Kathleen found it hard to reconcile the horribly wounded man in ICU with any element of menace at all, but Kilmara spoke with quiet certainty. Then a disconcerting thought occurred to her.
"The armed guards you've placed here," she said. "Do you expect more trouble? Would these terrorists try again in such a public place?"
Kilmara took his time replying. He did not want to create a panic in the hospital. On the other hand, Kathleen did not look like the panicking kind and he owed her more than a little for what she was doing for Fitzduane.
"The kind of people we are dealing with will do anything anywhere," said Kilmara. "That is one of the rules of their game. There are no limits. Zero. Zip. Nada. None. That's what keeps me young," he added cheerfully, "trying to outguess the fuckers."
"So you think they will try again?" said Kathleen.
"Possibly," said Kilmara slowly.
"So we're all at risk," said Kathleen, "as long as your friend remains in this hospital."
Kilmara nodded. "There is an element of risk," he added, "but let's not go overboard on it. There will be heavy security."
"Jesus Christ!" said Kathleen, quite shaken. "Who are these people? Why can't you find them and stop them?"
Kilmara emptied his hip flask into his mug. "Terrorism is like cancer," he said. "We have our successes, but the enemy mutates and we're still looking for a cure. It is a long, open-ended war."
"I guess the sooner we get your friend recovered and out of here, the better," said Kathleen.
Kilmara lifted his mug in a mock salute. "Way to go, Kathleen," he said. "Now you're getting it."
Kathleen gave a thin smile.
6
Connemara RegionalHospital
January 18
Fitzduane opened his eyes.
What had awakened him? Who was out there? He must react. He had dropped his guard before and look at what had happened.
The imperative to move coursed through his body and was counteracted by his painkillers and sedation.
Still the warning screamed at him.
Sweat broke out on his forehead. He tired to rise to a sitting position, some body posture from which he could react more forcibly than when lying down helpless and defenseless.
The effort was terrible. His body did not want to respond.
He drove it into submission and slowly he could raise his head and bandaged torso, but he was too weak. He screwed up his eyes as the pain hit, and a low cry of agony and frustration escaped from his body.
He heard a voice, and it was the voice of a friend. There was no threat. He was safe. Boots was safe. Suddenly, he knew where he was.
And then he saw her and felt her hand soothe his forehead and heard her voice again. "Hugo," she said. "You're safe. Relax. Lie back. There is nothing to worry about. You must rest and get well."
The digital wall clock read 2:23.
Kathleen, a warm, dark-haired woman in her early thirties, was changing his drip. On Linda Foley's initiative, she had been seconded from Intensive Care. Burke's patients tended to do better than most. She had the touch.
She finished her task and checked his pulse. She had an upside-down watch pinned to her uniform and she was looking at it as she counted silently. He liked the touch of her fingers and the clean, warm smell of her body. There was the mark of a recently removed ring on the third finger of her left hand.
"Can I get you something, Hugo?" she said very softly.
Fitzduane smiled. It was strange. The pain was still there but somehow remote. He felt rested and at peace. He lifted his hand and took hers. There was nothing sexual in the gesture. It was the kind of thing you might not do in broad daylight but which is somehow appropriate when it is two in the morning and the rest of the world seems asleep.
"Tell me about it," he said sleepily. His fingers stroked the spot where the ring had been.
Kathleen laughed quietly. She was a very pretty woman, all the better for the signs of the passing of the years etched on her face. "It doesn't work that way," she said. "You're supposed to do the talking. It doesn't do for a nurse to give away her secrets to a patient."
"It takes away the mystique," said Fitzduane quietly, with a smile, quoting what a nurse in Dublin had once told him. "Patients want support and strength — solutions, not problems. It doesn’t do to get emotionally involved with a patient." He grinned. "One way or another, we move on."
He started to laugh out loud. Outside in the corridor, the Ranger on duty heard the sound and felt mildly jealous. It would be nice to recline in bed with a pretty nurse as company. Then he contemplated what he had seen and heard about Fitzduane's injuries and decided that he had the better part of the bargain, after all.
The nurse came out of the room some ten minutes later and there was a smile on her face. She looked more relaxed, happier somehow. Earlier on, when he had checked her on screen before letting her through the double security barrier, the Ranger could have sworn she had been crying.
A message sounded in his earpiece, and he responded by pressing the transmit button in the day's coded response. Then he concentrated on the routines that the General had laid down to keep Fitzduane safe from another attack. The Ranger hadn't needed any reminders that lightning can strike as often as it takes. He had been one of the force that had relieved the siege of Fitzduane's castle three years earlier. As far as he was concerned, if you were a player in the war against terrorism, you were in a state of permanent danger.
Simply put, either you killed them or — sooner or later — they would inflict lethal force on you.
* * * * *
January 24
General Shane Kilmara — it was really rather nice being a general at last — thought that Fitzduane looked terrible.
On the other hand, he looked less terrible than three weeks earlier. The sense that you were looking only at a receptacle for tubes, electronics, and the drug industry was gone. Now Fitzduane looked mostly like a messed-up human who was still being stuck together. Shades of Frankenstein when he needed more work, only Fitzduane was better-looking.
He was pale, he'd lost a lot of weight, and he was strapped, plastered, and plugged into a drip and a mess of other hardware, but he was sitting up and his green-gray eyes had life in them again. And that was good. Also, he was talking. That, perhaps, wasn't so good. Hugo was a particularly bright human being, and his questions meant work. And tended to have consequences.
"Who and why?" said Fitzduane.
"How about ‘Good morning,’" said Kilmara. "I haven't even sat down." He pulled up an armchair to demonstrate his lack and began to nibble at Fitzduane's grapes.
It was curious how hard it was to talk to the sick. You tended to meet and deal with most people in full, or at least reasonable, health. A person laid low was like a stranger. You no longer possessed a common frame of reference. The same applied to a soldier on the battlefield. When he was mobile, he was fire support and valued. After injury he was a statistic, a casualty — and a liability. It wasn't very nice, but it was true. And like many things in life, there wasn't much you could do about it.
Fitzduane, it appeared, wasn't going to accept the convention. He might look like something the cat had chucked up behind the sofa, but his brain was working.