"Fire escapes?" said Jim. He found the building plans hard to read and would have preferred a recent photograph and a hand drawn sketch. He also had a suspicion of old plans. It was not the Irish way to be meticulous in record-keeping. Whatever the regulations, buildings were modified and amended without up-to-date plans necessarily being filed. He looked at the date on the drawing. These were not the originals but they were still forty years old. He wondered just how reliable they were.
McGonigal nodded. "There is one at either end of the corridor, and they both go right up to the flat roof. However, I think it is safe to assume that the Rangers will have done something with the one at their end."
The planning continued. Lying bound and temporarily ignored in the corner, Kathleen listened to an assault scenario being outlined which seemed impossible to stop. She despaired when weapons were pulled out of canvas bags and she saw what the terrorists had assembled. There were not just automatic rifles. These people had rocket launchers and grenades — overwhelming firepower.
She clung to one thought. She had told the terrorists everything except the correct number of Fitzduane's room. It was one lie she had stuck to despite everything, one lie that she had now convinced herself was the truth, so these bastards would not see through her. Fitzduane was in Room Number 2. She had persuaded them that he was really in Room Number 4. It was all she could do. It was pathetically little.
Shortly afterward, the terrorists, five in number including Sasada, departed, leaving behind just one man to guard them in case hostages were needed. If the attack went off as planned, there would be a phone call and, lying there helpless, Kathleen and her mother would be killed. They would no longer by needed and they could identify their attackers. Sasada had wanted to kill them earlier, but McGonigal had persuaded him to wait an extra hour or so.
It was not much time to live. Silently, Kathleen sobbed. Their guard, Eamon, he of the bald head, listened to the radio and occasionally glanced in their direction. An AK-47 rested on his knees, but he was planning to kill them with his knife. He had killed before, but never in that particular way.
He had thought of fucking the nurse, but, banged about and drenched in blood as she was, she was not an attractive sight. Still, this waiting was boring. He was supposed to remain in the front room with the blinds down, but that was ridiculous. What difference would it make if someone saw him — just a shape — from outside? And who would, in this remote bloody spot?
He stood up, stretched, and went into the kitchen to make himself some tea.
* * * * *
They used the Bear's car. It would be less likely to attract attention than the unmarked, but still well-known, police vehicles. The Bear's car had an Avis sticker, the badge of a tourist in that part of the world.
The series of little roads were narrow and winding, and the Bear was still adjusting to driving on the left-hand side of the road. The stone bridges were narrower still. He thought it quite likely that he would be having some paintwork on the local stonework before the day was out.
As they drove around one bend, about a mile from Kathleen's home, two cars came toward them from the opposite direction. The Bear saw the lead car only at the last minute and swerved desperately to avoid a collision.
His tires locked, and he skidded off the road and slid inexorably into a patch of boggy ground. When the car came to a rest, using the clutch and gears with care, he tried to drive out but in vain. Next he tried to get out, but his door was stuck.
The Bear felt very foolish and not a little angry with himself. He should have let one of the policemen drive. He was a good driver in Switzerland, but Ireland always took him a few days to get used to and the roads in the West were worse than most. His front passenger had slid out, and he followed by sliding across with some difficulty. The Bear was not built for confined spaces.
The four men tried for fifteen minutes to push the car back on the road, but their efforts were fruitless. The Bear fell in the mud several times as he pushed. None of their personal radios could pick up anything in the valley.
Finally, the four men set off for the Fleming house on foot. The Bear was not overly fond of walking, but could manage a brisk enough pace if it was absolutely essential. The armed detective brought up the rear of the little party. He had taken his Uzi out of the briefcase it was normally carried in and slung it over his shoulder.
After the men had walked for five minutes, the sky became black and menacing and suddenly it began to rain in sheets. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled in the distance.
The Bear's moustache began to droop. He was soaked from the thinning hair on his head to the well-designed tips of his expensive Bally shoes — a gift from Katia and not typical Bear apparel. Not for the first time, he thought the Irish climate was ridiculous.
He wondered why he was prepared to behave in a decidedly uncautious and un-Bernese way when in Fitzduane's ambit. Somehow, this damned Irishman brought out the adventurer in him.
The Bear straightened and began to whistle a Bernese marching song. Behind him, the two uniformed guards, who had had the sense, being local, to wear uniform caps, long raincoats, and Wellington boots, looked at each other and, when they had got the hang of it, joined in. Behind them, the detective checked the condom on the muzzle of his Uzi for effectiveness in conditions which might be deemed somewhat harsher than its normal design parameters — and beat time with his hand slapping against the receiver.
Soon, they were all marching in step. Ahead of them as they rounded a bend lay the Fleming bungalow.
There was a light on at the back of the house.
10
Connemara RegionalHospital
February 1
There is a rule of thumb in the traditional military world that the attacker needs more manpower — three to five times is recommended — than the defender to ensure success.
Paradoxically, in terrorist and counterterrorist operations, the reverse has often turned out to be true. A small attacking force armed with high-firepower weapons has time and again inflicted damage out of all proportion to its size. That does not invalidate traditional military lore. It merely means that in the world of terrorism, the attacker rarely needs to seize and hold territory. Instead he is primarily interested in the logistically simpler task of inflicting maximum destruction in a strictly limited period of time. In his favor, he had tactical surprise on his side. He can choose when and where and how to strike. He can ensure that, though outnumbered and outgunned on an overall basis, at the point of contact he has superiority.
Kilmara, whose entire military career had been spent in the world of special forces and counterterrorism, knew the rules of the game as well as anyone. It was why he disliked being on the defensive. To Kilmara, the initiative was everything. Temperamentally, he was not a believer in the big battalions. He had more faith in planning, timing, audacity, and firepower.
But he was also a pragmatist. On an operation, he rarely allowed himself to be distracted by aspirational thinking. He worked within the context of the situation, and if it was not to his liking he merely swore more than usual and worked even harder. He was a believer in the work ethic in his arcane special forces world. He could not understand why all military men did not follow this creed, since the alternative was, not infrequently and quite predictably, death.