"I guess not," said Fitzduane. "Every instinct tells me she's in Tecuno, but without proof the U.S. is going to do nothing. And even with proof, Mexico seems to be a no-go area."
"All true," said Kilmara, "but those kind of constraints never stopped us before, and this time I don't think we'll be alone. Have faith."
Fitzduane went over to the window and peered through the blinds. Night had fallen, and under the lights outside he could see the sheriff's deputies and state police. Off to one side a Humvee mounting a 40mm automatic grenade launcher was parked.
"Serious security," he said.
"One of these days we are going to learn to hit them before they hit us," said Kilmara.
"If they hit us tonight, I'm going to sleep through it," said Fitzduane. "I'm going to hit the sack."
"You've one more thing to do," said Kilmara. "Talk to Dana. She'd like to apologize about losing her charge." He stood up. "I'll go get her."
According to Captain Dana Felton, Kathleen had asked her three times to leave her alone. She was fed up with all this security and needed some space. Eventually, Dana had pulled way back out of sight and then lost her client when Kathleen had switched off the agreed-upon road.
The rules of the bodyguard business were that your client's safety was more important than a client's feelings. On the other hand, when Kathleen needed her space it was an unwise person who got in her way, and she was eminently capable of losing her tail. Dana's story had the ring of truth, and in all honesty Fitzduane could not see that she could have acted in any other way.
Dana came in. Kilmara stayed outside.
"I feel like shit, sir," said Dana. "I should have known better. I was trained better. I have no excuses, sir. I feel sick about Mrs. Fitzduane. Anything I-"
Fitzduane held up a hand to halt the flood. "How many people does it take to provide real security on someone, Dana?" he asked.
"It depends, sir," said Dana. "Six at least if the threat is serious. One or two if you're going through the motions. Shit, sir, I didn't mean it that way."
"I know my wife when she wants to be alone," said Fitzduane, "and I know you did what you could, Dana. None of us anticipated this level of threat. If you'd been with Kathleen when she was jumped, you'd have been killed. Simple as that. You'd be dead like Texas, and I'm damn glad you're not."
Dana took several deep breaths. There was a glint of moisture at the corner of each eye.
"I miss Texas, sir. She was a good buddy. I'd like to even the score, sir. What can I do?"
Fitzduane smiled tiredly. "Keep me safe while I work on getting Kathleen back Can do, Captain?"
"HOOAH, SIR!" said Captain Dana Felton.
Kilmara returned after Dana left. He had a bottle of red wine and two glasses. "Better than pills," he said.
"What does hooah mean?" said Fitzduane.
"‘Fucking A’ or similar," said Kilmara. "It's also used to indicate the right stuff. If you are an Okay guy in the airborne or rangers, you are ‘hooah.’"
"What's the origin?" said Fitzduane.
"Rangers in World War Two had completed a hazardous mission and were resting when they were asked to go back into action. ‘Who, us?’ they said indignantly, but back they went. And ‘Who us’ became ‘hooah.’"
Fitzduane suddenly felt a rush of fatigue and emotion. His voice broke. "You know, Shane, in the middle of all this shit it does sometimes strike me that there are some really good people out there. Despite everything."
Kilmara filled their glasses. "Despite everything," he said with feeling. He raised his glass. "To Kathleen. We're going to get her back. Whatever it takes."
"Whatever it takes," said Fitzduane.
In the morning they heard that the murdered woman found in the trunk of the Dodge had been officially identified as Sergeant Jenny Pullman, a parachute rigger with the 82 ^ nd Airborne who had been hitching back from the coast after seventy-two hours' compassionate leave. She was an innocent victim who had been unlucky enough to hitch a lift with the wrong person.
The wreckage of the destroyed farmhouse was sifted through item by item. The body had been blown apart and pieces had been found over a wide area.
One arm was found sufficiently intact to take fingerprints. They were identified as belonging to Akio Taro, a Japanese freelance journalist doing an assignment on FortBragg. Chifune's agent.
The Dodge found by the state police had been rented by Kathleen Fitzduane. The rental company recognized Kathleen's photograph and the driver's license number checked out.
There was no longer any doubt about the identity of the kidnap victim.
They had also heard that apart from the terrorist attack on the special-forces exhibition, an explosive device concealed in a large, self-propelled floor-cleaning machine had gone off in the Oak Creek shopping mall in Fayetteville. The place was packed with shoppers at the time, including thousands of off-duty airborne soldiers and their families.
The cleaning machine was capable of washing, drying, polish application, and buffing, and contained tanks for its consumables. These tanks had been packed with more than two hundred pounds of miniature steel balls suspended in a gel. An odorless gas contained in a cylinder in the built-in storage compartment – normally used for spare buffing pads – had been released in advance.
The explosives combined with the gas to create a destructive effect considerably more powerful than the explosive on its own would have achieved. It was, in effect, a fuel air bomb.
The American military establishment was being attacked where it was most vulnerable by an unknown enemy following an unknown agenda. In strictly military terms, the casualties were of little significance.
But internationally, the political symbolism of the actions was considerable.
9
The meeting had been progressing for twenty minutes.
It had started calmly with a factual description of what had happened and the progress the various agencies were making, but the dispassionate recital of facts was beginning to give way to acrimony.
"In summary," said National Security Advisor Vernon Slade, "we have had a total of seven terrorist attacks on U.S. soil over the last six months and we appear none the wiser as to who is behind all this or why they are doing it or where they are based. Giving the resources we are deploying, that might be interpreted as a failure of leadership."
The Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Webster Grant, flushed. Slade had not mentioned any names, but the implication was clear. Since the FBI had statutory authority to investigate internal terrorism, their failure to date to identify and arrest the perpetrators could be attributed to him. And he was not a Slade supporter.
"Mr. Director?" said the President. Someone might have to be sacrificed, but he did not particularly want to play Vernon's game. He liked his FBI Director and did not want to lose him.
"Mr. President," said the FBI Director, "it is not true to say that we have made no progress in our investigations, or indeed that the terrorists have had it all their own way. Frankly, the problem seems to be that we may be after more than one organization. So far we have identified several members of Yaibo, a Japanese extremist group, two Iranians, and a number of other fundamentalists with connections in Lebanon, Egypt, and Syria. We also have two bodies we cannot identify. Both seem to be from Latin America. One is definitely of Indian extraction."
"Probably Cuban," said Slade. "Fidel had not changed his spots."
"They could be Americans, Vernon," said the President heavily. "We have citizens of every race, color, and creed these days. We cannot point the finger merely because someone looks as if he could be Cuban."
General William Frampton, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, cleared his throat. He had a thoughtful, almost pensive face and the pouched eyes of a bloodhound. His uniform seemed the wrong attire for his scholarly demeanor.