worse than anyone had foreseen, and the fact that they had eventually triumphed was of limited consolation.
With the terrorist's death, he had taken sensible precautions, but, in truth, had thought such violence was behind him. And then had come the Hangman's revenge.
Terror was just a word until you experienced it, and then you knew that it was worse than anything you could have imagined, worse than any nightmare. Because it was not something that you were looking at in fear. It was reality and it was happening to you.
Fitzduane had just survived that second encounter, but then he had known that this was something he would have to live with – perhaps until he died. He and his family were permanently under threat.
Any day, some complete stranger, for reasons that made no sense to most civilized people, might attempt – and might even succeed – to snuff out his life.
The day was hot and humid as only a Washington summer can be, but Kathleen shivered.
When she had married Hugo, she knew, she had accepted the nature of the man and of their situation. She supported Fitzduane's decision to become actively involved in counterterrorism instead. But because it was the right thing to do, that did not mean she was happy with it. She wanted a live husband, not a dead hero.
Fortunately, Hugo's counterterrorism work was not an obsession. He did it because it had to be done, but he realized full well that such an essentially destructive activity could have a corrosive negative effect. And that was not the nature of the man. So he actively tried to do work as well that was essentially constructive. And that helped greatly. It gave their life a balance and was interesting in itself.
The threat remained. Rangers – Ireland's counterterrorist unit – now trained on the island as part of a security arrangement that Hugo had made with his old friend and ex-commanding officer, General Shane Kilmara. And Hugo's reserve status with the unit was not just a sinecure. He completed weapons practice and training daily, and was also involved in developing a new strike unit.
Hugo Fitzduane was a man of parts indeed, but, she feared, however he tried to disguise it, the warrior side of him was in the ascendant. But this was the man she had wanted and won, and despite her fears she was at heart content.
She thought of Boots, now staying with his grandmother, and laughed out loud. She missed the little monster, and she knew Hugo did too. He loved children. He had asked how big the little baby inside her was and when she had spaced her hands just so and said it was about the length of a good cigar, he christened the fetus 'Romeo/Julietta.' The name covered both the options he had pointed out.
But men weren't perfect. He had soon shortened the name for convenience to Romeo. To balance matters out, Kathleen used Julietta.
Neither really minded what sex the new arrival might be just as long as he or she was the child of Hugo and Kathleen Fitzduane.
The long-wheelbase limousine that had picked up Fitzduane from the apartment had tinted windows.
The heft of the door confirmed his initial impression. It was armored. ‘Bulletproof’ was overly optimistic in a world where armor-piercing RPG launchers were part of every fanatic's standard equipment. Technology, unfortunately, helped all sides.
Based on what Cochrane had said when he had called, Fitzduane expected to see a couple of hard-faced heavies in the front seats. Instead, a quite stunning redhead in her late twenties had ushered him into the vehicle, and when the driver turned he saw that the slim neck and smooth blond hair belonged, not to a rather elegant- looking male with a talented barber, but to a woman as similarly attractive as the redhead.
If this was security in Washington, D.C., he was sorry it had taken him so long to get here.
'Dana,' said the redhead with the kind of stunning smile that could blow away a line of marines, 'and this is Texas.'
The blond head bobbed a greeting. She was otherwise occupied accelerating the limo through Arlington as if were a sports car instead of multiple tons of armored deadweight.
The dividing panel slid shut. This was a pair who focused on their work, which was currently the matter of keeping his body in one piece. Fitzduane thought there was a great deal to be said for travel. There were some sights and sounds and customs he really did not run across much back in Ireland. Dana and Texas certainly came into that category.
The limousine purred on. The internal loudspeaker pinged tactfully and then Texas's voice cut in. She managed to combine crystal-clear diction with a mellifluous twang.
'Lee asked me to point out Langley as we passed. If you look to your right, Mr. Fitzduane, you'll see the turnoff for the CIA. A short time back, an Iranian pulled up beside a row of cars waiting to turn and went down the line and shot each driver in turn with a Kalashnikov. Four dead. The CIA said it was an isolated incident.'
'Wasn't it?' said Fitzduane.
'No, sir,' said Texas quietly, and there was a further ping as the speaker shut off.
Fitzduane stopped thinking about voices like corn syrup and wondered again about the late Patricio Nicanor.
The assault was being passed off by the administration as an outrage against the subcommittee by Japanese extremists. The fact that a Mexican citizen had been among those killed had been attributed no special significance. This was an attack by the Japanese Red Army against the United States of America. Senor Nicanor's death was a regrettable accident. He certainly had not been specifically singled out.
It seemed to Fitzduane that being manually decapitated with the equivalent of a razor-sharp cheese wire was about as specific and unaccidental as you could get. But clearly the administration did not want any attention focused on Mexico.
Why not? Because the administration wanted free trade with Mexico, and that meant presenting Mexico as an expanding democracy – which was not exactly the way things were.
And why had it been so important to kill Nicanor before he could talk?
The turnoff was heavily wooded. The limo slowed and a pair of unmarked gates opened.
The limo entered and halted. The gates closed immediately behind them. They were on a paved drive carved out of the wooded terrain. The drive curved ahead of them and then vanished behind a bend.
'Mr. Fitzduane?' It was Texas's voice. 'Could you please step out of the car?'
Fitzduane opened the door. He could see no guardhouse, nothing but trees, but he had a definite sense of being observed.'
As he looked around, he noticed a hydraulically operated spiked vehicle barrier in front of the limo and a space beyond that, a rather deep space.
Forcing the barrier would not have been a good idea. This place was protected by the equivalent of a moat and who knew what else. Someone was very serious about security; very low key but very serious. The whole approach? Someone with an interesting mind.
'Mr. Fitzduane?' said Texas pleasantly. 'When you're ready.'
Fitzduane stepped back into the limo's air-conditioning with alacrity. Virginia summer weather was doubtless an acquired taste.
How had these people fought in this stuff? His respect for Grant and Lee and Longstreet and all their good people ramped up a notch or two. This was his mother's country, and it had been hard won.
The car surged forward.
Fitzduane gazed around him.
He was in a room that screamed military.
Of operations. Of missions planned and implemented and of the consequences.
The V-shaped table, the bank of giant screens, the lectern for the briefer. And the security.
