at the thought. She had almost run out of tears, but this was such a petty, malevolent act. They were leaving her nothing.
She grew thin and very weak on the minimal rice-and-water diet she was fed, but every so often, when it seemed she would faint from hunger and escape from her suffering, her food allocation would be increased for several meals. There would be refried beans and perhaps an orange, and occasionally some tinned fish. They wanted her to suffer but not to die as yet. She was being kept like an animal in a cage, a curiosity. She was far from sure there was any other purpose.
She almost got used to being kicked and slapped and beaten, but The Voice brought her to the edge of despair. Since her body was held captive, she focused on her mind, and The Voice followed her there seeking to destroy any positive thought, any remaining hope. And The Voice was without pity. Remorselessly, it focused on destroying her until nothing would be left but despair.
The Voice, to Kathleen, was the true embodiment of evil, and it never seemed to go away. She could hear it when it was not speaking. She could hear it in her troubled dreams.
The Voice would taunt her to her grave. It reminded her that no one knew where she was. Perhaps no one even cared.
She would be kept chained and blindfolded until she died. After her spirit was broken, then would come pain. She had pain to look forward to. Pain was her future.
After pain would come death, Kathleen thought, and she began to long for pain and the eventual release it would bring.
No, said The Voice. After pain would come the recovery and then more pain. Pain would be her world for a very long time.
It would not just be pain. When it was explained what was to be done to her, the horror was too much and she fainted.
They would start with her extremities, The Voice said, and then piece by piece, limb by limb, she would be hacked apart. Over time she would be completely dismembered. After each procedure – to be carried out without anesthetic – she would receive the best possible medical treatment. All in all, her destruction could take several years.
Each body part would be sent to the gaijin, her lover, her husband, the Irishman Fitzduane. Kathleen herself was of no importance. She was merely an instrument of revenge. Of Justice.
Kathleen was given two days on extra rations after this announcement. She was then advised that the first dismemberment would start in a week. She was to have plenty of time to contemplate the horror of her fate. For seven remaining days her body would be whole and entire, and from then on she would never know life as it had been again.
The Voice had described the body parts she would lose. Her toes and fingers, her feet and hands, her ears, her legs below the knee, her arms to the elbow, the balance of her limbs, her ears and lips and nose and eyes.
Her eyes.
She was too shocked to cry, too terrified to react in any way. She felt sanity slipping away. She could neither eat nor drink. The she made herself eat something.
My baby! She thought. Oshima does not know. Must not know!
I don't know how, but Hugo will come.
The law of unintended consequences.
Oshima smiled as she remembered the phrase. The black DEA mission a year earlier had been an attempt to prove there was a major drug-processing facility in Tecuno. The word on the street was unambiguous, but satellite surveillance went just so far. Proof was needed. Instead, the two helicopters had been shot down shortly after they crossed the Tecuno border, and the public outcry throughout Mexico that had resulted had contributed significantly to the issuing of PresidentFalls's hands-off-Mexico declaration. The Yanquis were interfering with a sovereign nation. The arrogance! How dare they!
The photographs of the wreckage of the two machines and the charred bodies of the crews had been an unparalleled propaganda tool.
Irony of ironies, the abortive DEA raid had served to further protect the enormous Mexican drug-processing and -smuggling industry. And, incidentally, the activities of the state of Tecuno. Governor Diego Quintana had roared with laughter when he read out the U.S. president's National Security Executive Order FA/128. 'They bind themselves,' he had said. 'They know and yet they can do nothing.'
The official story was that all twelve members of the raiding party had been killed in the two crashes. Five bodies had been returned. The others had been kept as a bargaining tool. They would be released ‘over time.’ There were procedures to be followed. The unofficial subtext was that if the U.S. authorities behaved themselves, one body would be released every six months. Perhaps. The Iranians had shown how far you could push this particular strategy.
The administration had accepted the deal. The men were dead. The mission should never have happened in the first place. Improving U.S.-Mexican relations was the priority.
The seven survivors had been given to Oshima to use as she saw fit. But above all, they must not escape. They were dead. They must stay dead.
Keeping the mercenaries at the Devil's Footprint in line had been a problem. The prisoners were used to set an example. Their deaths were spread out over the months. The first prisoner had been burned alive in a metal cage in front of the assembled garrison. The conflagration had taken place at night and had been quite spectacular. The entire cage had glowed white hot as the thing inside it screamed.
Discipline had improved dramatically.
The second prisoner had been guillotined. The French had invaded Mexico for a while, and the mercenaries had constructed a play around the execution. The entertainment value of these events was clear.
The third man had been ritually hanged, drawn, and quartered. This had proved a little more than some of even the most hardened members of the garrison could take.
The fourth man had been crushed by a tank.
The fifth man had been strapped across the muzzle of an artillery piece and a blank charge fired. The blast had showered pieces of him all over the canyon wall.
The sixth man had been slowly garroted.
The seventh man was still alive.
As Oshima strode out in front of the assembled mercenaries, the naked body of her victim was strapped to crossed timbers.
The troops were hushed and expectant.
Oshima cut off his hands and feet and then disemboweled the man. It was her favorite way to kill, and she marveled at how long it could take for a human being to die when a skilled executioner was at work.
In her mind, the victim under her sword was the gaijin Fitzduane. She took her time, but there were practical problems when performing in front of the mercenaries. A parade could take just so long. Guards had to be relieved. There were duties to be carried out.
She would be under no such pressure when working on Kathleen. This was a woman whose agony would be endless.
13
Fitzduane dozed uneasily on the aircraft while flying back to Washington.
Since Vietnam, where he had been shot down on several occasions, and from various similar experiences in war zones since, he had learned that aircraft had different ways of returning to earth, and not all of them were pleasant.
He was not overly fond of flying. If he could sleep through it, he would. This time it was not that easy. His
