swept the camp after the helicopter crash had burned the block that housed Rheiman and his team to the ground. Quite a few of the scientists had struggled to safety, but evidently Edgar Rheiman had not made it. He was one of a dozen blackened bodies found in the wreckage. It was impossible to tell who was who. He had been a revolting man in many ways, but useful. He'd be hard to replace.
'The supergun has never been tested,' he said, 'and the chief designer is dead.'
'Rheiman was a scumbag, but he was good at what he did,' said Oshima. 'He left behind a good team and a weapon ready for firing. We have his notes and plans. It won't be hard to build more tubes.'
Quintana gave a command, and the group mounted their vehicles and headed into the valley that housed the supergun complex. Here the destruction was minimal, and he could feel his spirits rise.
The weapon was immense. It soared toward the sky, a symbol of his power, a monument to his achievement. Most men would have laughed at Rheiman and his dreams, but he, Governor Diego Quintana, had the necessary vision. And here was the proof.
'I can see their problem,' he said. 'How could any small raiding party destroy anything so big in twenty minutes or so? And, of course, the warheads were untouched.'
'I don't think they knew about them,' said Oshima. 'I think this was first and foremost a hostage-rescue mission, and I believe I know who was behind it.'
'The Irishman?' said Quintana.
'Fitzduane,' Oshima spat out. Her eyes blazed and she swore violently in Japanese. ' Yotsu-ashi no yabajin! '
Quintana looked at Oshima. She had proved invaluable in whipping his forces into shape, but she was a hard person to control.
Impossible, it could be argued.
Her terrorist attacks across the border were part of their original deal but had Norteamericanos, but they were strong and should not be directly provoked. It was a balance. There were ways of doing such things. This raid was proof that this balance was no longer being maintained.
Reiko Oshima had outlived her usefulness. Fitzduane's savage assault was proof.
But a dead Oshima- san could well make a suitable peace offering. As he had learned in the drug business, every so often it was good politics to toss the Americans someone they were after. They got publicity and kept their budgets safe. The dealers had the pressure taken off. Meanwhile, business life went on as normal. Smoke and mirrors. Life was mostly about illusion.
Quintana stroked his mustache.
That beautiful hair, that perfect face scarred so horribly, the still so compelling. That aura of menace mixed with unbridled sexuality. He had never slept with her, and now there really was not the time. Barragan had enjoyed her and that was as close as he was likely to get, though he had had descriptions of how she was and what she would do. Of how she tasted and smelled and sounded. Of every intimate perversion.
His brother-in-law had been obsessed by her. She will do anything, Diego! Anything!
A woman who would do anything was nice, but Quintana was not short of women who would do whatever he required. And a leader had to control his desires. There had to be an example of discipline.
Oshima's eyes had gone dead. She seemed to have withdrawn into herself. She was still physically present but was behaving as if she were utterly alone. It was almost as if she was praying.
Quintana smiled. The thought of Oshima praying was a quaint notion. But she was a strange woman. There she stood in her stained combat clothing with a gun on her hip and that damned Japanese sword strapped to her back like some Fury from Hell. And her posture was that of a nun praying in front of some relic. Her head was now bowed as if in submission.
'Tomas,' he said.
' Jefe,' said Tomas, stepping forward. He was a head taller than the others in the bodyguard and had been with Quintana longer than most. He was loyal, and he killed without comment or scruple. He was armed with an automatic rifle and wore a razor-sharp machete at his waist.
'Kill her,' said Quintana.
Tomas looked at Oshima almost as if seeking her approval.
She raised her head and looked directly into Quintana's eyes. The vacant look had gone. It was as if she was recharged with energy. Her eyes blazed, and in them there was knowledge and amusement.
'You would kill me, jefe?' she said mockingly. 'I do what you ask, I train and discipline your men, and you order my death. Is that just?'
'Kill her now, Tomas,' said Quintana.
'I train men well, Diego,' said Oshima. She nodded at Tomas, and Diego Quintana, Governor of Tecuno, felt himself being grabbed and forced to his knees.
Oshima's sword hissed from her scabbard and, impacting on Quintana's skull, sliced on down until the Governor was cut completely in two.
The one bodyguard reeled back drenched in blood, as if caught by a power hose. He stood there openmouthed, holding half a body, as if he did not quite believe what had happened.
Oshima flicked her katana clean and slid it back into its home with one neat, continuous movement. Quintana was already forgotten.
Rheiman's legacy was not. The Devil's Footprint was now in her hands and the supergun was going to be put to some immediate good use. It was trained on Washington, D.C., and it was loaded.
Once fired, the Americans could do nothing to stop the missile. They had no antimissile defense. The famed Patriot was designed to shoot down aircraft. It might manage the occasional Scud, but a small ballistic missile such as that from the supergun was unstoppable.
The U.S. defense budget came to more than $250 billion a year, but against ballistic missiles the United States of America was defenseless.
By popular demand, Fitzduane had been sitting at the head of the table, but as the evening wore on the orderly layout of the celebration dinner degenerated roughly in proportion to the increase in alcohol consumed and the noise level.
Everyone had settled in for a long night. Figuring he was likely to need all the support he could get, he had reversed his chair and was leaning on the back, watching Maury doing Russian dancing on the tabletop.
All things considered, Maury was doing a creditable job, but it would have helped if the table had been cleared first. As his ungainly legs shot out to the ever-increasing tempo of the hand-clapping, bottles, glasses, and other accoutrements flew in every direction.
It was chaos. It was a terrific party. Even Grant Lamar was letting his guard down. He had discarded his jacket and his tie was loose and his hair was disheveled. For the first time, Fitzduane saw not the Washington insider but the younger man who more than two decades earlier had penetrated deep into North Vietnamese lines to rescue American prisoners at Son Tay. Lamar had been there. He understood.
Al Lonsdale stood up, swaying slightly, a freshly opened bottle of beer frothing in his hand. He chugalugged half of it and then pointed at Maury. 'Jesus, Maury, you're wrecking the place. We've got to clear the table first.'
He seized the linen tablecloth and was soon joined by Cochrane and the others. 'One-two-three, PULL!'
Maury leaped off the table as the command cut in and grabbed for the ornate central light fixture.
Lonsdale and his cronies, faced with no resistance, crashed backward to land in a tangle of arms and legs and tablecloth against the wall.
Maury shouted something triumphant in Russian at having escaped the fate that had been planned for him.
And then the light fixture gave way.
Fitzduane awoke slowly.
