This must have to do with Fitzduane. So this was the reality of his world. It was worse than anything she could have imagined. What could she do? How could she help? What did these frightening men want? Silently, she determined to resist when and how she could. If everybody fought these kind of people as best they could, they would be defeated.
Paddy McGonigal looked into her eyes. He could read the pain and the defiance. How little these people know, he thought. How fragile their lives are. How irrelevant in the scheme of things.
I bend my finger and she dies. An effortless physical act. That is all there is to it. And they think they matter, that somehow they can resist. The dreams of fools. He felt anger. Why do they not understand how fucking unimportant they are, these little people, these pawns of fortune?
'I need to know about the hospital,' he said. 'There is a fellow called Hugo Fitzduane I want to visit. I want to know where he is. I want to know about the security. I want the routines and the passwords and all the little details.'
Kathleen had removed her nurse's headgear on going off duty but was still wearing her uniform under her cloak. The cloak was navy, but the lining was of some scarlet material. The effect over the crisp white of her one- piece garment was striking.
For the first time, McGonigal looked at her as a woman. She was, he realized, a very beautiful woman. Her eyes were particularly striking, her breasts were full, her legs were long and slender. He noticed that her dress buttoned up the front. The skirt had risen above her knees.
'I'm sorry,' she said, shaking her head. 'I'm afraid you've got the wrong person. I don't know who you're talking about.'
McGonigal reached out with his automatic and placed the silencer and barrel under her skirt and lifted it. He undid the bottom button of her skirt with his left hand and then started on another button. There was the hint of lace.
Noel Fleming leaped to his feet at the same time that Kathleen's hand cracked full force against McGonigal's face. He could taste blood. Jim, the terrorist leaning against the radiator, jumped forward and smashed her father back onto the sofa with the butt of his gun.
Mary Fleming screamed and clasped her husband. A long gash had opened in his skull, and crimson leached into his silver hair and soaked his wife's blouse. He lay against her, dazed and in pain and bewildered by what was happening.
McGonigal put a hand to his lip. There was blood on his finger when he took it away. He licked his lips and swallowed, but the metallic taste remained in his mouth. The left side of his face hurt. This was a strong woman. But vulnerable.
'Kathleen,' he said 'you're brave and you're beautiful, but you're foolish. How does it help you if you make me angry? Now answer me that.'
Kathleen shook her head. The feeling of paralysis had left her since she had struck this man in front of her. She no longer felt quite so helpless, so afraid. She remembered that she hadn't called in. She had to buy time.
McGonigal stood up. He transferred the automatic to his left hand and removed from his pocket what looked, at first, like a large pen-knife. There was a click and a longer thin blade glittered dully in a shaft of light coming through the blinds. He looked at the portrait.
'You've a nice family,' he said, looking down at Kathleen. 'Close-knit is the phrase, I think.' He transferred his gaze back to the portrait and slowly cut a large X through her image. The sound of the canvas parting under the pressure of the blade was unsettling. To Kathleen it was an obscene, wanton gesture.
'I could hurt you, Kathleen,' he said, 'but where would that get me? It's you I need to hear from.' He turned back to the portrait. 'Life is about choices,' he said. 'It just isn't possible to have everything.'
He brought the blade up again and seemed to hesitate. He turned and looked carefully at her parents, then nodded to himself. His gaze reverted to the portrait.
He raised the blade again. 'It wouldn't surprise me at all,' he said, 'if you weren't just a little bit keen on Hugo. He a wounded hero and all that. Romance has blossomed at many a bedside – and has died in many a bed.' He laughed. 'But the thing is, darling, you can't have it all.' The blade sliced through the image of her father.
Kathleen cried out. The terrible fear had returned.
Her mother screamed. 'No! No!' she said. 'This is – this is wrong. It's all wrong. You must go. You can't do this.'
Anger flared in McGonigal. He turned and thrust the automatic pistol in his hand at the bald-headed terrorist, then grabbed Kathleen's father by his bloodied white hair and hauled the elderly man to his feet.
'Fuck you,' he said. 'Fuck all you little people. You know nothing.' He placed the edge of his knife under Kathleen's father's ear and cut and pulled, severing his throat from ear to ear.
There was a dreadful, rattling, gagging sound that was mercifully brief, and blood fountained from the severed arteries and cascaded over McGonigal and Kathleen.
When the blood had stopped pumping, McGonigal released his grip on the dead man's hair and the body sagged to the ground. Mary Fleming had fainted. Kathleen looked at him, deep in shock. He slapped her face.
'I have little time,' he said. 'Your mother is next. It's your choice.'
It was several minutes before Kathleen could speak. McGonigal used the time to wash himself off and lay the hospital plans out on a table in the living room. Then Kathleen told him almost everything she knew.
Her fingers still smeared with her father's blood, she outlined the security procedures and marked out the layout of Fitzduane floor and the location of the control zone and other security procedures. She was questioned again and again, and finally McGonigal was satisfied. It all tied together with what he already knew. Kathleen was completely broken. They always broke.
When it was all over, he placed his pistol against Mary Fleming's head, but at the last second took his hand off the trigger. Hostages were handy in this kind of situation. They could be disposed of after the operation had gone down.
Kathleen had stripped off her cloak and uniform and was now huddled in a terry-cloth bathrobe in a state of shock. Her skin was cold and clammy. Her gaze was unfocused.
McGonigal was looking at her and mentally undressing her when the telephone rang for the first time since they had arrived.
9
Connemara Regional Hospital
February 1
Fitzduane looked at his visitor with affection.
He was very, very fond of the Bernese detective.
The Bear had slimmed a little after he had met Katia – his first wife had died in a traffic accident – but had now reverted to his normal shape. Fitzduane was relieved. Katia was a lovely woman and meant well, but the Bear was not really destined by nature to be lean and mean and to dine off bean sprouts. He was kind of big – well, closer to massive in truth – and round and gruff and had a heart of gold. And he was a good friend. Fitzduane valued his friends.
The Bear gave him a hug – a gentle hug. Fitzduane was not wearing his Skunkworks T-shirt that day, so the visible bandages inspired caution. Even so, a ‘gentle’ hug from the Bear caused him to wince slightly. The main hazard was the Bear's shoulder holster. It contained a very large lump of metal.
'Men don't hug in Ireland,' said Fitzduane, who enjoyed the cultural contrasts between the Swiss and the Irish. We're not really a very touchy-feely nation. It's something to do with the church and sex and guilt, I think. What's the hardware?'
The Bear removed the largest automatic pistol Fitzduane had ever seen. 'Everybody in Europe tends to use 9mm because that is what everybody uses. The manufacturers are tooled up for it. The ammunition is relatively cheap because of economies of scale. The round is easy to shoot because it has a good range and a nice, flat trajectory and doesn't kick like your mother-in-law. And you can fit fifteen rounds or more in a magazine, so you can generate some serious firepower. Everybody's happy.
