Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

Two other men entered the room, and then a figure who looked singularly out of place. Unlike the others, who looked Irish and were dressed in casual clothes, the man standing in the doorway was smartly dressed in a dark suit and white shirt with a club tie. His shoes were highly polished. And he was Asian, Chinese or Japanese.

"This is the nurse?" he said.

"The very same," said McGonigal.

"And you are satisfied with her information?" said the Japanese. His accent was pronounced, but he spoke clearly.

McGonigal smiled. "Oh yes," he said. "The wee girl saw reason" – he reached out and grabbed Kathleen's mother and again the knife was in his hand – "and there's still one blood relation to go." Kathleen swallowed a scream. "You told us everything, didn't you?"

Kathleen nodded weakly.

"And the phone call?" said the Japanese.

"She answered it," said McGonigal, "with me listening in. It was the matron inquiring could she do day shift next week."

Kathleen swallowed the bile in her throat and then spoke hesitantly. "We work a rota system. Sometimes someone is sick or needs time off and the matron makes the arrangements."

The Japanese looked at her for a little time before speaking again. Something about the phone call bothered him. "What time was the call?" he said to McGonigal.

"Twenty past nine, something like that," answered McGonigal. "Why? I heard the whole conversation. There was nothing to it. It was just as the girl said."

The Japanese was still staring intently at Kathleen. He was about to decide whether the operation went ahead or not, and this time he was going with the assault team. He didn't want to put his life on the line if the operation was blown. At the same time, the assignment must be completed. It was a matter of duty.

"It's a small hospital, the woman had just come off night shift," said the Japanese. "The matron would know that and would expect her to be asleep at the time she called." He slapped Kathleen hard across the face. "Is that not so? So why did she call?"

Kathleen spat blood. It was clear the bastard had never worked in a hospital, did not understand the pressures, the need to perform a task now. It was clear he did not know her matron. Inside herself, she smiled. He was a clever little sod, but he was on the wrong track.

"Losing sleep is pretty normal in our business," she said. "People don't get ill on just a nine-to-five basis."

"The caller – the matron – apologized when she called," said McGonigal. "She said that she had actually rung up to leave a message with the woman's mother. Our lady friend here" – he indicated Kathleen – "actually said very little. Just ‘it doesn't matter’ and ‘yes’ and a couple of phrases like that. Of course, she sounded tired, but then she would, wouldn't she? She was just off duty and games with her boyfriend." He grinned lasciviously at Kathleen.

Sasada was torn between the logic of what had been said and his instincts. In truth, nothing could be more normal than a brief phone call about a rota change, yet he would have felt much happier if this woman had never been allowed near the phone at all. Despite her rough handling and the killing of her father in front of her and the manifest shock that this had induced, there was still the faintest spark of defiance in her eyes. This was a strong, resourceful woman. Could she somehow have managed to warn the hospital?

"Why did you allow this person" – he pointed at Kathleen – "near the phone at all?" he said to McGonigal. He needed time to think.

McGonigal shrugged. "I've been through this hostage business before," he said. "The thing is to keep things as normal as possible from an outsider's perspective. Anybody who knows these people would have expected the phone to be answered. Secondly, I didn't want some neighbor calling round because she couldn't get through."

He looked squarely at the Japanese. "Anyway, man, my hide is on the line, too, and I'm telling you – she didn't say anything. There was no keyword, no password, no unusual phrase. I'm sure of it." His northern accent became more pronounced as he emphasized his words. There was a noticeable increase in tension in the room.

"Why didn't you use the mother?" said Sasada, indicating Mary Fleming, who sat motionless on the sofa, her face a blank, her eyes unfocused.

"Jaysus, Sasada, just look at her," said McGonigal. "She would have sounded like shit on the phone. There was no way she could have come across normal."

Sasada was convinced by McGonigal's denial. The reality of the situation was that the IRAP were vastly more experienced at this kind of thing than he was. The latest wave of IRA violence had been operating without a break for the best part of a generation. The younger members had grown up in a culture of violence. They had never known anything else. They learned about the techniques of terrorism in much the same way as the young in a normal society learned to drive.

He drew a knife from under his coat. Its blade was very slightly curved and the tip was angled. The shape, though much smaller, was very like that of a Japanese sword.

He is going to kill me, thought Kathleen. Sasada: I now know his name: I know what he looks like; I can identify them all. There is no way that they will let us live. A terrible sadness and feeling of regret swept over her, so strong that it dominated even her fear.

She thought of all the things in life she had not done and wanted to do. She thought of Fitzduane and his smile and his injured body that she so wanted to love and be loved by. She thought of her mother, who would now need her more than ever. She thought of the pain of dying at the hands of these terrible people, and suddenly felt weak with terror. She closed her eyes to try to mask her fear. If she was going to die, it would be with some dignity.

She felt the knife at her throat and then the warm trickle of her own blood.

Studying a map in one of the empty private rooms on Fitzduane's floor, Kilmara silently cursed the British and their road-building sins of the past centuries – most of their bloody little roads were narrow, winding things, but there were too many of them to block – and reviewed his options.

He was in an isolated hospital in an isolated part of the country with a target that was undesirable to move, and no safer location to move him to anyway. His defensive manpower was decidedly limited, particularly if unarmed police were factored out. There were too many roads and back lanes to block. He did not know how and when the opposition would strike.

He did not actually know anything. He suspected a great deal. Still, in the counterterrorism business you mostly worked with bits and pieces. You rarely had the luxury of complete intelligence. If you fucked up, well, you fucked up. People might die, but the world went on. One had to be philosophical. People killing each other was not globally threatening, like destroying the ozone layer. It was actually quite normal. But it was inconvenient for those involved.

Kilmara did not like to involve Fitzduane, who was supposed to be recovering from serious wounds and resting, but it was hard to deny that he had a vested interest in the outcome of what was happening. Also, Hugo had an excellent tactical sense. He had fought his own wars and covered others for twenty years. He had seen it done right and he had seen it done wrong, and he had learned from this experience in a way few people did.

As he reentered Fitzduane's room, Kilmara looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after ten in the morning. Fitzduane was being examined by a doctor and two nurses, and the Ranger general was peremptorily asked to wait outside. Ten minutes later, the doctor emerged.

Kilmara tried to enter but was again shooed away by the nurses. Eventually, they emerged. One held a partially covered kidney basin containing something bloodstained. The other held a similar basin in which there was a syringe.