units will vanish or take up knitting. Remember, he operated through a series of virtually autonomous groups, and it's likely that new leaders were waiting in the wings. Another thought that nags away concerns Rudi von Graffenlaub's hanging and the other peculiar happenings on your island. There are a lot of rich kids there, and the Hangman never seems to do anything without a reason. He has a track record of kidnapping. Were Rudi and his oddly dressed friends being psyched up to provide some inside support for a kidnapping, maybe of the whole school? The place is isolated, and the parents are richer than you and I can imagine.'
'Geraniums,' said Fitzduane sleepily.
'What?' said Kilmara.
'Geraniums keep popping up,' said Fitzduane, 'on the tattoos and in Ivo's notes, and the word was actually written down in Erika's apartment -but I'm fucked if I know what it means.'
Kilmara drained his brandy and wondered if there was any point in talking to Fitzduane when he was this tired. He decided he'd better make the effort since time seemed to be a commodity in distinctly short supply.
'Leaving flowers out of the equation,' he said dryly, 'I've got some other problems worth mentioning.' He refilled Fitzduane's glass.
The effort of holding his glass steady forced Fitzduane to pay reasonable attention. He was almost awake. 'And you're going to tell me about them,' he said helpfully.
'My friend the prime minister,' said Kilmara, 'is fucking us around.'
'Have you ever considered another line of work? I fail to see the attraction in working for a bent machine politician like our Taoiseach. Delaney is a prick – a bent prick – and he isn't going to get any better.'
'Kilmara privately agreed with Fitzduane's comment but ignored the interruption. 'A good friend of ours in the Mossad – and they're not all such good friends – has told me of a Libya-based hit team, some seventy plus strong, that has unfriendly intentions toward an objective in this country.'
'The PLO coming here?' said Fitzduane. 'Why? Unless they've been out in the sun too long and want a real rain-drenched holiday to relax in. What has the PLO to do with Ireland?'
'I didn't say PLO,' said Kilmara. 'There are PLO in the group but as mercenaries, and the objective, if you can believe what the Israelis found on a rather abortive preventive raid, is the U.S. Embassy in Dublin. The timing is put at some time in May.'
'How would seventy armed terrorists get into the country,' said Fitzduane, 'and what has an attack on the U.S. Embassy got to do with me? The embassy is in Dublin. I'm going to be as far away as one could possibly be without falling into the Atlantic. I'm going to be sleeping twelve hours a day and talking to the sea gulls and meditating on higher things and drinking poteen and generally staying as much out of trouble as a human being possibly can.'
'Stay with me,' said Kilmara, 'and I guarantee to get your full attention. We've kicked this thing around since our Mossad friend visited and we hear the news about the Hangman's death – and our conclusions will not make your day. We think this U.S. Embassy thing smacks of the Hangman's game playing, or that of his heirs and successors. It's probably a diversion, and heaven only knows where the real target is. Possibly it won't be in Ireland at all. It could be anywhere, including back in the Middle East. Unfortunately, suspecting it's a diversion doesn't help. The Rangers have been ordered to keep the place secure until the flap is over. That means my ability to deal with any other threat is drastically curtailed. I don't have the manpower to mount a static defense and also maintain strength for other operations.'
'I thought the idea was that the Rangers were only to be used as a reaction force, along with certain limited security duties.'
'It was and it is – normally,' said Kilmara, his voice expressing his frustration, 'but I was outvoted on this one. Ireland has a special relationship with Uncle Sam, and my friend the Taoiseach played it perfectly and boxed us in. The Rangers are a disciplined force, and there are times you just can't buck the system.'
'So where is all this getting us?'
Kilmara shrugged. 'You've got good instincts. If you think the Hangman is out of the picture, I'm tempted to go along with you, but when you're this tired – who the fuck knows? Anyway, it's my business to cover the down side.'
Fitzduane yawned. The clock struck two in the morning. He was so spaced he was floating. It was not time to argue. 'What do you want me to do?'
'I've got a radio and other equipment here for you,' said Kilmara. 'All I want you to do is proceed as normal but with your eyes and ears open. If you detect anything untoward, give me a call – and we'll come running.'
'If you're so committed elsewhere, how and with what?'
'I'll think of something,' said Kilmara. 'It'll probably never happen, but if it does, red tape isn't going to stop me.'
But Fitzduane was asleep again. Outside, the storm was abating.
Ambassador Noble felt like a child playing truant as he idled around the hills and lakes of Connemara in his rented Ford Fiesta. It was the first vacation in years in which his pleasure hadn't been diluted with some element of State Department business, and he positively luxuriated in the freedom of traveling without bodyguards. Ireland might have its troubles in the North – and even they were exaggerated and rarely involved foreigners – but the bulk of the island was about as peaceful as could be, he had been assured.
The greatest potential threats to his life were more likely to result form Irish driving habits, an excess of Irish hospitality, and the weather. He would be well advised, he was told, to dress warmly and bring an umbrella. If he planned to fish, he should hire a gillie.
He calculated afterward that his briefing had enhanced the federal deficit by a couple of thousand dollars. He did remember to bring an umbrella. He was managing fine without thermal underwear. He decided the gillie could wait until he arrived at Fitzduane's Island in a few days. He was looking forward to seeing his son and hearing how he was getting on at Draker.
Meanwhile, he was having a ball doing almost nothing at all. No diplomats, no crisis meetings, no telexes, no press. No official dinners or receptions either, he thought as he ate his baked beans out of the can with a spoon and waited for the kettle to boil. And positively no worries about terrorism. He had left them at the office the way all those books on how to succeed said you should.
He looked up at the leaden sky and listened to the rain bounce off his fishing umbrella and thought: Life is bliss.
Fitzduane slept in and enjoyed a leisurely midafternoon breakfast. The storm had done its worst, but the rain continued as if determined to leave him in no doubt whatsoever that he was back in Ireland.
Kilmara had gone hours before but had left behind a note detailing that day's security procedure. Getting in and out of Kilmara's home without setting off some part of the labyrinth of alarm systems was no easy task, and codes were changed at least daily at irregular times. Fitzduane wondered how Adeline put up with being married to a target. That made her, he supposed, a target herself – and then there were the children. What a life. Was he, Fitzduane, since his encounter with the Hangman, now a target, too? And would he stay at risk? What would that mean for his wife and his children? For the first time it came to Fitzduane that once you were involved with terrorism – on either side – there was really no end to it. It was a permanent state of war.
He was digesting this unpleasant thought when he heard a faint noise coming from the front of the house – a house that was supposed to be empty. It sounded like a door opening and closing. The sound was not repeated.
He was tempted to stay where he was, to ignore what he almost doubted he had heard. He checked the perimeter alarm board – there were monitors in every room – but all seemed secure.
He took the Remington and chambered a round. Moving as silently as he could, he left the kitchen and edged along the corridor to the front hall. He had two doors to choose from. As he deliberated, the door of the living room opened. Fitzduane dropped into a crouch.
Etan stood there.
