Kilmara looked at the screen when the finding came up. He remembered a game he used to play with his girlfriends as a teenager. You'd pluck the petals from a daisy one by one. “She loves me; she loves me not; she loves me; she loves me not.” The last petal would decide the issue.
"I don't trust computers any more than I trusted daisies," he said to the screen. The cursor winked back at him. "Nothing personal," he added.
The first finding of the Ranger attack-scenario exercise had been that the maximum point of vulnerability at the hospital was not the security deployment as such, but the people.
"Between you and me, and these four walls," said Kilmara to the screen, "I really didn't need a computer to tell me that." He rubbed the gray hairs in his beard. "Life has a habit of instilling that lesson."
The computer continued to wink at him. He quite liked the beasts and they were damn useful, but sometimes they got on his nerves.
He pressed the off switch and, with some satisfaction, watched the monitor die a little death.
* * * * *
They had opened the door with Kathleen's key and then pushed her down the hall in front of them.
Her parents were in the large kitchen at the back, her mother at the Aga stove stirring porridge, her father sitting at the table reading yesterday's Irish Times. ‘The Pat Kenny Show’ was on the radio in the background.
The kitchen had picture windows on two sides and there were no blinds. One of the gunmen went instantly to close the curtains, but the leader, the man with the smile, shook his head.
"Doesn't look natural," he said. "Bring them into the front room." He pushed Kathleen and grabbed her mother. She was still stirring the porridge, as yet unable to take in what was happening. The pot crashed to the floor. A third man came into the room and pulled the chair out from under Kathleen's father and half-pushed, half-kicked the gray-haired man out through the door.
Social life in the home in rural Ireland tends to revolve around the kitchen. The front room is kept for visitors and special occasions and tends to have the heating turned off and to feel somewhat unlived-in. The Flemings' sitting room was fairly typical in this respect. The room was chilly and the venetian blinds half closed. There were family photographs on the mantelpiece and a fire was laid but not lit. There were drinks on a low cabinet for visitors. The main seating consisted of a sofa and two armchairs, with several upright chairs set against the wall to deal with any overflow. An oil painting of Kathleen in nurse's uniform with her parents, Noel and Mary, hung over the fireplace.
Kathleen's parents were pushed onto the sofa, where they tried to regain some composure. Noel put his arm around his wife's shoulders. Kathleen was thrust into one of the armchairs, and the man who appeared to be the leader took the other. Sitting back in the chair, he reached into an inside pocket and removed a cylindrical object, which he attached to the barrel of his automatic.
"Fuck, it's bloody freezing," he said. "Jim, will you turn on the heating or something."
Jim, a heavyset man in his late twenties with black hair and facial stubble to match, turned on the radiator controls and then lit the fire. The firelighters caught and the kindling crackled. It was a sound that Kathleen associated with home and safety and comfort.
The sight of the silencer being screwed into place made her feel sick. None of the men wore masks. They did not seem to be worried about being identified later. The conclusion was all too obvious.
"My name's Paddy," said the leader. He pointed at the others. "That's Jim." Jim was now leaning against the radiator, soaking up the spreading warmth. He didn't react. "And the baldy fellow behind me" — he gestured with his left thumb over his shoulder — "is Eamon."
Eamon nodded. He looked to be only in his early twenties, but his bald head shone with a patina of sweat. He had an automatic rifle cradled in his arms. Kathleen recognized it as an AK-47 assault rifle. There had been a great deal about them on the news when a ship bringing in weapons for the terrorists had been arrested off France. Apparently, the armaments aboard had originated in Libya.
Paddy leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. The pistol was now clasped loosely in both hands between his legs. He looked straight at Kathleen and spoke softly, almost intimately. If the occasion had been different, he might have been addressing a lover. "Kathleen, my darling," he said, "I need your help."
Kathleen's mouth had gone dry. She was nauseous, her stomach ached from where she had been kicked, and her terror was so great that she felt paralyzed. At the same time, her brain was in overdrive.
This must have to do with Fitzduane. So this was the reality of his world. It was worse than anything she could have imagined. What could she do? How could she help? What did these frightening men want? Silently, she determined to resist when and how she could. If everybody fought these kind of people as best they could, they would be defeated.
Paddy McGonigal looked into her eyes. He could read the pain and the defiance. How little these people know, he thought. How fragile their lives are. How irrelevant in the scheme of things.
I bend my finger and she dies. An effortless physical act. That is all there is to it. And they think they matter, that somehow they can resist. The dreams of fools. He felt anger. Why do they not understand how fucking unimportant they are, these little people, these pawns of fortune?
"I need to know about the hospital," he said. "There is a fellow called Hugo Fitzduane I want to visit. I want to know where he is. I want to know about the security. I want the routines and the passwords and all the little details."
Kathleen had removed her nurse's headgear on going off duty but was still wearing her uniform under her cloak. The cloak was navy, but the lining was of some scarlet material. The effect over the crisp white of her one-piece garment was striking.
For the first time, McGonigal looked at her as a woman. She was, he realized, a very beautiful woman. Her eyes were particularly striking, her breasts were full, her legs were long and slender. He noticed that her dress buttoned up the front. The skirt had risen above her knees.
"I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I'm afraid you've got the wrong person. I don't know who you're talking about."
McGonigal reached out with his automatic and placed the silencer and barrel under her skirt and lifted it. He undid the bottom button of her skirt with his left hand and then started on another button. There was the hint of lace.
Noel Fleming leaped to his feet at the same time that Kathleen's hand cracked full force against McGonigal's face. He could taste blood. Jim, the terrorist leaning against the radiator, jumped forward and smashed her father back onto the sofa with the butt of his gun.
Mary Fleming screamed and clasped her husband. A long gash had opened in his skull, and crimson leached into his silver hair and soaked his wife's blouse. He lay against her, dazed and in pain and bewildered by what was happening.
McGonigal put a hand to his lip. There was blood on his finger when he took it away. He licked his lips and swallowed, but the metallic taste remained in his mouth. The left side of his face hurt. This was a strong woman. But vulnerable.