Read The Devil's Footprint Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
She worked in
the
She had given him her number and extension
scribbled on a beer coaster.
He had said
he was a student visiting
He
would be here for a few more days.
Look
me up, her eyes had said, and the warmth of her body had confirmed the
promise.
But it would be a promise
unfulfilled, for he would be dead.
They gave no
thought as to why this man, Patricio Nicanor, had to die, but focused totally
on how the order was to be implemented.
The most important thing, the order stressed, was that Nicanor be
liquidated.
They
must
make sure he was killed before he had a chance to speak to
anyone in the congressman's office, where the T-Group was based.
He must be silenced whatever the cost.
The lives of the Yaibo cell members were
expendable.
The group
leader's stomach churned as he read the decoded fax, but his face displayed no
trace of his inner feelings.
He had
trained for many years for such an occasion and he had developed the ability to
separate his normal human reactions from his inner self.
His initial feelings might be of shock or
fear or extreme stress, but he now knew that these were false reactions.
His inner self and his fundamental sense of
purpose were what counted.
Death was of
no significance, for he was as if already dead.
What was important would be the manner of his dying.
He had dedicated his life to Yaibo, so what
mattered was whether his death was in the service of his organization.
He would do what was ordered without
hesitation or regret.
The fax
contained a digitized photo of the target that had been broken up into a dozen
segments and then spread amongst the kanji text.
It would scarcely fool the computers of the
NSA, but it was certainly sufficient to deceive the hotel clerk who had
delivered the message.
Endo cut up
the fax with a scissors and reassembled the pieces of the picture.
What emerged was a picture of a Latin male in
his early thirties.
It was a clear
photo, but it was more indicative of a type than an individual.
From the photograph alone they could not be
certain beyond a doubt
who
their target was.
Wakami looked
at his senior colleague.
Matsunaga-
san
had worked with him for many
years.
They were the same age and had
joined Yaibo at the same time, and their thoughts were as one.
Wakami had not
spoken, but Matsunaga-
san
nodded.
"There is only one certain
way of getting the right man, Wakami-
san
.
We know where he is going to and we know
roughly when he is due.
We must kill him
inside the congressional building as he approaches his goal.
That way his guard will be down and we can be
certain."
"But how,
Wakami-
san
?" said Endo.
"There are guards at the entrances and
everyone is searched."
"That is
a problem we have still to resolve,"
said
Wakami,
"but we are not entirely unprepared.
There is certainly a solution."
The Endo asked
the question that had been haunting him.
He hesitated, and the words rushed out as if they had a life of their
own.
Immediately he regretted having
spoken.
This was not appropriate
behavior from a junior colleague, and indeed he already knew the answer.
But he was young and he was afraid, and he
had to ask.
His hands, clasped in front
of him in a posture of respect as he stood there, were damp with sweat and
shaking.
"Wakami-
san
," he said.
"How will we escape after we have killed
this man?"
Wakami looked
at his young colleague with affection.
How little the young know, he thought, and how petty are their concerns.
"Endo-
san
," he said, "your concern
that you might be taken alive is worthy indeed.
You must trust me.
I know you
will do your duty."
Endo bowed in
submission.
His bowels had turned to
liquid.
His life, one way or another,
would end this very day.
It was certain.
He could smell the very skin of the young
blond intern, carefree and enthusiastic.
She had her whole life ahead of her.
He wanted to sob out loud.
He
straightened and was once again in control.
There was a task to perform.
Oshima-
san
trusted him and had initiated him
personally.
He would not let her down.
*
*
*
*
*
They entered
the outskirts of
Twenty minutes
later, Warner gave a uniformed guard a wave.
It was acknowledged by a nod of recognition, the barrier was raised, and
they shot into the basement car park of the
It was a mildly handsome but otherwise
unremarkable light gray stone building housing four hundred and fifty elected
members and their staffs of the Congress of the
Fitzduane
looked around the drab basement parking area.
The place was two-thirds empty.
There was nothing to distinguish this parking lot from tens of thousands
of conventional commercial-building lots, but still the knowledge that he was
now in the very core of the most powerful political center on earth gave him
pause for thought.
From this
complex of buildings flowed the legislation that made the
Fitzduane
loved the
He was not so sure about its capital.
But the bottom
line was that
It was not a question of whether you liked
what they did there or not.
The power
was real.
Warner hopped
out of the car and stretched.
Then he
came around to Fitzduane's side.
The
Irishman was still sitting there lost in thought.
"Yeah,"
said Warner, "it really makes you think when you come here the first
time.
