"DON'T FUCKING WELL SHOOT!" he shouted.
"WHY THE FUCK NOT?" shouted the Ranger. Fitzduane looked at him in shock. He couldn't instantly think of a good reply. This was a ridiculous thing to have to debate. He just glared at the Ranger and then relaxed. The man was grinning. It was Grady, who knew the Bear.
"So," said the Bear triumphantly, "I looked for a cartridge which would combine the strengths of the 9mm and the .45 without the disadvantages. I wanted stopping power, flat trajectory, good penetration, range, and sheer shootability. I wanted a nice big magazine."
He released the magazine from his weapon. "It's a 10mm Desert Eagle. Trust the Israelis to know their weapons."
It was then he noticed the Calico in its holster clipped to Fitzduane's bed. "What's that?" he said. Fitzduane showed him.
"And the caliber?" said the Bear.
"I don't want to steal your thunder," said Fitzduane, who couldn’t help grinning. "10mm."
"Oh," said the Bear, a little sadly.
* * * * *
Kathleen, exhausted from the night shift and the shock of her ordeal, was dozing when the front doorbell rang.
She awoke feeling sick and disoriented, but associating the familiar sound with help, with good news, with some positive development. Visitors were a regular feature of the Fleming household. Neighbors dropping in for a cup of tea were always welcome. Traditional Irish hospitality had not been eroded by television. In fact, they had no television. This was not from some deeply felt conviction. It was merely that the nearby mountains made adequate TV reception impossible.
The chair she sat on and the carpet were saturated and sticky with drying blood. The body on the floor, half covered with a newspaper, was her father. Shock hit her again, and she started to retch.
"Shut up, you cow, if you know what's good for you," said the terrorist by the window.
There was the sound of animated conversation from the hall, which continued for several minutes. Then the door opened and the leader, Paddy, came in. He moved to one side and gestured to others behind him to enter.
Two other men entered the room, and then a figure who looked singularly out of place. Unlike the others, who looked Irish and were dressed in casual clothes, the man standing in the doorway was smartly dressed in a dark suit and white shirt with a club tie. His shoes were highly polished. And he was Asian, Chinese or Japanese.
"This is the nurse?" he said.
"The very same," said McGonigal.
"And you are satisfied with her information?" said the Japanese. His accent was pronounced, but he spoke clearly.
McGonigal smiled. "Oh yes," he said. "The wee girl saw reason" — he reached out and grabbed Kathleen's mother and again the knife was in his hand — "and there's still one blood relation to go." Kathleen swallowed a scream. "You told us everything, didn't you?"
Kathleen nodded weakly.
"And the phone call?" said the Japanese.
"She answered it," said McGonigal, "with me listening in. It was the matron inquiring could she do day shift next week."
Kathleen swallowed the bile in her throat and then spoke hesitantly. "We work a rota system. Sometimes someone is sick or needs time off and the matron makes the arrangements."
The Japanese looked at her for a little time before speaking again. Something about the phone call bothered him. "What time was the call?" he said to McGonigal.
"Twenty past nine, something like that," answered McGonigal. "Why? I heard the whole conversation. There was nothing to it. It was just as the girl said."
The Japanese was still staring intently at Kathleen. He was about to decide whether the operation went ahead or not, and this time he was going with the assault team. He didn't want to put his life on the line if the operation was blown. At the same time, the assignment must be completed. It was a matter of duty.
"It's a small hospital, the woman had just come off night shift," said the Japanese. "The matron would know that and would expect her to be asleep at the time she called." He slapped Kathleen hard across the face. "Is that not so? So why did she call?"
Kathleen spat blood. It was clear the bastard had never worked in a hospital, did not understand the pressures, the need to perform a task now. It was clear he did not know her matron. Inside herself, she smiled. He was a clever little sod, but he was on the wrong track.
"Losing sleep is pretty normal in our business," she said. "People don't get ill on just a nine-to-five basis."
"The caller — the matron — apologized when she called," said McGonigal. "She said that she had actually rung up to leave a message with the woman's mother. Our lady friend here" — he indicated Kathleen — "actually said very little. Just ‘it doesn't matter’ and ‘yes’ and a couple of phrases like that. Of course, she sounded tired, but then she would, wouldn't she? She was just off duty and games with her boyfriend." He grinned lasciviously at Kathleen.
Sasada was torn between the logic of what had been said and his instincts. In truth, nothing could be more normal than a brief phone call about a rota change, yet he would have felt much happier if this woman had never been allowed near the phone at all. Despite her rough handling and the killing of her father in front of her and the manifest shock that this had induced, there was still the faintest spark of defiance in her eyes. This was a strong, resourceful woman. Could she somehow have managed to warn the hospital?
"Why did you allow this person" — he pointed at Kathleen — "near the phone at all?" he said to McGonigal. He needed time to think.
McGonigal shrugged. "I've been through this hostage business before," he said. "The thing is to keep things as normal as possible from an outsider's perspective. Anybody who knows these people would have expected the phone to be answered. Secondly, I didn't want some neighbor calling round because she couldn't get through."
He looked squarely at the Japanese. "Anyway, man, my hide is on the line, too, and I'm telling you — she didn't say anything. There was no keyword, no password, no unusual phrase. I'm sure of it." His northern accent became more pronounced as he emphasized his words. There was a noticeable increase in tension in the room.
"Why didn't you use the mother?" said Sasada, indicating Mary Fleming, who sat motionless on the sofa, her face a blank, her eyes unfocused.
"Jaysus, Sasada, just look at her," said McGonigal. "She would have sounded like shit on the phone. There was no way she could have come across normal."
Sasada was convinced by McGonigal's denial. The reality of the situation was that the IRAP were vastly more experienced at this kind of thing than he was. The latest wave of IRA violence had been operating without a break for the best part of a generation. The younger members had grown up in a culture of violence. They had never known anything else. They learned about the techniques of terrorism in much the same way as the young in a normal society learned to drive.
He drew a knife from under his coat. Its blade was very slightly curved and the tip was angled. The shape, though much smaller, was very like that of a Japanese sword.
He is going to kill me, thought Kathleen. Sasada: I now know his name: I know what he looks like; I can identify them all. There is no way that they will let us live. A terrible sadness and feeling of regret swept over her, so strong that it dominated even her fear.
She thought of all the things in life she had not done and wanted to do. She thought of Fitzduane and his smile and his injured body that she so wanted to love and be loved by. She thought of her mother, who would now need her more than ever. She thought of the pain of dying at the hands of these terrible people, and suddenly felt weak with terror. She closed her eyes to try to mask her fear. If she was going to die, it would be with some dignity.