Fitzduane recounted the history of the Japanese operation as he knew it. Then he continued. "The good news is that thanks to Chifune's man we now know much more about the physical layout and other details of the base. The bad news is that Hori- san, although in place and close to Oshima, is having great difficulty in communicating. In Tokyo, he could use the phone or mail a letter or meet a contact in the subway and do a brush pass. In Tecuno, trusted by Oshima or not, the poor guy is damn close to being a prisoner. These people are paranoid. That's how they have survived so long. Informers are THE enemy, so every precaution is taken against them. Worse still, the track record shows that your nearest and dearest are most likely to betray you, so even the inner circle like Hori- san are not excluded."
"How had Hori gotten information out so far?" said Kilmara. "From what you say, there has been some contact?"
"I asked Chifune exactly the same question," said Fitzduane. "Apparently he has been there for about fifteen months and has gotten messages out only twice. The first time he risked the mail to a Koancho address in Mexico City. The second time, he passed a package to a Japanese service technician who was inside the perimeter servicing some electronic gear. That was a real risk, because he did not know the guy. He must have been desperate. But it worked."
"Why not use the technician again if he has access?" said Kilmara.
"It was a one-off technical problem," said Fitzduane. "Normally, all the gear in the inner compound is serviced by Quintana's people. Further, the original serviceman was posted back to Tokyo. Koancho did try and initiate a follow-up call from a planted substitute, but no dice. Insofar as is possible in that place, no one goes in and no one goes out. The word is that there is not the normal Mexican manana approach to security. This place is very tight, and it was precisely for this reason the Quintana brought terrorist mercenaries in.
"Oshima's primary job is to run a tight ship, and that she seems to do. Everyone is scared shitless of her. She does not give you ten days in the cells if you fail to search a truck properly. She has you staked out in the sun with your balls cut off and ants and scorpions for company. This is not a sweet-natured woman."
Kilmara smiled and then turned serious. "There has got to be some way of making contact," he said. "Tell me something about the layout and the routines."
"Tecuno is vast and the least-populated state in Mexico," said Fitzduane. "Virtually all the population live on the coastal strip or in the port city of Tecuan. Inland, it is hot, dry, arid plateau country. On average, inland is about three to five thousand feet up. You bake during the day and you freeze at night. There are few roads, because there is nowhere to go to. Mexico is railway country, but the only railway line in this case goes along the coast."
"But the oil is inland?" said Kilmara.
"Oil seems to like emerging from godforsaken spots like the Saudi desert or the North Sea," said Fitzduane, "and inland Tecuno surely qualifies. So the oil is under the central plateau, which consists mainly of rock, shale, boulders, and sand. It gets pumped up by mainly automated equipment and piped down to the coast. It is a strategic resource, so the whole inland portion of Tecuno is off-limits to visitors on the grounds of protecting the oil fields against bandits and saboteurs. Because of the sheer scale of the distances involved, the security in the area is carried out by the local militia operating from a joint army and air force base called Madoa. About eight kilometers from that is the Devil's Footprint. And the Devil's Footprint is where the terrorist base is located."
"The first thought that comes to me," said Kilmara, "is that if I were Quintana, and wanted optimum security, I would have put my terrorist base inside the airfield perimeter. So why is it located eight kliks away? Quintana isn't dumb by all accounts, so there has to be a reason. And that brings us back to the Devil's Footprint. What has it got that makes it worthwhile compromising security?"
"Their security has not been much affected – unfortunately," said Fitzduane, "though your point is valid. It would be ideal for them if the two locations were merged into one or at least side by side. However, the terrain makes that impossible. You need flat land for an airfield, and the ground between the airfield and the Devil's Footprint is anything but. So this is the best arrangement under the circumstances and there is a road between the two camps. The road encircles the two locations, so it constitutes a perimeter in itself. It is too big an area to fence off, but it is patrolled regularly by light armor and there is an armored column on standby which sometimes does a circuit as well. These people are serious."
"Let's get back to the Devil's Footprint," said Kilmara. "El Huella del Diablo!"
Fitzduane smiled. Kilmara had had to return to Ireland and his beloved Rangers after the Fayetteville incident, and although they talked regularly, still had missed out on much of the detail. And that frustrated him. General Kilmara was used to being on the inside track.
"The Devil's Footprint," said Fitzduane, "gets its name from resembling the footprint that might be made by a cloven hoof. It consists of two box canyons side by side and from the air looks something like a pair of horseshoe-shaped valleys. To secure each valley, all you have to do is to establish a fortified position on the high ground and fence off each open end, and that is exactly what our friends have done. The first valley holds the terrorist base and the second valley, nominally the site of a top-secret oil-extraction process – so it is full of pipes and process plat – is what they are guarding."
"And what is that?" said Kilmara.
Fitzduane spread his hands. "I don't know," he said. "Theories abound. I have heard everything from a missile site to a biological weapons production facility. When I next see pigs flying I could even believe it to be that much-referred to oil extraction process. Personally, I don't much care. I am going down there to get Kathleen back and wipe out some people who really do not do much for the advancement of the human condition. If there is a third leg to the mission. All I can say is that I hope we can do it fast, because it is not going to be healthy to stick around."
Kilmara poured himself a mug of straight black coffee. There had been a time when both men would have mortally wounded a bottle of Irish whiskey over an evening's talking, but Fitzduane was no longer much of a drinker and his sobriety was catching. Also, there was much to think through, and a reasonably clear head helped. He stood up and stretched. "I need some air, Hugo," he said.
Fitzduane opened the sliding doors and both men stood on the balcony. Fitzduane found he was quite affected by the Iwo Jima memorial each time he saw it. It had not just become an everyday part of the view from the apartment. It touched something in him. Life was the way it was – imperfect but still precious – because some people, always a minority, were willing to risk all.
"The paradox," said Kilmara, as if reading his mind, "is that the other side have beliefs and values and dedicated people too. We have patriots and they have fanatics. They are both two sides of the same coin. The only distinction is that we think they are wrong."
Fitzduane laughed. "A rather important distinction," he said.
Kilmara grinned. "Yeah, that's my conclusion when I get philosophical, and it doesn't hurt that I believe it. Love for your fellow man is all very well and has to be the better way, but until Utopia arrives after the talking stops, there will always be a need to hold the line. And that's what people like those marines did and do."
"Fortunately for us," said Fitzduane quietly.
Fortunately for us, thought Kilmara, looking at Fitzduane. Fitzduane caught the look and smiled. "You got me into all this, Shane," he said.