'But the problem with the 9mm,' he continued, 'is that it lacks stopping power. Analysis of actual gunfights in the States shows that a hit on a vital spot puts the victim out of action only about fifty percent of the time where 9mm is used, as opposed to over ninety percent when a. 45 is involved.'
Fitzduane was beginning to think that this conversation was somewhat lacking in tact. He remembered that he had only recently been shot. Still, the subject seemed to be doing the Bear some good. 'So use a. 45,' he said helpfully.
'Aha!' said the Bear triumphantly, 'so one might think. But…' He paused.
'But?' said Fitzduane.
'But…' said the Bear. He paused again.
Fitzduane felt as if he was in a slow tennis match and should be flicking his head from side to side to watch the shots. 'But?' he said again. He couldn't resist it.
'What that English expression about the importance of detail?' said the Bear.
It occurred to Fitzduane that if any nation should know about detail, it was the Swiss. 'The devil is in the detail,' he said.
'Exactly,' said the Bear. He raised his huge automatic in demonstration.
A nurse came in carrying a kidney basin containing something unpleasant. Fitzduane had developed a profound dislike of kidney basins. Either he was being sick into one or a syringe was being transported in the damn thing, with some part of his anatomy as its destination. He was generally off needles. And kidney basins were what they used, he had been told, to carry away bits of him that had been cut out. These were not nice thoughts.
The nurse screamed and dropped the tray.
The Bear ignored her. 'The problem with the. 45,' he said, 'is that it hasn't got the range or the penetrating power. It is a big bullet with loads of shock value, but it doesn't have the velocity.'
The door smashed open. A Ranger stood there with an Aug Steyr automatic rifle in his hands. The Bear ignored him, too.
Fitzduane suddenly noticed that he was in the line of fire. It would be ridiculous to be killed by some gung-ho idiot in the higher purpose of saving his life. Also, he had been shot up enough for one year.
'DON'T FUCKING WELL SHOOT!' he shouted.
'WHY THE FUCK NOT?' shouted the Ranger. Fitzduane looked at him in shock. He couldn't instantly think of a good reply. This was a ridiculous thing to have to debate. He just glared at the Ranger and then relaxed. The man was grinning. It was Grady, who knew the Bear.
'So,' said the Bear triumphantly, 'I looked for a cartridge which would combine the strengths of the 9mm and the. 45 without the disadvantages. I wanted stopping power, flat trajectory, good penetration, range, and sheer shootability. I wanted a nice big magazine.'
He released the magazine from his weapon. 'It's a 10mm Desert Eagle. Trust the Israelis to know their weapons.'
It was then he noticed the Calico in its holster clipped to Fitzduane's bed. 'What's that?' he said. Fitzduane showed him.
'And the caliber?' said the Bear.
'I don't want to steal your thunder,' said Fitzduane, who couldn’t help grinning. '10mm.'
'Oh,' said the Bear, a little sadly.
Kathleen, exhausted from the night shift and the shock of her ordeal, was dozing when the front doorbell rang.
She awoke feeling sick and disoriented, but associating the familiar sound with help, with good news, with some positive development. Visitors were a regular feature of the Fleming household. Neighbors dropping in for a cup of tea were always welcome. Traditional Irish hospitality had not been eroded by television. In fact, they had no television. This was not from some deeply felt conviction. It was merely that the nearby mountains made adequate TV reception impossible.
The chair she sat on and the carpet were saturated and sticky with drying blood. The body on the floor, half covered with a newspaper, was her father. Shock hit her again, and she started to retch.
'Shut up, you cow, if you know what's good for you,' said the terrorist by the window.
There was the sound of animated conversation from the hall, which continued for several minutes. Then the door opened and the leader, Paddy, came in. He moved to one side and gestured to others behind him to enter.
Two other men entered the room, and then a figure who looked singularly out of place. Unlike the others, who looked Irish and were dressed in casual clothes, the man standing in the doorway was smartly dressed in a dark suit and white shirt with a club tie. His shoes were highly polished. And he was Asian, Chinese or Japanese.
'This is the nurse?' he said.
'The very same,' said McGonigal.
'And you are satisfied with her information?' said the Japanese. His accent was pronounced, but he spoke clearly.
McGonigal smiled. 'Oh yes,' he said. 'The wee girl saw reason' – he reached out and grabbed Kathleen's mother and again the knife was in his hand – 'and there's still one blood relation to go.' Kathleen swallowed a scream. 'You told us everything, didn't you?'
Kathleen nodded weakly.
'And the phone call?' said the Japanese.
'She answered it,' said McGonigal, 'with me listening in. It was the matron inquiring could she do day shift next week.'
Kathleen swallowed the bile in her throat and then spoke hesitantly. 'We work a rota system. Sometimes someone is sick or needs time off and the matron makes the arrangements.'
The Japanese looked at her for a little time before speaking again. Something about the phone call bothered him. 'What time was the call?' he said to McGonigal.
'Twenty past nine, something like that,' answered McGonigal. 'Why? I heard the whole conversation. There was nothing to it. It was just as the girl said.'
The Japanese was still staring intently at Kathleen. He was about to decide whether the operation went ahead or not, and this time he was going with the assault team. He didn't want to put his life on the line if the operation was blown. At the same time, the assignment must be completed. It was a matter of duty.
'It's a small hospital, the woman had just come off night shift,' said the Japanese. 'The matron would know that and would expect her to be asleep at the time she called.' He slapped Kathleen hard across the face. 'Is that not so? So why did she call?'
Kathleen spat blood. It was clear the bastard had never worked in a hospital, did not understand the pressures, the need to perform a task now. It was clear he did not know her matron. Inside herself, she smiled. He was a clever little sod, but he was on the wrong track.
'Losing sleep is pretty normal in our business,' she said. 'People don't get ill on just a nine-to-five basis.'
'The caller – the matron – apologized when she called,' said McGonigal. 'She said that she had actually rung up to leave a message with the woman's mother. Our lady friend here' – he indicated Kathleen – 'actually said very little. Just ‘it doesn't matter’ and ‘yes’ and a couple of phrases like that. Of course, she sounded tired, but then she would, wouldn't she? She was just off duty and games with her boyfriend.' He grinned lasciviously at Kathleen.
Sasada was torn between the logic of what had been said and his instincts. In truth, nothing could be more normal than a brief phone call about a rota change, yet he would have felt much happier if this woman had never been allowed near the phone at all. Despite her rough handling and the killing of her father in front of her and the manifest shock that this had induced, there was still the faintest spark of defiance in her eyes. This was a strong, resourceful woman. Could she somehow have managed to warn the hospital?
'Why did you allow this person' – he pointed at Kathleen – 'near the phone at all?' he said to McGonigal. He needed time to think.
