The helicopter swooped in to land in a clearing. The spot was wooded. Fitzduane had no sense of location. Jacklin had said the address sounded like a farm, which seemed to make sense.
"Colonel," said the pilot. " Semper Fi, sir."
Fitzduane shook his head wordlessly as a rush of emotion gripped him.
A deserted shack had been selected as temporary headquarters. Marked and unmarked vehicles were parked around it. They entered. The room had been cleared and now housed a bank of communications equipment on trestle tables. Maps of the area were being pinned up.
"Colonel Fitzduane?" said a man in black combat fatigues. A submachine gun hung around his neck. "Special Agent Hillgrove. FBI HRT out of Raleigh."
"The house?"
"It's about four hundred meters up ahead," said Hillgrove. "Clapboard farmhouse, kinda run-down. A barn and some other outbuildings. A rusty tractor and no animals. Two cars parked outside, but no lights on inside the farm that we can see. The drapes are closed. And that's about all we know."
"It's surrounded?" said Fitzduane.
"Yes, sir," said Hillgrove. "The state troopers have it sewn up every which way. We only got here ten minutes ago."
"My wife?"
Hillgrove's face reflected compassion and caution. According to Sheriff Jacklin, the woman had been grabbed the previous afternoon and a helicopter had been involved. That suggested that she had already been flown out of the area. Still, you could never be certain.
He shook his head. "We just don't know yet, sir. An electronic-surveillance team are moving into position now. They'll try and drill through and place a few miniature probes in position. But it will take some time. Best get some rest, sir."
Fitzduane absorbed the news. He was exhausted, he knew, and still in shock. He was not thinking clearly. There was information he should pass on to the FBI man, but he could not think what it was. He felt dizzy.
"Glass of water, sir," said Hillgrove, his voice concerned by distant. "You'd better sit down."
Fitzduane could feel his vision dimming, and there was a ringing in his ears. Someone took his arm and eased him onto a chair. He took the water with both hands and drank greedily. God, he was making all the classic errors. He was in shock, he had let himself get dehydrated, and he hadn't eaten. He was way overtired. He was personally involved.
He would have to get a grip. He closed his eyes. In the background he could hear the constant chatter of radio communications and the sound of footsteps as people walked to and for. The floor creaked.
Hillgrove seemed to know what he was doing, Fitzduane reflected sleepily. But there is something I should tell him. He dozed.
"Tac One," said a voice in Hillgrove's earpiece.
"Roger, Five," said Hillgrove.
"We're inserting now," said Five. "Should come up on video any second."
Hillgrove had a mental picture of the surveillance team withdrawing their drill bits very slowly, careful to avoid the slightest sound, and inserting cameras and sound probes no bigger than the head of a matchstick.
He stared intently at the three video monitors. Any moment the first picture would come through. Whether there was light inside or not would make no difference except to the quality of the images. The miniature cameras had night-vision capability.
The first camera was coming on stream. The focus was slightly off and was adjusted.
"My God!" said a voice in absolute shock. "What have they done to her? What's that stuff hanging out of her? Oh My God!"
The wide-angle lens distorted the image and the picture had the greenish negative quality of night vision, so flesh tones could not be seen.
Nonetheless, the content was clear.
The naked woman's arms had been tied to the rafters and her legs spread and tied apart.
Her throat had been slashed, and her body and the floor beneath her were black with blood.
She had been gutted.
The voice was a harsh whisper, a cry of hatred, pain, and the very depths of despair. The name was drawn out, a long sibilant sound.
"Oshimaaaaaa! Oshimaaaa!" whispered Fitzduane. "That's how she kills."
Hillgrove's mouth was dry. He swallowed. Fitzduane had woken and was staring intently at the monitor.
"Is it – do you recognize…?"
"I-I don't know," he whispered. "Her face. They've cut off her face."
Hillgrove continued the electronic surveillance for an hour. The findings were clear enough. The killers, whoever they were, were long gone.
The entry team were moving into position when Fitzduane remembered. "Don't go in," he said suddenly.
"Wait one," said Hillgrove into his mouthpiece. "What did you say, sir?" he said to Fitzduane.
"I know these people," said Fitzduane, "and they know us. As soon as they find a safe house, they prepare to move on. The house then becomes a trap. They know we will find it sooner rather than later, and they know roughly how long it will take us. The place will be mined."
"Then why the body?" said Hillgrove.
"To make us angry, to stop us thinking," said Fitzduane. "To lure us in. And it's working."
Hillgrove exhaled. He had been caught up in the immediacy of the entry routine and this distraction was disorienting. He was tempted to shut the man up or have him forcibly removed, but despite the torn, bloodstained clothing and the exhausted, haunted look on Fitzduane's face there was something about the man's bearing that made him credible. According to Sheriff Jacklin, this Irishman knew the world of terrorism, which was more than Hillgrove did.
"What do you suggest?" he said.
"Pull back and send in an ordnance disposal team. Tell them to take their time and to be very careful," said Fitzduane.
"But your – your – the victim?" said Hillgrove hesitantly. It was hard to imagine that hideous thing hanging from the rafters as living flesh and blood.
Your wife was unspoken.
"It's – it's too late for her," whispered Fitzduane. He was having trouble getting the words out. "If you could have done anything, I'd have let you go in and to hell with the risks. But she's dead, and what's the point of more people following?" There was agony in his voice.
"Who are these people?" said Hillgrove.
Fitzduane did not answer. Tears were streaming down his face.
Hillgrove hesitated.
"Tac One?" said a voice in his ear. "Ready to go."
"Pull back," said Hillgrove. "Get back fifty meters and get your heads down."
"What's-"
"DO IT!" snapped Hillgrove.
The entry team were still pulling back when two tons of homemade explosive ignited.
The noise was persistent. Fitzduane heard it through waves of sleep. He knew he was supposed to react in some way, but something told him that he did not want to wake up. There were matters he would have to face that he did not want to have to deal with. Sleep was safer. His body screamed for more rest.
The phone went silent. The hours passed. Fitzduane slept on.
"Hugo," said a familiar voice. The tone was gentle, sympathetic. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt leaden. His throat was dry. He felt muzzy.
"Kathleen," he whispered. There was something important he should remember, he knew, and Kathleen was involved. "Kathleen," he said again.
"Hugo, you've got to wake up," said Kilmara.
Fitzduane struggled to open his eyes. He sat up slowly and took the proffered glass of orange juice. He drank greedily.
The room was in semidarkness, but chinks of light around the drapes suggested it was daytime.
Suddenly he remembered. A long, low cry as of physical pain escaped him. Internally, Kilmara winced. He felt helpless and inadequate in the face of such suffering.