Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

Kilmara did not fancy a firefight inside the hospital, but he had nowhere else to put Fitzduane that was secure, and at least the private wing had no other patients in it. He would have preferred to take any attackers in the parking lot, or otherwise away from the hospital, but he did not have enough manpower for that option and there was always enough activity directly outside the hospital to make civilian casualties likely.

The attackers could pick the time, the strength of their force, and the weapons, but Kilmara had picked the ground. It crossed his mind that a famous Irishman, the Duke of Wellington, had specialized in this tactic. He never fought a battle on terrain that he had not scouted in advance, and he never lost. However, sometimes he took truly terrible casualties.

Kilmara was confident his unit could survive an assault, but he was far from sanguine about the price.

For forty-five minutes, Sasada, knife in hand, interrogated Kathleen.

Over and over again, he asked the same questions, until the spark of defiance faded from her eyes and he was satisfied that she had told as much as she knew.

By the time he had finished, Kathleen's upper body was slippery with blood and she was deep in shock. Sasada had punctuated his questions with small, threatening cuts of his knife. The blade was so sharp, each cut in itself did not hurt at first, but the streaming blood and the terror he induced drove practically all hope from her mind.

McGonigal had watched the questioning with mounting irritation. He was operating away from his home turf, and he felt uneasy in strange surroundings. He was from the North of Ireland and knew the habits and methods of the British Army and the RUC – the Royal Ulster Constabulary. The gardai, the police of the Republic of Ireland, and the Irish Army were less of a known quantity.

When Sasada was finished, he ordered the two women tied and gagged and they were dumped unceremoniously on the floor of the front room. And extending table was pulled out from the wall, chairs put in place around it, and the detailed assault plan rehearsed.

McGonigal carried out the briefing. That he had survived on the run as long as he had was a tribute to his professionalism. Every attack was rehearsed meticulously, but he had trained all his men to improvise if things went wrong. He emphasized the importance of timing and of discipline. He restated the rules of fire and movement so that no one man advanced without cover from another. Ironically, he had served in the British Army as a young man. Subsequently, he had received further training in Libya and was an expert with Soviet-bloc weapons.

"It's a small hospital," he said, indicating the plans Sasada had brought, "rectangular in shape. The entrance is in the middle, with the reception desk to the left. Straight ahead, there is a staircase that runs up the center of the building. On each floor, the wards are to the left and to the right. The ward we want – what they call the private wing – is on the third floor on the left. The third floor is the top floor, although the stairs run up to a half-landing above it, where there are toilets and storerooms."

McGonigal used a knitting needle as a pointer. He had been reminded of his mother when he had found the knitting basket. She had loved to knit. She had been knitting when she had been killed by a stray bullet fired by British paratroops.

"The nurse says that since our target arrived, there is normally a uniformed garda or sometimes an armed detective at the foot of the stairs. He screens everybody going up and alerts another man on the third floor if anyone is heading up there. The uniformed cop isn't armed, but he does have a radio."

Jim, the black-haired terrorist, interrupted. "The fellow on the third floor?"

"The third floor – the private wing on the left – is guarded entirely by Rangers. They have installed what they call a control zone. There is a Ranger outside, then two sets of specially installed armored doors. The outside man checks you through one door. In the middle is a metal detector. If you are clear, then you go through the second set of doors, where there is the second Ranger. The doors are never opened together. Indeed, I gather they can't be. They have some kind of integrated electronic locks."

"Is there video surveillance?" said another terrorist.

McGonigal nodded. "There is a camera on the wall overlooking the outside of the two doors. It can see the length of the corridor to the top of the stairs. There were fire doors there, but they were removed by the Rangers. Anyone coming up the stairs or leaving the elevator, which is beside the stairs, is on camera from the moment he hits the third floor."

There was silence in the room, as each man evaluated what he had heard so far. Taking care of the policeman at reception would be no problem, but getting up three flights of stairs without alerting the armed Ranger at the top would not be so easy. Still, McGonigal normally had an idea. He was good at this kind of thing.

"Fire escapes?" said Jim. He found the building plans hard to read and would have preferred a recent photograph and a hand drawn sketch. He also had a suspicion of old plans. It was not the Irish way to be meticulous in record-keeping. Whatever the regulations, buildings were modified and amended without up-to-date plans necessarily being filed. He looked at the date on the drawing. These were not the originals but they were still forty years old. He wondered just how reliable they were.

McGonigal nodded. "There is one at either end of the corridor, and they both go right up to the flat roof. However, I think it is safe to assume that the Rangers will have done something with the one at their end."

The planning continued. Lying bound and temporarily ignored in the corner, Kathleen listened to an assault scenario being outlined which seemed impossible to stop. She despaired when weapons were pulled out of canvas bags and she saw what the terrorists had assembled. There were not just automatic rifles. These people had rocket launchers and grenades – overwhelming firepower.

She clung to one thought. She had told the terrorists everything except the correct number of Fitzduane's room. It was one lie she had stuck to despite everything, one lie that she had now convinced herself was the truth, so these bastards would not see through her. Fitzduane was in Room Number 2. She had persuaded them that he was really in Room Number 4. It was all she could do. It was pathetically little.

Shortly afterward, the terrorists, five in number including Sasada, departed, leaving behind just one man to guard them in case hostages were needed. If the attack went off as planned, there would be a phone call and, lying there helpless, Kathleen and her mother would be killed. They would no longer by needed and they could identify their attackers. Sasada had wanted to kill them earlier, but McGonigal had persuaded him to wait an extra hour or so.

It was not much time to live. Silently, Kathleen sobbed. Their guard, Eamon, he of the bald head, listened to the radio and occasionally glanced in their direction. An AK-47 rested on his knees, but he was planning to kill them with his knife. He had killed before, but never in that particular way.

He had thought of fucking the nurse, but, banged about and drenched in blood as she was, she was not an attractive sight. Still, this waiting was boring. He was supposed to remain in the front room with the blinds down, but that was ridiculous. What difference would it make if someone saw him – just a shape – from outside? And who would, in this remote bloody spot?

He stood up, stretched, and went into the kitchen to make himself some tea.

They used the Bear's car. It would be less likely to attract attention than the unmarked, but still well-known, police vehicles. The Bear's car had an Avis sticker, the badge of a tourist in that part of the world.