This really is IT — the House, the
Senate, the Supreme Court.
All that good
shit.
The State
Department, the FBI, the Pentagon.
All those organs of the
waiting to serve.
"It's
enough to bring a lump to your throat.
You think little old you can make a difference.
You go around glowing for a few days, maybe a
few weeks, possibly a month or two.
And
then you start very slowly to understand as the structure starts almost
imperceptibly to destroy you.
"It is
nearly impossible to get anything done in this fucking place.
All this talent and ambition, all hundred
senators and four hundred and fifty congressmen and twenty thousand staffers
and eighty thousand lobbyists cancel each other out.
The Founding Fathers wanted checks and
balances, and they surely did succeed."
Fitzduane
smiled.
"Hell of a speech,
Dan," he said.
Warner
grinned.
"You wouldn't believe me
if I said I liked it."
Fitzduane
walked with Warner to the elevator.
"How is
security on the Hill?" he said.
"I noticed we weren't stopped on the way in, and I didn't see you
show a pass, Dan."
Warner
grunted.
"Basically, it
sucks," he said, "but I guess you can't entirely blame the Capitol
Hill police.
They are supposed to keep
the bad guys out while letting the public in.
That is pretty damned difficult.
But they go through the motions.
If you had not been with me, Hugo, and went in the main entrance
upstairs you would have had to walk through a metal detector, and your bag, if
you had one, would go through a scanner.
But there are ways around that shit.
The Task Force thinks security should be tightened, but the politicians
don't want to lose any votes.
Guess who
is winning?"
Fitzduane
smiled.
The elevator reached the second
floor.
*
*
*
*
*
Lee Cochrane,
Chief of Staff of the Congressional Task Force on Terrorism, glared at his
subordinate.
Maurice Isser,
a complex hybrid of French-Canadian, Russian, and Jewish origin — now neatly
packaged as an American — was, at times, a near-impossible man.
He got away with it because he was inarguably
a genius at both intelligence and analysis.
But one of his many quirks was his absolute paranoia when it came to
meeting new people.
He hated the initial
contact at any time, but never more so than when he was not well prepared and
softened up in advance.
Cochrane was
going to strangle the man.
He was going
to positively
enjoy
strangling the
man.
The prospect was cheering.
"Maury,"
said Cochrane, "all I want you to do is meet him.
You can't spend your life as the Invisible
Man or peering out of a slit in the stationery closet.
Someone is going to warp a canvas jacket
around you and cart you away."
"Why
didn't you tell me?" said Maury in an aggrieved voice.
Cochrane
looked up at the ceiling, which was of little help.
It needed painting badly.
The federal budget was certainly not being
spent here.
"You were
traveling," said Cochrane soothingly.
"Fitzduane,"
said Maurice, "who is he?
What's
his history?"
"Jesus,
Maury," said Cochrane, "you want history, I'll give you
history."
He
sighed.
"About seven hundred years
ago, a Norman knight, Sir Hugo Fitzduane, part of the initial British invasion
force
of
quarreled with someone on high and then left the main force and set off for the
West of Ireland.
"He
fought the bad guys, married a local Irish princess, and found himself on an
island off the West of Ireland to build a castle on.
Duncleeve, it's called.
The Castle of the Sword.
It says a great deal of what you need to know
about the Fitzduanes.
"All
these centuries later, a Hugo Fitzduane still lives there.
The Fitzduanes seem to be a persistent bunch
with something of a — ‘What I have I hold’ outlook on life.
And a tradition of
arms."
The swivel
chair began to turn slowly.
Cochrane had
Maury's attention.
"The
present Fitzduane followed that tradition.
He joined the Irish Army and was posted to the
United Nations.
Special
forces
.
His commander
was a Colonel Shane Kilmara.
His unit
racked up quite a reputation for itself.
The
"Ah!"
said Maury.
"
General
Kilmara these days, I think.
Now it's coming back to me.
He's turned up all over the globe over the
last couple of decades.
He is probably
the best counterterrorist military man out there."
About bloody
time, thought Cochrane.
Maury never
forgot anything, but he did not always remember where he stored what he knew
and the protocol was to help him find it.
"Kilmara
seems to have always accepted his calling as a warrior.
Fitzduane was more ambivalent and has always
had something of a love-hate relationship with violence.
He resigned from the army after the
and then spent the next twenty years as a combat photographer.
Cover of
Time
,
that kind of thing.
Still, you name a
war and he's been there.
The word is
that he's forgotten more about combat than most generals ever knew.