Read Games of the Hangman Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
"On live
television," said Etan, "and in front of half the Irish media?
And me without my makeup on."
"I'll
help," said the Bear, "but who are you talking about?"
"Our
Taoiseach," said Fitzduane, "one Joseph Patrick Delaney, the prime
minister of this fair
land .
He screwed us in the
been screwing this country ever since.
He's coming here to kiss babies and pin medals on the wounded — and make
a short speech saying he did it all himself.
He's corrupt and a class-A shit and decidedly not one of our favorite
people."
"Oh,"
said the Bear.
"I thought the
Rangers were responsible for keeping him safe."
"This is
a very mixed-up country," said Kilmara.
"I think I'll get drunk."
*
*
*
*
*
Fitzduane's Castle — 0623 hours
It had started
to rain shortly after dawn, and the wounded man lying concealed under the
remains of the homemade tank greeted this downturn in the weather with
relief.
The cold rain soothed his horribly
burned body and helped conceal him from the searching soldiers.
The man hadn't
been wounded in the tank itself, but near the walls.
He had been caught by a Molotov cocktail
blast as he prepared to throw a grapnel, and for some seconds before his
comrades had beaten out the flames he had been a human torch.
By the time he recovered consciousness the
comrades who had saved him had been killed.
He had found their bodies one by one as he crawled his way to the cover
of the tank and temporary safety.
He was within
a few seconds of the cooling wreckage of the tank — the journey seemed to have
taken hours — when a random burst of automatic-weapons fire smashed into his
legs, splintering the bones and destroying any lingering hope that he might
have a future.
He could, perhaps,
surrender, but the best he could hope for would be life a revoltingly
disfigured cripple — and he had no home to go to, no country to go to.
The idea of a future in a refugee camp — if
he wasn't shot or imprisoned — had no appeal.
And he would be penniless.
Ironically, for many the whole point of this mission had been to make
enough money to give themselves completely new lives.
And for a time it looked as if they might
make it.
Well, it was
the will of Allah.
Now all that remained
was to die in the most suitable manner — to die avenging his comrades and so to
meet them again in the Gardens of Paradise.
He had lost
his AK-47 when he was hit by the gasoline bomb, and that he regretted, for a
true soldier never abandons his weapon; but crawling to his steel sanctuary he
had found something far more deadly:
an
RPG-7 rocket launcher.
It was loaded,
and although there were no spare rockets, he was confident that one would be
enough for his purpose.
He doubted very
much that he would have the opportunity to fire for a second time.
It would be as Allah willed.
Each man had his own destiny, and out of
apparent disaster often came good.
The man with
the burned body and smashed legs moved his weapon into firing position when he
heard the sound of helicopter rotors coming ever closer.
The pain was truly terrible, but he embraced
it and used it to keep himself conscious for those last few precious seconds.
The helicopter
came into range.
The RPG-7 was a
straightforward point-and-shoot weapon with no sophisticated guidance system,
so it was vital that he be accurate.
The helicopter
was going to land in front of the castle.
Through the 2.5 magnification telescopic sight it looked as if there
were only one person inside it, but he must be someone important because
soldiers were bracing themselves and an officer was shouting commands.
All eyes were
on the helicopter.
No one noticed the
tip of the RPG-7 pointing out of a slit in the wrecked tank.
The helicopter was less than seventy meters
away when the dying man fired.
The Taoiseach
of Ireland was actually thinking of Kilmara, and the bittersweet irony that the
man he had betrayed so long ago was now going to enhance his political
reputation through reflected glory, when he saw the 1.7-kilogram rocket-assisted
fin-stabilized missile blasting toward him.
For an infinitesimal moment he thought his victorious troops were firing
some kind of victory salute.
The HEAT
warhead cut straight through the Perspex canopy, making two neat, round holes
as if
for
ventilation
.
There was no explosion.
Fitzduane, Kilmara, the Bear, Etan
,,
and the other survivors of the original defenders watched
the missile
strike — and plow through
the cabin harmlessly — with absolute incredulity.
There was a
barrage of shots as the firer of the missile was cut down.
Kilmara put
down his high-power binoculars.
He had
been looking directly at the Taoiseach in the approaching helicopter at the
precise moment of the free-flight missile's impact.
"Well, I
guess we can't win them all," he said slowly as the Taoiseach headed to
fast toward a decidedly rough landing.
"Too much vodka on the RPG-7 production line, I suppose."
His eyes lit up.
"Still, that'll teach him to listen to
my advice.
What a hell of a way to start
the day."
"How did
you do that?" said the Bear to Fitzduane.
"And
without moving your lips," added de Guevain.
"I
didn't," said Fitzduane, "Though it was temping."
"Probably
a spell," said de Guevain.
"Great
television," said Etan.
"The
bastard will make the news yet again."
"Nonstick
politician or not," said Kilmara with some satisfaction, "I think
he'll need a fresh pair of pants.
Oh,
well, his day will come."
The media
helicopter had arrived and was obviously torn between wanting to get close-ups
of the perforated aircraft and a not unreasonable desire to avoid receiving the
same sort of treatment as the Taoiseach.
Camera lenses sprouted from open doors and windows.
The pilot, manifestly without combat
experience — made a series of quick forays and then darted away.
Fitzduane expected this amateur jinking to
dislodge one of the cameramen any minute and for a body or two to
come
flying through the air.
"What's
the time," asked the Bear.
"About
six-thirty," said Fitzduane.
"Time for all good Irish men and women to be in bed."
"Time for
breakfast," said the Bear.
"Typical
for a bloody Swiss," said Fitzduane.
"If everybody minded their own
business," said the Duchess in a hoarse growl, "the world would go
round a great deal faster than it does."
—Lewis
Carroll,
"A Swiss Lewis Carroll is not
possible."
—Vreni
Rutschman,
March, 1981