There was scant conversation with the guard today. This time Rheiman was in a hurry. Of course, he had missed a day. Now he wanted to make up for lost time. A by-product of the Rheiman visits was that she was now fed regularly if not well, and could monitor the passing of the days with reasonable accuracy.
She heard him sit down. He almost always sat before he spoke, curious behavior now that she thought of it. Given the friendly tone he adopted, it would have been more natural for him to call a greeting as he entered. But normally he did not.
He would enter the room, sit down, and then look at her for some while before he spoke.
As if he was contemplating a prized possession.
It was an unsettling thought.
Kathleen never spoke first. This was not a deliberate strategy but had developed naturally from her original silence. It had seemed appropriate then. It still seemed like the correct way to handle things. If someone wanted to speak to her, then they had to acknowledge her as a human being first.
In her soul, Kathleen was terrified. She lived every moment in fear so great she now regarded it as a living force. Something you could touch and feel like fire or water. Something so horrible and yet so familiar, she almost regarded it as a friend. Fear I can trust. But nothing else.
No one else?
Rheiman? Pleasant, warm, concerned.
Could Rheiman be trusted? Would Hugo trust him? Would Hugo Fitzduane trust him if he was chained and blindfolded and hungry and thirsty and desperate for human contact. Would he? Would he?
She could see Fitzduane as she thought. God, I love you, Hugo. Our baby! I wish. Oh, how I wish. Oh, how I yearn.
"Kathleen," said Rheiman in a pleased voice.
She had felt so close to Fitzduane, she could hear him. It could not just be imagination. There was a bond between them. It was not physical, but it was there nonetheless. Fitzduane was focused on her – in her – in some way. She could not, would not.
Tears welled unbidden and stained her cheeks.
"Good news!" said Rheiman. His voice was like an invasion. She could see nothing, feel nothing, and then there was this sound that cut through the silence like a jagged knife.
The voice of a man who sounded trustworthy – but whom she did not trust. The voice of a man who by his own admission had murdered.
"But, Kathleen, you're crying," he said, his voice suddenly concerned. "You missed me. I'm so sorry. I try and get away every day, but sometimes it is not possible. There is so much to do and we're near the first test firing. Everyone has one question: Will it work?"
"I missed you, Edgar," she said, and it was true. Good or bad, trustworthy or not, Rheiman was company. He brought news. He was her only link to the outside world.
Rheiman took her hand without speaking. He almost never touched her except for the occasional fleeting caress. This time he took her hand as a lover might, the back of his hand resting against her breast.
He moved his hand very slightly, as if accidentally, stroking her nipple through the material of the rough shirt she had been given. She could sense his mounting excitement, but then he pulled away and sat back in his seat.
She was playing a dangerous game, she knew, but there was not an alternative. Rheiman was all she had right now. Rheiman was what she had to use. If it took sex, she would use sex, whatever was required, however bizarre. If it took violence, she would use that too.
Without hesitation! Fitzduane had taught her. Violence should be a last resort, but where it was required, it must be fast and deadly and delivered with total commitment. Never hesitate. Never pull back. Do it to them before they do it to you. Or you will die.
She shuddered.
Despair swept over her, and then as suddenly as it had hit it was quelled.
I will live. Our baby will live. Hugo will come. It seems impossible, but he will come.
Rheiman had been silent. The watcher playing with her. He reminded her of a cat. She was the mouse, chained and blindfolded.
It couldn't be much fun for the cat. A real mouse could still move, could try and make a break for freedom. It was hopeless, but it kept the game alive. Restricted as she was, she could do nothing. He could not even see her properly. Her eyes were still taped over.
It was as if Rheiman had been reading her mind. "Kathleen," he said. "I said I have good news. I have been negotiating with Oshima. She has agreed that your blindfold may be removed subject to certain conditions. There is something she wants you to see. And some things that she does not want you to see."
Kathleen smiled faintly. "I'm not sure I understand, Edgar. What does she want me to see?"
"An execution," said Rheiman.
19
It was an aspect of the operation that had given Fitzduane more concern that almost any other.
The Japanese Koancho agent was still inside the Devil's Footprint. When the assault team went they were going to be racking up the bodies. It would be dark and they would be programmed to kill without hesitation. The agent was going to be chopped liver unless he could be contacted in advance, kept out of the firing line in some way, and then pulled out with the team. A dangerous complication for an already hazardous mission.
But the man deserved a special effort. Hori- san 's courage and initiative were extraordinary. He had put together an intelligence operation of daring and at direct risk to his own life. Reiko Oshima was inarguably the most dangerous terrorist currently at large, and for every second of every day Hori was under her control. This was a man of special courage.
Further, he was Chifune's colleague and Fitzduane was in Chifune's debt. Hori's fate could not be left to chance.
The problem lay in balancing risks. The linchpin of the success of the mission was surprise. Sending someone into the terrorist compound in advance risked premature discovery. One slip and the operation was blown. To save Hori, was it worth it?
The situation with Kathleen was different. Her location was known and there would be no difficulty in identifying her. Hori, even though his picture had been handed out, in the split seconds available was going to appear just like another terrorist, especially if he was asleep with his face in the pillow or wearing the black balaclavas many wore at night when on guard duty both for camouflage and against the chill of the desert air.
Chifune had sworn she could get in without being discovered. A rough mockup of the terrorist camp had been set up in an obscure corner of the NationalTrainingCenter, and six times in a row, despite the sentries' being alerted that she was coming, and despite the fact that they were outfitted with both night-vision equipment and thermal detectors, she had managed it.
But Fitzduane was still uneasy. The compromise was that she would go in only ten minutes in advance. That way, if something did go wrong, they could still go in hard and heavy and achieve their objectives.
But he did not like it. Total surprise was his objective. Anything less could compromise the mission.
The right thing would be to let Hori, brave man though he was, take his chances.
The ‘right thing’ or ‘the most effective’? Who was to know? Fitzduane had thought of involving the entire unit in this particular dilemma, but had then decided otherwise. There were some issues that had to be an individual burden. You made a decision and you took the consequences.
At that stage choice did not enter into it. Nor did right or wrong.
Occasionally, Fitzduane wondered if morality or ethics or values or whatever you wanted to call such thoughts ever counted, or if they were some unreal set of notions fostered by academics who were not at the bleeding edge.
It did not help him much. He believed in Camelot.