From this complex of buildings flowed the legislation that made the United States of America.
Fitzduane loved the United States. He was not so sure about its capital.
But the bottom line was that Washington, D.C. counted. It was not a question of whether you liked what they did there or not. The power was real.
Warner hopped out of the car and stretched. Then he came around to Fitzduane's side. The Irishman was still sitting there lost in thought.
'Yeah,' said Warner, 'it really makes you think when you come here the first time. This really is IT – the House, the Senate, the Supreme Court. All that good shit. The State Department, the FBI, the Pentagon. All those organs of the United States government just waiting to serve.
'It's enough to bring a lump to your throat. You think little old you can make a difference. You go around glowing for a few days, maybe a few weeks, possibly a month or two. And then you start very slowly to understand as the structure starts almost imperceptibly to destroy you.
'It is nearly impossible to get anything done in this fucking place. All this talent and ambition, all hundred senators and four hundred and fifty congressmen and twenty thousand staffers and eighty thousand lobbyists cancel each other out. The Founding Fathers wanted checks and balances, and they surely did succeed.'
Fitzduane smiled. 'Hell of a speech, Dan,' he said.
Warner grinned. 'You wouldn't believe me if I said I liked it.'
Fitzduane walked with Warner to the elevator.
'How is security on the Hill?' he said. 'I noticed we weren't stopped on the way in, and I didn't see you show a pass, Dan.'
Warner grunted. 'Basically, it sucks,' he said, 'but I guess you can't entirely blame the Capitol Hill police. They are supposed to keep the bad guys out while letting the public in. That is pretty damned difficult. But they go through the motions. If you had not been with me, Hugo, and went in the main entrance upstairs you would have had to walk through a metal detector, and your bag, if you had one, would go through a scanner. But there are ways around that shit. The Task Force thinks security should be tightened, but the politicians don't want to lose any votes. Guess who is winning?'
Fitzduane smiled. The elevator reached the second floor.
Lee Cochrane, Chief of Staff of the Congressional Task Force on Terrorism, glared at his subordinate.
Maurice Isser, a complex hybrid of French-Canadian, Russian, and Jewish origin – now neatly packaged as an American – was, at times, a near-impossible man. He got away with it because he was inarguably a genius at both intelligence and analysis. But one of his many quirks was his absolute paranoia when it came to meeting new people. He hated the initial contact at any time, but never more so than when he was not well prepared and softened up in advance.
Cochrane was going to strangle the man. He was going to positively enjoy strangling the man. The prospect was cheering.
'Maury,' said Cochrane, 'all I want you to do is meet him. You can't spend your life as the Invisible Man or peering out of a slit in the stationery closet. Someone is going to warp a canvas jacket around you and cart you away.'
'Why didn't you tell me?' said Maury in an aggrieved voice.
Cochrane looked up at the ceiling, which was of little help. It needed painting badly. The federal budget was certainly not being spent here.
'You were traveling,' said Cochrane soothingly.
'Fitzduane,' said Maurice, 'who is he? What's his history?'
'Jesus, Maury,' said Cochrane, 'you want history, I'll give you history.'
He sighed. 'About seven hundred years ago, a Norman knight, Sir Hugo Fitzduane, part of the initial British invasion force of Ireland, quarreled with someone on high and then left the main force and set off for the West of Ireland.
'He fought the bad guys, married a local Irish princess, and found himself on an island off the West of Ireland to build a castle on. Duncleeve, it's called. The Castle of the Sword. It says a great deal of what you need to know about the Fitzduanes.
'All these centuries later, a Hugo Fitzduane still lives there. The Fitzduanes seem to be a persistent bunch with something of a – ‘What I have I hold’ outlook on life. And a tradition of arms.'
The swivel chair began to turn slowly. Cochrane had Maury's attention.
'The present Fitzduane followed that tradition. He joined the Irish Army and was posted to the Congo with the United Nations. Special forces. His commander was a Colonel Shane Kilmara. His unit racked up quite a reputation for itself. The Congo in those days was something of a bloodbath.'
'Ah!' said Maury. ' General Kilmara these days, I think. Now it's coming back to me. He's turned up all over the globe over the last couple of decades. He is probably the best counterterrorist military man out there.'
About bloody time, thought Cochrane. Maury never forgot anything, but he did not always remember where he stored what he knew and the protocol was to help him find it.
'Kilmara seems to have always accepted his calling as a warrior. Fitzduane was more ambivalent and has always had something of a love-hate relationship with violence. He resigned from the army after the Congo business and then spent the next twenty years as a combat photographer. Cover of Time, that kind of thing. Still, you name a war and he's been there. The word is that he's forgotten more about combat than most generals ever knew.
'The word also has it that though Fitzduane is a reluctant warrior he has proven to be very good in combat. One of the best.'
'The Hangman affair,' breathed Maury.
Cochrane nodded. 'It was a classic counterterrorist operation, and during it our friend Hugo Fitzduane began to lose his amateur status. He was to find out the hard truth that once you enter the game, it is nearly impossible to leave it alive. A few years later, when he thought the whole Hangman thing had blown over, a hit team of Japanese terrorists bent on revenge landed on his island and shot up both him and his young son. Both recovered, but it was a close thing. After he had sorted out that little affair, he realized if he was going to be forced to be a permanent player he had better become a good one.'
'I've got it!' said Maury, rising to his feet and beginning to prowl around the office. 'This is the same man who set up that counterterrorism think tank. We trade information, but I deal with a man called Henssen, a German, I think.'
'Yeah,' said Cochrane, 'Henssen runs the show on a day-to-day basis, leaving Fitzduane time to pursue his various other interests, which include an involvement with the Rangers, Ireland's special forces. Hugo Fitzduane is a reserve colonel with them and still very close to Kilmara.'
Maury suddenly paused in his pacing and froze, his back hunched.
Cochrane sighed. Maury was remembering again that he had not been consulted. It was time for diplomacy or Maury would suddenly make a break for it.
'It was your idea, Maury,' said Cochrane, lying, his blue eyes guileless. 'Since we're blocked from using U.S. forces, let's find someone else to do the job. So while you were away, we looked and came up with Fitzduane. He thinks he's coming here on a routine courtesy visit, but I think we can persuade him. That is why I want him to meet Patricio.'
Maury's interest was engaged again. He picked up Fitzduane's file and studied it intently, then he read Cochrane's notes.
'There is no report here from Patricio,' said Maury accusingly.
'Patricio did not like to go into any detail over a Mexican phone,' said Cochrane, 'nor any U.S. phone, given the currently political climate.' He grinned and looked at his paranoid friend. 'That is something you understand, Maury. Anyway, relax. Patricio has made it out of Mexico. He rang from National half an hour ago. He'll be here any minute.'
'Did he say anything?' said Maury.
'He sounded immensely relieved to be out of Mexico in one piece, and he said he had brought some physical evidence.'
