was more of a known quantity. A policeman always looked like a policeman. There would be an ambulance and medical assistance and a cop by his bedside while he recovered. There would be questioning and a trial and a sentence to some high-security prison. He would either escape or be with his own kind. It wouldn't be too bad. It went with the job.
The detective took up the pressure on the trigger and looked into Eamon's eyes, and for an instant Eamon knew he was about to die.
He was screaming as the detective fired and continued firing until the magazine was empty.
The Bear carried Kathleen out of the charnel house that was the front room and laid her on the big bed in the master bedroom. She had fainted briefly, but her eyes opened again as he covered her. He sat beside her and held her hand.
There was a glimmer of recognition in Kathleen's eyes. She had never seen this man before, but she knew. 'You're the Bear,' she said. 'Hugo told me about you.'
The Bear knew his nickname well enough, but he was never so called to his face. There were conventions in these matters. Anyway, he rather liked his given name of Heinrich – Heini, for short – and Sergeant worked fine for those who knew him less well.
Still, this was a woman of courage, and it was not time to stand on ceremony. 'I am the Bear,' he said, nodding his large and shaggy head.
Kathleen started to laugh and cry, and the Bear sat on the edge of the bed and held her in his big arms until the ambulance came.
McGonigal had three of his own men with him – Jim Daid, Tim Pat Miley, and Gerry Dempsey – and Sasada.
His men were a known quantity on an operation; Sasada was not. It had been agreed that he would stay with the cars unit they had completed the hit. The persuasive argument had been that a Japanese, in this backwater, would attract attention.
McGonigal was not sure who true this was. Japanese businesses seemed to be everywhere these days.
They arrived at the hospital shortly after midday. Doctors' rounds would be over. Lunch would just be starting. Visitors' hours would not start until two o'clock. The place would be just about as quiet as it could be except at night. They had considered doing a nighttime hit but had scrapped it. It was too predictable. The parking lot would be nearly empty and security, as like as not, doubled. People expected a night attack. And escaping on strange roads by night was another problem.
The hospital parking lot surrounded the hospital on three sides. To the rear was a goods-delivery area and various utility buildings, including the boiler house and mortuary. McGonigal had considered going in the back way, but there was a porter there to monitor deliveries and prevent theft. A second factor against that plan was that the route through the kitchens was longer. They were housed in a single-story extension at the rear, and the terrorists would have to pass through that before entering the main building.
The parking spaces directly in front of the hospital were reserved for the senior medical staff, and there was a clearway for ambulances. Since this facility was old and small, both visitors and emergency patients were brought in through the same entrance at the front. Emergency itself was at the front across from reception. The arrangement would not have worked in a busy city hospital.
They parked on the right side of the building, out of sight of the front of the hospital, but only a few yards away from the fire escape that led up to the ward facing the private wing. McGonigal and his men were all dressed in maintenance workers' blue overalls. They got out of the cars and opened the trunks. The weapons inside were concealed under painter's tarpaulins.
McGonigal's nerves had been at fever pitch as he drove in. Every sense was honed for the slightest hint of danger, but he could see nothing amiss.
The hospital, an ugly, raw, concrete construction at the best of times and even worse when wet, and its bumpy, black asphalt parking area looked depressingly normal. The rain had stopped, but water lay in pools everywhere. The sky overhead was still heavily overcast and obscured the slightest hint of direct sunlight. The chill air complemented the gloom. The dreadful weather and the drab environment reminded McGonigal of Belfast.
He nodded at Jim Daid.
The terrorist walked around to the front of the hospital and asked to use the rest room. The receptionist paid him little attention. Daid looked around and noticed that no policeman was present. However, a garda raincoat hung from a hook in the reception area.
'Excuse me,' he said politely to the receptionist. There was no reaction. He cleared his throat. 'Excuse me, I'm looking for my brother.'
The receptionist, a middle-aged barrel-shaped woman to whom life had not been kind, looked up from the book she was reading. This was outside visiting hours and one of the quieter times of the day, and she resented the interruption. The heroine in the book with whom she identified was young, attractive, and currently being made love to by an equally attractive hero.
She was not pleased to be reminded of real life when fantasy was so much more pleasant. 'Who?' she said unpleasantly.
'He's a policeman,' said Daid. 'I thought he might be on duty here.' He nodded toward the coat.
The receptionist shrugged. 'Lunch, the rest room, who knows?'
Daid looked at her and decided further conversation was pointless. He had just come from the rest room, and that had been empty. Lunch meant the cop would return at any time, which could be inconvenient.
He then remembered that the uniforms in the Republic were not armed. It would have been neater to take him out in advance, but if he showed up later, what the fuck. Daid turned and went back to McGonigal.
McGonigal thought about what Daid had told him. The policeman's absence disturbed him, but it was too late to turn back now.
'Go,' he said to Tim Pat and Gerry Dempsey. Immediately, they removed the heavy canvas tool bags from the cars and commenced climbing up the fire escape.
The metal staircase, designed to allow the ill and elderly to escape, had originally been an attractive construction. Now it was pitted and rusty, a victim of tight budgets, sloppy management, and the unrelenting Irish weather. But it was more than adequate for fast access. The two terrorists were outside the third-floor fire door in seconds.
Beyond the fire door lay the corridor of a public wing inhabited mainly by geriatric patients who would now be having their lunch. Such patients frequently required help when eating, so it was a fair assumption that the nursing staff would be preoccupied. At the end of the corridor was another fire door, and beyond that a landing and another staircase. Across the landing was an armed Ranger, the two doors of the security zone, and the private wing.
One of the terrorists outside the third-floor fire door removed a battery-operated hand drill, made a small hole in the door, and inserted a probe.
Seconds later he had engaged the crash bar and opened the door. Just before the second terrorist entered the corridor, he turned and looked down at McGonigal and gave a thumbs-up signal. Immediately, he turned and vanished.
'Sixty seconds, Jim,' said McGonigal, pressing the button on his stopwatch.
The two headed toward the entrance, muttered, 'We're expected' at the indifferent receptionist, and headed up the stairs. On the half-landing just above the first floor, they opened their tool bags but did not yet remove their weapons.
McGonigal checked his stopwatch again. The counterterrorist special forces were not the only people who understood timing. The Ranger outside the third-floor security zone would hear them coming, but would not be suspicious of a couple of workmen. While he was distracted, he would be shot by the boys who had come up the fire escape.
It would then be just a matter of blowing a way in with the rocket launchers. And they had Semtex, too, if something heavier was needed.
The Libyans had provided some serious firepower.
