inquiries were made throughout Europe, the United States, and places much further afield. The replies were virtually unanimous. In the intervening decade, working with many of the West's most effective security and counterterrorist forces, Kilmara had consolidated his already formidable reputation. His contempt for most bureaucrats and politicians was well known. The cabinet committee was unhappy with the appointment, but having Kilmara around was preferable to being shredded by a terrorist mine. Just about.
Kilmara drove a hard bargain. It included an ironclad contract and a substantial – by Irish standards – budget. Ninety days after his appointment, as stipulated in his contract, Kilmara set up an elite special antiterrorist unit. He named it “the Rangers” after his now-disbanded airborne battalion. The entire unit numbered only sixty members. Some were drawn from the ranks of the army and the police. Many had been with Kilmara in the Congo. A number were seconded from other forces like the German GSG-9 and the French Gigene. There were others whose backgrounds were known only to Kilmara.
The performance of the Rangers exceeded expectations. Success did not mellow Kilmara. He remained cordially disliked – and, to an extent, feared – by much of the political establishment and, above all, by the present Taoiseach, a certain Joseph Patrick Delaney.
But he was needed.
They lunched alone. Their relationship had been that of commanding officer and young lieutenant – mentor and disciple – during the early days of their service together in the Irish Army, but shared danger in the Congo and the passage of time had made it a relationship of equals. They had been comrades-in-arms. They had become close friends.
The cold buffet was excellent. The wine came from Kilmara's private stock, and its quality suggested that he was putting his French associations to good use. The finished with Irish coffees. They had been talking about times past and about the Ireland of the present. The matter of the hanging had been left by mutual consent until the meal was over.
Kilmara finished lighting his pipe. 'Ah, it's not a bad life,' he said, 'even in this funny little country of ours – frustrations, betrayals, faults, and all. It's my home, and we're a young nation yet.'
Fitzduane smiled. 'You sound positively benign,' he said. 'Dare I add complacent?'
Kilmara growled. 'Sound maybe; am, no. But enough of this. Tell me about Rudolf von Graffenlaub.'
Fitzduane told his story, and Kilmara listened without interrupting. He was a good listener, and he was intrigued as to why the death of a total stranger had so affected his friend.
'An unfortunate way to start the day, I'll grant you,' said Kilmara, 'but you're not exactly a stranger to death. You see more dead bodies in a week in your line of work than most people do in a lifetime. I don't want to sound callous, but what's one more body? You didn't know the young man, you don't know his friends or his family, and you didn't kill him' – he looked at Fitzduane – 'did you?'
Fitzduane grinned and shook his head. 'Not that I remember.'
'Well then,' said Kilmara, 'what's the problem? People die. It's sort of built into the system. It's what they call the natural order of things. What is Rudi von Graffenlaub's death to you?'
Fitzduane gathered his thoughts.
Kilmara spoke again. 'Of course I'll help,' he said. 'But I am curious about your rationale for what seems, on the face of it, a somewhat arcane project.'
Fitzduane laughed. 'I don't have one neat reason,' he said. 'More like a feeling that this is something I should stay with.'
'You and your instincts,' said Kilmara, shaking his head. 'They are, as I remember full well from the Congo, downright spooky. So what's on your mind?'
Fitzduane refreshed his memory from his notes. 'I'd like to talk to the pathologist who carried out the postmortem on our freshly dead friend. The normal pathologist for the are was away at a conference, and Harbison was tied up on some thing or other. A Dr. Buckley drove up from Cork for the occasion.'
'I know Buckley,' said Kilmara. 'He's first-rate, but he's like a clam when it comes to professional matters unless there are good reasons for him to talk.'
'That ball is in your court,' said Fitzduane. 'I tried ringing him off my own bat and got nowhere. He was affable but firm.'
'Ah, the people of West Cork have great charm,' said Kilmara. 'It must go with the scenery. I'll see what I can do. What's next?'
'I'd like copies of all the relevant reports: police, forensic, coroner's. The lot,' said Fitzduane.
'It's certainly improper and arguably illegal to give that sort of thing to a civilian. But okay. No problem.'
'I need some sort of introduction to the authorities in Bern,' said Fitzduane. 'That's where Rudolf von Graffenlaub came from. That's where his parents and friends live. I want to go over and ask some questions, and I don't want to be politely deported on the second day.'
Kilmara grinned. 'This one calls for a little creative thinking.'
'Finally, what do you know about DrakerCollege?' asked Fitzduane. 'And I don't mean have you got a copy of the college prospectus.'
'I thought you might get to that one sometime,' said Kilmara. 'Now it's my turn for a question. Do you have any idea what you're looking for?'
Fitzduane smiled gently. 'No,' he said, 'but I expect I'll know when I find it.'
They were silent for a few moments. Kilmara rose and stretched and walked over to the window. He peered
