Read Games of the Hangman Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
The “Today
Tonight” Hospitality Room served the same general purpose as the emergency room
of a hospital, except that experience had taught the editor of the program that
alcohol, if administered in very large quantities soon enough, guaranteed a
faster recovery rate.
Interviewers
on the program tended to go for the jugular, yet it was important, if the
victim was to come back for more, that he
have
some
element of self-esteem restored.
The
effect of the hospitality room was to ensure that many a politician or
bureaucrat, whose dissemblings and incompetence had been revealed only minutes
before on prime-time television, soon felt, after a couple of Vincent's gins,
that he had carried off the ordeal with the aplomb of a David Frost — and was
raring to come back for a second round.
This pleased
the editor, who knew that in a small country like
supply of video fodder.
Also, he was a
nice man.
He liked people to be happy
except when being interviewed on his program.
So as not to
set a bad example, Fitzduane accepted an oversize gin, a drink he normally
never touched, and thought thoughts he had avoided for close on twenty years.
Etan came in
freshly made up, the professional mask on again.
He checked her legs.
She, too, was wearing dark stockings.
Full house.
He maneuvered her into the corner of the
small room for a minute of privacy.
"I've been thinking," he said.
Etan looked at
him over the top of her glass and then down at the melting ice and slice of
lemon.
"Of
what?"
"Our
future together, settling down, things like that," he said.
"Good
thoughts or bad thoughts?"
"The very
best thoughts," he answered.
"Well, I think they are the very best thoughts, but I'm going to
need a second opinion."
He leaned
forward and kissed her on the forehead.
"Is this
a consultation?" she asked.
She had
gone a little pale.
Across the
room, which meant no distance at all, given its size, a very drunk Minister for
Justice went into shock at the sight of his erstwhile tormentor displaying
human emotion.
It was clear that he
would have been less surprised had she breathed fire.
The telephone
rang.
Less than thirty seconds later
Fitzduane was gone.
The minister
came over to Etan and put a beefy arm around her shoulders.
He was pissed as a newt.
"Young lady," he said, "you
should learn which side your bread is buttered.
You work for a government-owned and –licensed station."
He leered at her.
Etan removed
his arm with two fingers as if clearing away something unpleasant.
She looked him up and down and wondered,
given that
"Fuck off, birdbrain," she said,
and it coincided with a general lull in the chatter.
The editor choked
on his drink.
*
*
*
*
*
Geronimo Grady
had not acquired his name for nothing.
In his hands
the modified Ranger Saab Turbo screamed through the streets of Dublin and out
onto the Galway road in a blurred cocktail of flashing blue light, burning tire
rubber, and wailing siren.
When the
traffic ahead failed to give way fast enough, Grady drove the wrong way up
one-way streets, cut through the front lots of garages, or took to the
sidewalks with equal ease.
Fitzduane
regarded him as a skilled maniac and gave thanks that Ranger regulations
stipulated four-point racing harnesses and antiroll bars in pursuit
vehicles.
He winced as Grady roared
through a set of red traffic lights and sideslipped around a double-decker
bus.
He kept his hand tight over the top
of his gin and tonic glass and tried to retain the sloshing liquid.
They covered
the thirty-eight miles to the mobile command center in half an hour.
Fitzduane was glad his hair was already
silver.
He unclipped his safety harness
and handed Grady his now-empty glass.
"You
really deserve the ears and the tail," he said.
8
"Legs,"
said Günther.
"They might have got
away if it hadn't been for the girl's legs.
The corporal in the back of the Land Rover was enthusing about them over
his radio to a buddy of his stationed at another roadblock a few kilometers
away.
And then
came
gunfire and screaming for split seconds, and then silence.
"The
warning was enough.
The terrorists' car
was intercepted in less than three kilometers, and there was an exchange of
fire.
The terrorists abandoned their car
and made a run for it under cover of a driveway hedge.
At the end of the drive they burst into a
farmhouse located a few hundred meters off the main road.
The army, in hot pursuit, surrounded the
house and kept them pinned down until reinforcements arrived.
"So far
two policemen, one soldier, and the farmer are dead.
Another soldier looks likely to die, and a
nurse who went to help got shot to pieces.
As best we can determine, the corporal must have mistaken her for a
terrorist and put a burst of Gustav fire into her legs.
That makes a total of four dead — and two
pending."
He was silent for a
moment.
"That we know about,"
he added.
"An
obvious question," said Fitzduane.
"Why?"
Günther
shrugged.
"We are pretty sure they
aren't IRA, but other than that, we don't know who they are, what they were up
to when they were intercepted, or anything much else about them."
Kilmara stood
in the doorway.
"We thought you
might be able to help, Hugo," he said.
He placed two plastic-covered bloodstained rectangles on the table in
front of Fitzduane.
"Look at them
closely and think very hard."
Fitzduane
picked up the first of the international driver's licenses.
The face was smiling into the camera,
displaying shining white teeth under a drooping mustache.
