'You've got a gun permit,' said Kilmara, 'not that the lack of one has ever seemed to worry you.' Fitzduane's extensive gun collection in his castle was not quite in conformity with the Irish legal system.
'A rather large gun permit,' continued Fitzduane. 'Or perhaps I should say I need a permit for a rather large gun.'
Kilmara raised his eyebrows as the lightbulb blinked on. 'For a rather large man,' he said.
'You're razor-sharp today,' said Fitzduane agreeably. 'The Swiss seem to think I may need some protection, so they are lending me the Bear.'
'More likely they smell blood and would prefer the bodies pile up in this jurisdiction than theirs,' said Kilmara. 'Can't say I blame them.' He stood up and started looking in a cabinet that Fitzduane had had brought in for the wandering thirsty. A modest selection of bottles greeted him. There was a small fridge and ice-maker built into the lower half.
'I thought this thing looked familiar,' he said. 'Want one?'
'Not yet,' said Fitzduane. He waited until Kilmara had mixed himself a large Irish whiskey. The General sipped it appreciatively and resumed his seat.
'They tell me alcohol and getting shot don't mix,' said Fitzduane. 'I'm drinking fizzy water, though I'm not sure how long my resolution will last.'
Kilmara looked shocked at this statement of sobriety. He took another drink. There was nothing to beat good Irish whiskey, even if the major Irish distillers were now owned by the French.
He looked back at Fitzduane, then gestured toward a three-inch pile of folders on the bedside table. 'You've read the files, Hugo?'
Fitzduane nodded. 'At last,' he said, with a grimace of impatience. 'The medics have not allowed anything more stressful than Bugs Bunny until recently.'
'I'd like your perspective,' said Kilmara – he smiled – 'seeing as how you are intimately involved. There is nothing like being shot at to encourage tight focus.'
Fitzduane gave a very slight smile in response. 'Very droll,' he said. Then he looked down at a yellow legal pad. 'Let me start with a summary. There is a lot of stuff here.'
'Summarize away,' said Kilmara.
'The actual hit,' said Fitzduane, 'was carried out by three members of a Japanese terrorist group called Yaibo, the Cutting Edge. They would be a run-of-the-mill bunch of extremist nuts except for their track record of viciousness and effectiveness. Whereas most terrorist groups are ninety-five percent talk, Yaibo focuses on action. The secret of their success seems to be their leader, a very smart lady in her mid-thirties called Reiko Oshima.
'Yaibo's motive,' continued Fitzduane, 'seemed clear enough at first. A direct connection has been traced between Yaibo and the Hangman's group. And to make it more personal, it looks like Reiko Oshima and the Hangman were lovers for a while – though scarcely on an exclusive basis.'
'So far so good,' said Kilmara. 'And though a bunch of us were involved in the Hangman's demise, Yaibo picked on you because you did the actual deed. Hell, you killed their leader's lover with your very own hands. This isn't just business. She really does not like you.'
Fitzduane sipped some water. 'Well, it all looked fairly straightforward,' he said, 'until I read on. Suddenly, a nice clean-cut terrorist revenge hit gets complicated. It turns out that Yaibo is not the freewheeling bunch of bloodthirsty fanatics they would like us to believe. Instead we find out that Yaibo had been involved with a series of killings that seems to have benefited a fast-rising Japanese group known as the Namaka Corporation. Your American friends in Tokyo have linked the Hangman to the Namakas. So what we have here is an outwardly respectable Japanese keiretsu which uses a bunch of terrorists for its dirty work. And a further implication is that the hit was ordered by the Namakas and is not Yaibo's little notion. It was, you might say, a corporate decision.'
'That's supposition,' said Kilmara.
Fitzduane shrugged. 'The connection between Yaibo and the Namakas might not stand up in a court of law, but it will do for me. But I agree on the issue of who ordered the hit. It could have been the Namakas, but it could equally have been a lower-level initiative by Yaibo.'
'Do you have an opinion?' said Kilmara.
'Not yet,' said Fitzduane. 'There is absolutely no hard evidence one way or another. But what does puzzle me is the orientation of much of this stuff against the Namakas. On the face of it Yaibo is the logical candidate, and yet the main thrust of these reports is that the Namakas should be taken out. Hell, the Namakas are nearly as big as Sony. This is heavy.'
Kilmara swirled his ice. 'The main accusations against the Namakas,' he said, 'come from Langley's operation in Tokyo. You may care to know that it is currently headed by the unlovable Schwanberg.'
Fitzduane looked puzzled.
'Let's flash back nearly twenty years,' said Kilmara, 'when you were rushing around South Vietnam with a camera trying to get yourself killed and on the front cover of Time.'
'And Schwanberg was racking up the body count under the Phoenix program, only the VC cadres he was having killed weren't VC,' said Fitzduane. 'I thought the CIA threw him out. Hell, he was an unpleasant piece of work.'
'He was connected,' said Kilmara, 'and ruthless fucks like Schwanberg can have their uses. He worked in Greece under the colonels and did a spell in Chile, then was posted to Japan as an old Asia hand. And the rest is history. The CIA have many good people, but scum floats to the top and does not always get skimmed off.'
Fitzduane rubbed his chin. He was suddenly looking very tired. His friend was definitely making progress, observed Kilmara, but there was a long way to go. 'So Schwanberg has it in for the Namakas for some reason,' said Fitzduane. 'So where does that leave us?'
'With you getting some rest,' said Kilmara, 'and me and my boys doing some more digging. Remember, Schwanberg may have his own agenda regarding the Namakas, but that does not mean he is wrong.'
'Watch Schwanberg,' said Fitzduane. 'I remember him cutting the tongue out of someone he claimed was a VC suspect. She was thirteen years of age. This is not a nice man.'
Kilmara stood up and drained his whiskey. 'Get some sleep, Hugo,' he said. 'Don't overdo. We need you fit and well.'
Fitzduane smiled weakly. It was maddening how little stamina he had. But it was returning.
He closed his eyes and within seconds was asleep.
The West of Ireland
February 1
Except for certain detective units, the Republic of Ireland's national police force, the Garda Siochana – literally, Guardians of the Peace – are unarmed. They strike many people, who do not know better, as being likable but somewhat traditional and, not to put too fine a point on it, slow.
On the other hand, the gardai, many of whom come from rural backgrounds, have their own ways of doing things, and on the top of the list is knowing exactly who is who and what is what on their own patches.
This is not always so easy in the cities. In rural Ireland, especially outside the tourist season, every stranger is noted and observed by someone. And sooner or later – if the sergeant is doing his job right and knows how to work with rather than against the local population – that information finds its way back to the local police station.
In the case of a Northern Irish accent, which is quite distinctive to an inhabitant of the Republic, that information tends to find its way to the gardai very fast indeed. There are, of course, a few pockets of sympathizers – less than one percent of the population, if the voting rolls are to be believed – but there were no such pockets in the area around Connemara Regional.
Routine radio communications were in the clear. Intelligence reports were treated more carefully and were communicated by secure fax to Garda Headquarters in Dublin and from there to the desk of General Shane Kilmara, commander of Ireland's antiterrorist force, the Rangers.
As it happens, Kilmara was not there when the intelligence report arrived. He was in the West of Ireland.
