Book Three
The Devils
23
She was sleeping.
The blinds and drapes were drawn and only a dim sidelight illuminated the hospital room. He could see a drip feeding into her arm, and she was connected to a monitor. For a moment, despite what he had been told, he felt a spasm of dread.
Who knows what they did to her when she was a captive.
I can still lose her.
He closed the door gently and the hospital noises were muted. Carefully, he lifted a chair from the corner and placed it close to one side facing the bed so that he could look at her and be there for her when she awoke. He longed to touch her and hold her, but for now sleep was what she needed most.
He could hear her breathing, and the sound was deep and regular and so reassuringly familiar. Emotion welled up in him and quiet tears coursed down his cheeks. My wife. Kathleen. I have never seen you look more beautiful. I have never loved you more.
She was thin and malnourished. Her face was pale and scratched, and there were bruises around her neck and throat. Her hair looked as if it had been hacked off. There were more bruises on her arms, and as his gaze took in her bandaged hand where her finger had been severed, anger and horror and pity gripped him and left him shaken.
But you are back, my love. We found you and brought you back and every last effort was worth it.
Images of the carnage in the Devil's Footprint flashed through his mind. The guards outside the main camp, struck down without warning. Bodies spasming and falling in the sleeping area as rounds cut into them. Armored vehicles exploding and the screams of burning men.
So many dead. So high a price. But there were some situations where you had to fight. Evil was not some abstract notion. It existed, and you fought it without compromise until that battle was won. And you kept on fighting because the war, as such, never ended. Conflicting values. Those who wanted to build against those who were determined to destroy. It was the human condition. Reasonable people tended to rest up and drop their guard after a major struggle, but peace was an illusion. At best there was a lull in the fighting.
But while there was a lull you made the most of it. You loved and nurtured and regained your strength. And a few, a very few, kept watch. They did not rest. They stayed alert. Ordinary people with human strengths and failings who put their lives on the line to buy time for their fellows. People like Lee Cochrane and Maury and Warner. Men like Al Lonsdale. Women like Chifune. Unsung and unacknowledged except occasionally in time of open war. But mostly not just unrecognized, but unwanted.
The paradox of peace. The very people who made it possible were an unpleasant reminder of the alternative. They were starved of resources. Often they were shunned. Until the next time.
He dozed, his thoughts a fatigue-induced jumble. Great happiness and fear intermingled. Then one image began to dominate.
Oshima! She was still alive!
Fitzduane gave a start and rubbed his eyes. His unshaven chin itched, and the sand of Tecuno was still on his hair and skin and in his clothes.
The thought occurred to him that he had not slept in a bed for about a week. Catnapping on the web seating of a C130 went just so far. No wonder the gremlins were crowding his mind. Twelve hours' decent sleep in a proper bed followed by a long hot tub would restore his sense of proportion.
Kathleen was back. She was here with him. She was alive and soon she would be well, and that was what counted.
Fitzduane gazed at his wife, and without conscious thought his hand reached out and stroked her fingers and then her eyes opened.
For a moment, her eyes were those of a stranger. Terror and suffering kept in check only by force of will stared out at him, and nothing else so conveyed the horror of what she had gone through than that split second when he seemed to be able to look into her mind.
Then relief and joy came into her eyes. She stretched out her arms, then stopped and looked with wonder at her bandaged wrists. 'No chains,' she whispered. 'No chains. They hurt so.'
Fitzduane lay beside her and took her in his arms. 'Never again, my love,' he said quietly.
Her fingers touched his cheek. 'You're all bristly, Hugo,' she said sleepily. Her eyes were closed again. Soon her breathing was relaxed and regular.
A feeling of contentment and happiness so complete that he wanted to cry out – except he was too tired and certainly did not want to wake Kathleen – swept over him.
Memories of the mission were banished from his mind. Kathleen was safe in his arms, and that was what mattered.
Even better, Romeo and Julietta had survived the ordeal. The medical staff had warned Fitzduane not to have his hopes set high, but the examination had revealed that Kathleen, despite her ordeal, was still healthily pregnant. The doctor had given away the secret. Romeo and Julietta would be a girl. No penis could be detected.
'Sounds reasonable,' Fitzduane had remarked gravely.
Rheiman shuffled into the interrogation room and blinked in the harsh fluorescent light.
His right handcuff was removed and then locked to an eyebolt in the interrogation table. The table itself was secured to the floor. A large mirror took up much of one wall. One-way glass, he knew with certainty, and behind it a select audience. An audience he had to win over if he was to live.
Two men faced him. Not policemen, he thought. The street left its mark after a while; a certain look about the eyes. These people had Langley written all over them. Different pressures, different body language. Though again you never quite knew. The CIA was only one player in the intelligence community these days. Anyway, these were intelligence types, possibly with military backgrounds.
'Cigarette?' said the younger man. He had closely cropped blond hair and wore a tan suit.
Rheiman shook his head. 'I don't smoke,' he said. 'I guess you know that.'
The older man smiled. 'There's a lot of good shit to smoke in Tecuno,' he said, 'and not a whole lot else to do. Or so I hear.'
'I'm Olsen,' said the younger man. He indicated his companion. 'And this is Mr. Steele.'
Steele consulted the screen of his notebook computer. 'The convenient thing about you, Edgar,' he said, 'is that we don't have to charge you with anything. You've already been tried and sentenced. You're a fugitive from justice. All we've go tot do is ship you back home and they're going to strap you in the chair and pull the switch. No new trial needed. Just the formality of an execution.'
'A messy business,' said Olsen. 'Or so they say. And slow. Of course, I've never seen an actual execution. Yours will be the first, Edgar. For that I'm going to get a front seat. I'm told that you literally cook to death.'
'You're a multiple murderer and a rapist, Edgar,' said Steele, 'and worse than that, you're a traitor. Personally, I think the chair is too good for you.'
Rheiman shook his head. 'I'll serve time,' he said, 'but I won't be executed. The governor remits every sentence where I come from.' He smiled. 'Good liberal values.'
Steele looked across at Olsen and sighed. 'You know, Edgar, you may have a point. And, frankly, that does not make me happy.'
'Worse still, Mr. Steele,' said Olsen, 'Edgar may appeal and argue that he wasn't legally deported from Mexico and then he will probably have to be freed.'
'Not a pretty picture,' said Steele.
'But then again,' said Olsen, 'if Edgar was not legally deported, then he is not legally here in the United
