The hard core of the IRAP unit was only three men, Kilmara knew, but that was often fleshed out with manpower drafted in for a specific operation. Reviewing past IRAP operations on his computer linked to Ranger headquarters in Dublin, he noted that as many as twenty terrorists had been involved in some attacks, and that in some instances, armed with heavy firepower, they had stood their ground and gone head to head with regular army troops.
It was generally thought that the terrorists bombed and sniped and immediately ran away, but that was not always the case. And IRAP, in particular, liked to play hardball. McGonigal was a murderer and arguably a psychopath, but he did not lack either bravery or daring. On the side of the angels, he would be considered a hero.
He was sitting in a swivel chair in Room Number 4 of the private wing, looking at a bank of television screens linked to microminiaturized cameras that had been installed to cover all key points both inside and outside the hospital. Apart from light from the television monitors, the room was in total darkness. A dense black fabric had been pulled down over the windows and stapled in place. The same had been done to every room on the private ward.
In the corner of the room, Fitzduane, tired from talking to Kilmara earlier, was asleep.
* * * * *
Mary Fleming was evidently fond of home baking.
Eamon had found freshly baked soda bread in the kitchen, together with a pound of creamery butter and some homemade raspberry jam. He put his AK-47 on top of the dishwasher, rooted in the drawers for a bread knife, and went to work with a will. He was in seventh heaven. You could take your French cuisine and stuff it. The high point of Eamon's culinary life had been bread and jam at his mother's table, and this little feast evoked strong and pleasant memories.
The weather outside was atrocious. It was so dark that without the light on in the kitchen he would have been scarcely able to see, and sheets of rain lashed at the windows and made looking outside a matter of squinting and peering. It was like looking through Vaseline. But in these conditions nobody would be out walking and he would hear any car that drove in. Even with the noise of the rain, the wind, and distant thunder, there was a loose cattle grid at the entrance that clanged noisily when driven over.
He had the radio on quietly in the corner. It was really very pleasant, this cocoon of warmth, light, and comfort in the midst of the worst the elements could do.
As his hunger was being satisfied, his other needs surfaced. Out of sight, the attractions of the nurse increased. He conveniently forgot the bloodstained upper body, the knife nicks on her throat and breasts. Instead he remembered slim thighs and long legs. She was wearing only a bathrobe and panties. He felt pressure against the front of his pants. He would have a couple more slices of bread and jam and then service this woman. He might as well. She would be dead meat soon enough. He did not fancy fucking a corpse. It was obscene.
He had left the bread board on the counter by the window. As he picked up the bread knife, there was sudden flash of lightning and a loud crack and the kitchen light went out.
He looped up at the lifeless tube, then noticed the radio had gone dead. Either the lines were down or a couple of fuses had blown. Ah, well, it was of little matter. What he planned to do next was as often as not done in the dark. And with Kathleen in her present condition, it might be better that way.
He turned around to finish cutting his bread, and screamed. Through rain-smeared glass he could see a face looking down at him. The face was like something out of a nightmare. It was large and hairy and grim, and the man himself was a giant. He wore some kind of matted mud-smeared garment.
The window in front of him exploded into shards of glass and a massive hand reached out for him, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him off his feet.
Desperately, he lashed out with the bread knife, felt the blade make contact, and pulled free.
There was a crash at the front of the house, and he could feel the wind whistle down the corridor. Someone had broken in, but that was the least of his worries. His AK-47 was on top of the dishwasher only feet away. He dived for it and knocked it onto the floor as he grabbed.
He rolled, found the weapon, and turned. The massive fist holding the largest handgun he had ever seen was pointing right at him. There was a stab of flame, and he felt a terrible blow on his right shoulder. The weapon slid from his arms and he slumped back, half lying on the floor but partially propped up against the kitchen unit.
He could see blood seeping from his body, but he could not move and he felt nothing. He heard more smashing of glass and then a huge figure came through the kitchen door, kicked away his automatic rifle, and stood looking down at him.
Eamon found he could not raise his head. He noticed that the mud-stained figure was wearing wet, muddy, but expensive shoes. They were Swiss, he recalled, but he could not remember the name.
The plainclothes detective came into the kitchen. His grandfather had been in the old IRA in the fight for freedom against the British and he had served on the border in Dundalk for several years. What today's terrorists did made him sick. And time and again, they seemed to evade the security forces through legal technicalities and playing one side against the other.
How could you fight a completely ruthless terrorist organization within the context of a legal framework designed for peacetime civilian application?
One of the uniformed gardai had broken down the door, but the detective, being armed and experienced in such things, was the first man to enter the house. The front room was on his right. With one of the uniforms keeping an eye on his back, he kicked open the door, but kept to one side, half expecting an answering burst of fire. There was nothing — which was just as well. The protection of the thin partition wall was an illusion.
He entered the room in a sudden movement and rolled to find cover. He could see very little. There was no light and the blinds were drawn. Outside, the rain had stopped as abruptly as it had started, but the sky was still overcast with black clouds. There was a disturbing sweetish metallic smell in the air. It set his nerves on edge. It was the smell of blood and body matter and fear, the odor of the slaughterhouse.
His eyes adjusted to the gloom. Tentatively, he stood up, glanced around, and opened the blinds. The floor and furniture and part of the walls were drenched in blood. There was something on the floor half covered in a newspaper. He pulled the paper aside and gagged. The man's throat gaped at him and the expression on his face was that of utter horror.
One of the uniforms came in. "Jesus, mother of God," he said, and crossed himself. He then went across to the two bound figures in the corner and, removing a clasp knife, cut their bonds.
One of the figures, the younger woman, was trying to say something. Her face and upper body were sticky with blood, and she smelled of vomit. The policeman suppressed his nausea and put his head close to hers. "I had to," she said. "I had to."
The policeman did not understand. He tried to say something reassuring, but the bloody figure reached out a hand and gripped his arm with such intensity that it hurt. "They made me talk," she said. "They killed my father."
She started sobbing. "They killed my father. They killed my daddy."
The policeman was a kindhearted man, used to dealing with farmers who had not licensed their cars and poachers who were overly fond of other people's salmon. He felt tears come to his eyes, and he put his arms around the woman.