Victor O'Reilly - The Devil's footprint

Neither Fitzduane nor Kathleen found any reason to disbelieve him. Maury, once he had broken through the initial contact barrier, was proving to be no fan of moderation. On the other hand, he was a marvelous companion and had snippets of information about practically everywhere and everything.

General Shane Kilmara was more dubious. He had reached the stage in life where he had a sense of order. But he was prevailed upon. America, he had found, had that kind of effect on him. The impossible suddenly seemed possible.

They set out for North Carolina with Maury acting as a human guidebook. As they passed one Civil War site after another, Kathleen was strangely moved.

"It's all so much and it's all so close," she said quietly. "It has an effect. You can see – feel – why they fought. I'll never feel quite the same about the South again." She wanted to cry. There were reasons why people fought and died, and some of them were good reasons. She reached out for her husband's hand and grasped it, and he put his arm around her and hugged her to him.

General Shane Kilmara, who had seen more of war than most, felt exactly the same way as he looked out through tinted picture windows.

He had been there before, and he always did. He was reminded of a visit to ArlingtonNationalCemetery just south of the Pentagon and within no distance at all of Washington, D.C. The graveyard had originally been Robert E. Lee's home until a Northerner, disgusted by the bloodshed, had made sure Lee would never return again by using the immediate surrounds of the house in which to bury the dead. The cherry orchards were cut down and it became the NationalCemetery.

Not far from the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Kilmara had found an impressive monument erected to the memory of the Southern dead and had expressed some surprise. This had started, after all, as a Northern graveyard, and the South were the vanquished. Yet their dead, the enemy, were honored and within living memory of the war itself.

"Don't be surprised, General," his guide, a young lieutenant from the Old Guard, had said. "It's appropriate, sir. You're standing in Virginia."

Dana and Texas watched Maury's custom-built mobile home pull into the forecourt of the BastogneInn amp; ConferenceCenter in Fayetteville with some relief. They had been assigned by Lee Cochrane to keep an eye on the Fitzduane party and had followed them down all the way from Washington. They had not enjoyed the scenery. On the open road they considered that goddamn mobile home too damn vulnerable.

They could not figure out why four sensible adults who all knew they were potential terrorist targets should expose themselves in this way. They had finally come to the correct conclusion that even if you were a target you had to try for some semblance of a normal existence or life would scarcely be worth living. You would be a prisoner. It was the same thinking that had kept the security down to two. Still, however understandable that was, it was tough on your bodyguards.

A vast sign reading ‘The Spec-Forces Show’ was festooned across the front of the hotel. A large sticker in the rear window of a pickup advised: "Special Operations Exhibition – Don't Drink amp; Drive: You Might Spill Your Drink.’ Another simply read: ‘I Don't Brake For Terrorists.’

Dana, who had been driving, glanced across at Texas. "Boys will be boys," she said. "I guess we're in the right place."

Texas rubbed her eyes. Following a vehicle was exhausting. You were not only keeping an eye on it, but you had to both look out for potential trouble and remember your own security. And that meant covering your ass. She had tired eyes and a crick in her neck. A soak in a hot tub was an inviting prospect. It was more likely to be a quick shower. This was a working trip.

"What's the brief?" she said. Dana was the more cerebral of the pair. She handled the paperwork. Texas tried to focus on the action.

"The hotel is an open rectangle," said Dana. "The main block houses reception area, restaurants, and the actual conference center. Two wings at the back house the rooms. Between the wings there is a heated pool."

Texas groaned. "What I wouldn't give!"

"We should be able to work it out," said Dana. "Special security has been drafted in for the run of the exhibition, and the entire hotel is restricted to exhibitors and invited guests for the duration. There is going to be more firepower concentrated here for the next few days than the 82 ^ nd can deploy. If there is one place where our clients should be safe, it is here."

"So what do we do?" said Texas cheerfully. "Soak up a few rays and maybe connect with a paratrooper or two?"

"We keep a general eye on things," said Dana, "but we focus on Kathleen Fitzduane. She's only here to be with Hugo, and I've got a hunch al this high-tech killing hardware will pall. She will want to do a little touring, and where she goes, at least one of us will follow."

"What do you think of Kathleen?"

"Nice lady," said Dana, "and very dishy. More the homemaker than the feminist. A good match for Hugo."

"More is the pity," said Texas.

Dana and Texas looked at each other and grinned. Both fancied Hugo.

"Amen to that," said Dana.

Fitzduane inserted the key in the elevator lock.

They were staying on the fifth floor. Without the special key, the fourth floor was as high as you could go. Well, that was the theory. It was not the social norm to quiz everyone else in the elevator as to their floor entitlement. So, from a security point of view, the special key helped – but not too much.

Out of curiosity, Fitzduane had checked the fire stairs access and that had been thought through. You could get down the stairs but not back up. The security door clicked shut behind you, and that could only be opened from the inside. Unless you had a passkey, which every cleaner was equipped with.

Security, like most things in life, was a compromise. Perimeter security was much tighter. Yo could not get in or out of the hotel without a special pass that bore your photograph and thumb print. Armed guards enforced the edict. It was reasonable. There was a great deal of very dangerous hardware inside.

Kathleen had accompanied Fitzduane for all of the first day of the exhibition. Now she was tired and said little. It had indeed been a busy day. From Fitzduane's point of view, it had been fascinating. As to Kathleen's reaction, he was not so sure. Or maybe he was and did not want to admit it. Kathleen was unhappy; in fact, she was downright disturbed.

She lay back down on the bed without switching on the light. Some light from the general hotel illumination outside percolated through the blinds, but otherwise the room was in darkness. Fitzduane knew the signs. When Kathleen behaved like this she did not want to be held and caressed, and her thoughts brushed aside. She wanted to think and talk the issue out in her own time.

He sat in an armchair beside the window and waited. Sounds floated up from the illuminated pool below.

Kathleen spoke when she was ready. He had no idea how long it took. It was not important. Her hands were loosely clenched in and rested on her eyes. He could smell her perfume from where he sat. Her long legs gleamed in the ambient light in contrast to the prevailing darkness.

"How many booths are there?" she said. "Three hundred, four hundred? And all devoted to the business of killing. Sniper rifles; grenade launchers; anti-tank weapons; laser range finders; radio-detection devices; silencers; night-vision equipment. It is all about the taking of human life, and here we are bringing another small life into the world. I don't understand it. If frightens me. I just can't work it out.

"God knows, I have been on the receiving end of terrorism, but still, I can't make any sense of it. Surely we can find a better way? Is violence the only answer? Are we making a little baby just to have it blasted into oblivion by one of these terrible devices, or maybe it will just be maimed? It is all incomprehensible to me.