He studied the photograph carefully and shook
his head.
He picked up the second
license.
This time the expression on the
face looking into the camera was completely serious, almost detached.
Again he shook his head.
Kilmara leaned
over and placed the licenses side by side on the table.
"Try looking at them together," he
said, "and
take
your time."
Fitzduane
looked down at the small photographs and racked his brain for even the
slightest hint of familiarity.
Mentally
he ticked off the assignments he had been on during the last few years.
The girl was supposed to be Italian, but she
could be Arab — or Israeli, for that matter.
The facial types were often very similar.
For his part, the man was dark enough to be
of Middle Eastern origin, but despite the mustache he looked European.
Fitzduane
pushed the two licenses across the table to where Kilmara and Günther sat.
"The facial types are familiar enough,
so I could be tempted to say maybe I've seen them before.
It's possible — but if so, it must have been
in the most casual way.
Certainly I
don't recognize them."
He shrugged.
A Ranger came
in and set three mugs of coffee on the table.
Wisps of steam rose in the air.
Kilmara placed
a heavy book in front of Fitzduane.
"Hugo," he said, "we found this in the terrorists'
baggage.
It could be
coincidence..." he smiled.
"But when you're involved, I tend to believe in coincidence just a
little less."
"Nice
friendly reaction," said Fitzduane dryly, looking at the familiar
volume.
It had sold surprisingly well,
and he still saw it in bookshops and in airport newsstands when he
traveled.
The soldier with the dove had
been killed two days after the photo had been taken.
He'd heard that the bird had survived.
He indicated the book.
"May I handle it?"
"Sure,"
said Kilmara.
"Forensics
have
done their thing."
Fitzduane
examined the book slowly and methodically.
He turned back to the flyleaf.
On
it was written in pencil a price, a date, anda code:
For 195—12/2/81—Ma 283.
"A recent fan," he said.
"A recent
purchase anyway, it would appear," said Kilmara.
"Francs?"
asked Fitzduane.
"French,
Swiss, Belgian, or indeed from a whole host of French colonies," said
Kilmara
.
"We're looking into it."
"Any
ideas," asked Günther, "why two killers should have bought your
book?
It's a heavy volume to carry if
you're flying."
"No,"
said Fitzduane, "but I'll think about it."
"Hmm,"
said Kilmara.
"Well, we've got
other things to worry about right now.
Thanks for coming.
I'll get Grady
to drive you home."
Fitzduane
shuddered
.
"I think I'll be safer here.
Mind if I hang around?"
Kilmara looked
at his friend for a moment and then nodded.
"Günther will give you some ID," he said.
"You know the form.
Keep a low profile and your head down.
It's going to be a bloody night."
Fitzduane
expressed surprise.
"I thought a
waiting game was the policy in a hostage situation."
"It
is," said the Ranger colonel, "when you have a choice.
Here we don't have a choice.
The nice young couple in the farmhouse have
issued an ultimatum:
a helicopter to
take them to the airport at dawn and then a plane to some as yet unidentified
destination — or they kill one hostage every half hour, starting with the
youngest child, aged two, name of Daisy."
"A bluff?"
Kilmara shook
his head.
"We think they mean what
they say.
They killed the little girl's
father for no other reason than to make a point.
Well, they made it and we can't let them get
away and we can't let the hostages die — so in a few hours we're going
in."
A Ranger poked
his head through the doorway.
"Colonel," he said, "the cherry picker has arrived."
*
*
*
*
*
The children
were asleep at last.
The three younger
ones were sprawled on the king-size bed under the duvet.
Rory, the eldest at nearly sixteen, lay in a
sleeping bag on the floor.
A large
bloodstained bandage on his flushed forehead marked where the German with the
black mustache had struck him savagely with the butt of his machine pistol.
The master
bedroom was dimly lit by one bedside lamp.
Maura O'Farrell, her eyes betraying the classic symptoms of extreme
shock, sat knitting in an armchair near the curtained windows.
The knitting needles moved automatically with
great speed, and the nearly completed double-knit scarf coiled around her knees
and draped down to the floor.
The scarf
had been meant for Jack to keep him warm as he worked the four hundred acres of
their prosperous farm.
He would be so
cold now.
She knew they wouldn't let
her, but she wanted to go out and wrap the scarf around his neck.
It would at least cover the wound.
She rose and
went into the bathroom, whose door opened onto the master bedroom.
Everywhere there were signs of Jack.
His razor lay in its accustomed place, and
his dressing gown hung behind the door.
She unscrewed the cap of his after-shave and smelled the familiar,
intimate odor; then she replaced the cap.
She brushed her hair and checked her appearance in the mirror.
She was a touch pale and drawn, which was
understandable, but otherwise neat and well groomed.
Jack was fussy about such things.
He would be pleased.
She took a
roll of adhesive tape from the medicine chest and returned to her chair.
The knitting needles began to flash once
more, and the scarf grew ever longer.