to the police and left it at that. Instead, I started trying to find out what had really happened. One thing led to another and I found that there was a terrorist involved. His plans were foiled and he was killed.'
'You killed him?' said Kathleen.
Fitzduane hesitated before he replied; then he nodded. 'I killed him,' he agreed.
'He was a terrorist,' said Kathleen, but there was uncertainty in her voice. This was an alien world. 'How can you be blamed for that?'
'The issue isn't really blame; it's responsibility,' said Fitzduane. 'What I did was necessary – indeed, unavoidable. However, the man I killed almost certainly had friends. This is about cause and effect and consequences. I may have done the right thing, but in so doing I put myself and those dear to me on the firing line.'
'So you think you were shot by friends of this dead terrorist?' said Kathleen.
'Well, I'd like to think that it wasn't some complete nut,' said Fitzduane. 'I would prefer to be shot for a reason.'
'It makes a difference?' said Kathleen.
'It makes a difference if you want to stop it happening a second time,' said Fitzduane. 'And this isn't the kind of thing I fancy happening twice.'
It was slowly dawning on Kathleen that merely by being in Fitzduane's company she was putting herself in danger. For a moment she tried to imagine what it must be like to be under permanent threat. It was a horrendous notion.
She reached out and stroked his face and then leaned over and kissed him. She pulled away before Fitzduane could react and ran the tips of her fingers over his lips.
'Daddy! Daddy!' cried a sleepy voice. 'Where are you?'
Fitzduane laughed and squeezed her hand. 'Bring him here,' he said.
Kathleen picked Boots up and slid him in beside his father. There wasn't much room in the narrow hospital bed, but Fitzduane cradled Boots's head in the crook of his left arm, and within seconds Boots was asleep again.
Dublin, Ireland
January 31
Jiro Sasada, whose visiting card stated that he was a vice president of the Yamaoka Trading Corporation, sat in his room in Dublin's BerkleyCourtHotel and sipped Scotch from the mini-bar.
His initial shock at the disappearance of the killing team four weeks earlier had worn off after a good night's sleep, and he had immediately applied himself to learning what had happened to the missing men and the current status of the designated target. Sasadasan was typically Japanese in his belief in the work ethic, and setbacks in his value system were merely temporary inconveniences which could be solved by even more dedication.
His backup plan involved using a splinter group of the IRA – the Irish Revolutionary Action Party, or IRAP – that owed his group, Yaibo, a favor. Since unfortunately a Japanese involvement in the attack on Fitzduane had almost certainly been established by now, it made sense to use a local team which could more easily blend into the indigenous population.
Fitzduane's location had been determined through a sustained operation using radio scanners. Though technically illegal in Ireland, these devices were readily available and could pick up Garda – Irish police – communications which, for budget reasons, were in clear.
The Rangers had their own budget and operated with secure encrypted radio and telephone networks, but they were short of manpower. Accordingly, they worked extensively with the police, and therein lay their weakness. Kilmara was, of course, perfectly aware of this security flaw in his operational procedures, but there was nothing he could do about it in the short term. He needed the extra manpower the police provided, and he needed to communicate with them.
The IRA had been socially respectable when Ireland was fighting for independence from the British. However, for twenty-six counties out of a total of thirty-two, that goal had been achieved in 1922. Thereafter, the vast majority of Irish people wanted to live normal peaceful lives, unhindered by men with guns. The IRA became illegal. Operating undercover, it split into various groups with different objectives and ideologies. As with the Mafia, different gangs fought over territory. In some cases, fighting between different IRA factions was at least as violent as that against the British.
The IRAP were under sentence of death by the Provisional IRA for excesses even by terrorist standards, and the three leading members of the IRAP – Paddy McGonigal, Jim Daid, and Eamon Dooley – had headed south out of the British North of Ireland into the safer territory of the independent Republic of Ireland, so, for an appropriate financial reward, they were ready and willing to help Sasada- san with his task.
Sasada- san, who despite his papers was actually a senior member of Yaibo, had met the IRAP in Libya. He had helped to train them at Camp Carlos Marighella. It had been a matter of obligation to the Libyans. The Libyans backed a wide array of international terrorist groups, but in turn, called in favors. It was like any other business.
IRAP was a lethal group. So far in its bloody career, it had killed more than sixty people in a series of bomb and gun attacks in the North of Ireland, Britain, and continental Europe. It would certainly be able to take care of finishing off Fitzduane.
Sasada- san poured himself another Scotch and went back to studying the plans of the hospital where Fitzduane lay. You could, he thought to himself, get most things with a strong yen.
It was just as well. As far as the world was aware, Yaibo was a completely independent terrorist group. In actual fact, they were obligated to the Namaka brothers, and the brothers were exceedingly dangerous when their wishes were not fulfilled.
Tokyo, Japan
January 31
Kei Namaka, cofounder and president of the vast Namaka Corporation, stood staring out through the windows of the top floor of the NamakaTower.
Below him, as far as the eye could see, was the neon-bedecked ferro-concrete, glass, and steel sprawl that was modern Tokyo. In the middle distance, the police airship, the favorite toy of the Superintendent-General of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, floated serenely, monitoring the congested arteries that struggled inadequately to cope with the city's traffic. Through the tinted bullet-resistant plate glass, the repetitive rotor- thump and high-pitched engine buzz of a passing helicopter could scarcely be heard.
Namaka, his eyes open, saw nothing and heard nothing. He was awake but was having the dream.
It was near midnight on December 22, 1948.
The night was cold. They stood outside the gates of Sugamo Prison, waiting for the execution to happen. The gates were guarded by armed, white-helmeted U.S. Army military police. The weather-stained gray stone walls of the prison were floodlit by security lights.
Plentiful electricity meant the occupation forces. For the defeated Japanese, everything – power, water, food, cooking fuel, clothing, housing – was in short supply. Tokyo still lay devastated by the fire-bombing from the B29s of the U.S. Air Force. Most of the population were barely subsisting.
Recovery had begun, but it was a slow and painful process. Governing authority was in the hands of General Douglas MacArthur and the two hundred thousand mainly U.S. troop under his command. The Emperor had denounced his divine status. The old Japan was dead. The new Japan was having a difficult and painful birth, and there was much suffering.
Kei, a tall scrawny teenager, stood on one side of his mother. On the other side was his brother, Fumio. Fumio was small for his age and his right leg was crippled. A year earlier, he had been hit a glancing blow by a U.S. Army jeep as it careered out of control down one of Tokyo's labyrinth of alleyways, and the compound fracture had healed badly. Medication, bandages, good food – all the requirements for a full recovery – were virtually unavailable.
