The man who had taken the shotgun blast in his face had a gold crucifix on a thin gold chain around his neck.
The fourth man, killed by the sniper, lay on his back where he had been thrown, his hair, features, and coloring strongly Indian.
"There but for a quirk of fate go I," said Lonsdale, quietly looking at the body of the fourth man. "Ninety-odd million Mexicans rammed up against the border of the richest country in the world. What would you do if you were them?"
"Try and make Mexico work," said one of the state troopers. "They've got their own country. Some of it is poor, but some of it is rich. They've got oil. Certainly, coming up here to rob and kill isn't the answer."
"What do you do if you have they have not?" said Fitzduane almost to himself as he gazed at the carnage. "This thing is not about the U.S. and Mexico. It's about the whole world and how you slice the pie."
"You hold the line, Hugo," said Lonsdale firmly. "You try and do what you can, but you accept the world as it is. Or you're fucked."
Fitzduane had a last terrible dream as his flight neared its end.
He could see Kathleen lying in a cell. She was blindfolded and chained and her chains were secured to a ring in the wall. Her clothing was ripped and torn. The crude concrete floor was dusty. As he watched, she traced words in the dust. Her fingertips were bleeding as if she had done this again and again. He strained to try to read what she had written. He could just see his own name, HUGO, and then another word beginning with H. He could not read the rest.
Figures came into the cell.
He could not make out their faces. They were indistinct but menacing. One carried something. It was a piece of board like a butcher's block. Kathleen's hand was placed upon it. She was struggling and screaming, but she was held firmly.
The figure of a woman came forward with a long heavy blade in her hand. Its edge glittered unevenly as if freshly sharpened upon a stone. It was a crude instrument, a simple machete, the tool of a peasant, an elemental weapon.
Here is was an instrument of torture.
The figure of the torturer turned toward Fitzduane so that for the first time he could see her face. The features were Japanese. Once beautiful, she was now hideously scarred, but she acted as if still supremely confident of her appeal, of her sexuality, and of her power.
She was half smiling. She could see Fitzduane looking and she was pleased. This was why she was doing it. It was aimed at him. He understood.
She raised the heavy blade and brought it down into Kathleen's flesh. Fitzduane could hear the sound. Kathleen did not scream. But he could see the tears as they welled from under her blindfold and coursed through the grime on her face.
Cochrane was in the underground conference room in the STR Virginia facility in the building they called Son Tay.
As he had got to know the area better, Fitzduane had learned that there were a dozen or more buildings of various sizes in the complex and doubtless more elsewhere on the estate. Most of the buildings were at least partially underground, as best he could determine. They were linked by subterranean passages. Access was on a ‘need to know’ basis. The Task Force and Fitzduane had the run of the first building they had met in and were using it as a base. As to what happened elsewhere, Fitzduane had absolutely no idea.
The whole setup reminded him forcibly of the iceberg nature of power. The average citizen rarely saw the extent of the forces that controlled and guided him or her, and such secrecy was not confined to totalitarian states. Even the United States, the most open nation on earth, kept much hidden. It was in the nature of those who truly understood power to be secretive. Even if you were an insider, there was much that was secret. No one had full access.
But Grant Lamar, in Fitzduane's opinion, had more access than most. Otherwise, none of this made sense.
Cochrane was buttoning up a crisp white shirt as Fitzduane came in. A regimental tie followed. An electric razor appeared out of a drawer. A quick combing completed the transformation. Within a couple of minutes Cochrane, his face drawn with fatigue, was transformed into a reasonable similitude of the whip-sharp chief of staff whom Fitzduane had first met.
"You caught me, Hugo," said Cochrane briskly, the anger suppressed but escaping as he talked. "Sprucing up on the run is something you learn in the House. You work long, stupidly long hours, sometimes for remarkably stupid people. Most of your work gets shit-canned, but appearances – boy, they really count. You've got to look STRAC.
"You learn to bathe in a water glass and keep your wardrobe in a drawer in your filing cabinet and fuck between votes. The legacy of the Founding Fathers. Those good ole boys set up a hell of a system. It must have been easier in the days of the Roman emperors. Then you still might be knifed in the back, but at least you didn't have to worry about the people. Frankly, democracy sucks."
Fitzduane dropped into a chair. "You look like shined-up shit, Lee," he said. "Sleep has a lot to recommend it. What's this about being knifed in the back?"
"Not your problem, Hugo," said Cochrane grimly. "You're an Irishman. This is strictly an American political matter. It is an old custom. It is called throwing out the baby with the bathwater. It is also called shitting on your friends."
Fitzduane smiled. "The U.S. has no monopoly on either slinging babies out or dumping on the undeserving. So enlighten me."
Cochrane looked straight at Fitzduane. "The Task Force on Terrorism has been a highly effective tool of the United States Congress for nearly a decade and a half. Now it is to be wrapped up. It is all part of the lesser government drive being pushed by our new Speaker. It is a good idea, but it is being implemented indiscriminately. There has never been a greater threat to this country from terrorism and our work has never been more in demand or more on the button – but the Task Force is to go. Go figure!"
Fitzduane was momentarily speechless. The entire Mexican operation was being driven through the Task Force. Kathleen! The implications were horrendous.
"What about the Tecuno mission, Lee?"
A vein throbbed in Cochrane's forehead. "I seem to recall a recent time when you weren't too keen on going to Mexico, Hugo," said Cochrane, sarcasm and anger heavy in his voice. His whole body was tense with rage. The chief of staff had a short fuse and liked to crack the whip, but Fitzduane had never seen him like this before.
He tried to defuse the situation. "Lee, you're tired and quite reasonably pissed off with what is being done to the Task Force. But maybe it is not such a good idea to take it out on me. You know exactly why I changed my mind."
"Fuck you, you damned Irishman," exploded Cochrane. "I care about this country. I fight for the United States. I fight for a cause. All you seem to care about is some damned woman. There are bigger issues, and you don't seem to give a shit about them. You're nothing but a fucking mercenary!"
Fitzduane could feel his own anger boiling up, which would accomplish precisely nothing. He fought for control. He had a tremendous desire to hit the man. He took his time answering.
"Causes are about people, Lee," he said quietly, "and you know that better than most, which is why you do what you do. And Kathleen is rather more than ‘some damned woman.’ Further, she is being held by people who threaten the well-being of this country. We're on the same side on this thing. So swear away at me if it will advance our cause. Better yet, get some sleep."
Cochrane slumped back into his seat. "Goddamn you, Fitzduane," he said wearily. "Why don't you lose it like a normal human being? It's fucking frustrating to talk to someone who is being calm and reasonable when all you want is to let fly. Hell man, have you no understanding? I thought all you Irish flared up at the slightest provocation."