Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

The series of little roads were narrow and winding, and the Bear was still adjusting to driving on the left-hand side of the road. The stone bridges were narrower still. He thought it quite likely that he would be having some paintwork on the local stonework before the day was out.

As they drove around one bend, about a mile from Kathleen's home, two cars came toward them from the opposite direction. The Bear saw the lead car only at the last minute and swerved desperately to avoid a collision.

His tires locked, and he skidded off the road and slid inexorably into a patch of boggy ground. When the car came to a rest, using the clutch and gears with care, he tried to drive out but in vain. Next he tried to get out, but his door was stuck.

The Bear felt very foolish and not a little angry with himself. He should have let one of the policemen drive. He was a good driver in Switzerland, but Ireland always took him a few days to get used to and the roads in the West were worse than most. His front passenger had slid out, and he followed by sliding across with some difficulty. The Bear was not built for confined spaces.

The four men tried for fifteen minutes to push the car back on the road, but their efforts were fruitless. The Bear fell in the mud several times as he pushed. None of their personal radios could pick up anything in the valley.

Finally, the four men set off for the Fleming house on foot. The Bear was not overly fond of walking, but could manage a brisk enough pace if it was absolutely essential. The armed detective brought up the rear of the little party. He had taken his Uzi out of the briefcase it was normally carried in and slung it over his shoulder.

After the men had walked for five minutes, the sky became black and menacing and suddenly it began to rain in sheets. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled in the distance.

The Bear's moustache began to droop. He was soaked from the thinning hair on his head to the well-designed tips of his expensive Bally shoes – a gift from Katia and not typical Bear apparel. Not for the first time, he thought the Irish climate was ridiculous.

He wondered why he was prepared to behave in a decidedly uncautious and un-Bernese way when in Fitzduane's ambit. Somehow, this damned Irishman brought out the adventurer in him.

The Bear straightened and began to whistle a Bernese marching song. Behind him, the two uniformed guards, who had had the sense, being local, to wear uniform caps, long raincoats, and Wellington boots, looked at each other and, when they had got the hang of it, joined in. Behind them, the detective checked the condom on the muzzle of his Uzi for effectiveness in conditions which might be deemed somewhat harsher than its normal design parameters – and beat time with his hand slapping against the receiver.

Soon, they were all marching in step. Ahead of them as they rounded a bend lay the Fleming bungalow.

There was a light on at the back of the house.

Connemara Regional Hospital

February 1

There is a rule of thumb in the traditional military world that the attacker needs more manpower – three to five times is recommended – than the defender to ensure success.

Paradoxically, in terrorist and counterterrorist operations, the reverse has often turned out to be true. A small attacking force armed with high-firepower weapons has time and again inflicted damage out of all proportion to its size. That does not invalidate traditional military lore. It merely means that in the world of terrorism, the attacker rarely needs to seize and hold territory. Instead he is primarily interested in the logistically simpler task of inflicting maximum destruction in a strictly limited period of time. In his favor, he had tactical surprise on his side. He can choose when and where and how to strike. He can ensure that, though outnumbered and outgunned on an overall basis, at the point of contact he has superiority.

Kilmara, whose entire military career had been spent in the world of special forces and counterterrorism, knew the rules of the game as well as anyone. It was why he disliked being on the defensive. To Kilmara, the initiative was everything. Temperamentally, he was not a believer in the big battalions. He had more faith in planning, timing, audacity, and firepower.

But he was also a pragmatist. On an operation, he rarely allowed himself to be distracted by aspirational thinking. He worked within the context of the situation, and if it was not to his liking he merely swore more than usual and worked even harder. He was a believer in the work ethic in his arcane special forces world. He could not understand why all military men did not follow this creed, since the alternative was, not infrequently and quite predictably, death.

The hard core of the IRAP unit was only three men, Kilmara knew, but that was often fleshed out with manpower drafted in for a specific operation. Reviewing past IRAP operations on his computer linked to Ranger headquarters in Dublin, he noted that as many as twenty terrorists had been involved in some attacks, and that in some instances, armed with heavy firepower, they had stood their ground and gone head to head with regular army troops.

It was generally thought that the terrorists bombed and sniped and immediately ran away, but that was not always the case. And IRAP, in particular, liked to play hardball. McGonigal was a murderer and arguably a psychopath, but he did not lack either bravery or daring. On the side of the angels, he would be considered a hero.

He was sitting in a swivel chair in Room Number 4 of the private wing, looking at a bank of television screens linked to microminiaturized cameras that had been installed to cover all key points both inside and outside the hospital. Apart from light from the television monitors, the room was in total darkness. A dense black fabric had been pulled down over the windows and stapled in place. The same had been done to every room on the private ward.

In the corner of the room, Fitzduane, tired from talking to Kilmara earlier, was asleep.

Mary Fleming was evidently fond of home baking.

Eamon had found freshly baked soda bread in the kitchen, together with a pound of creamery butter and some homemade raspberry jam. He put his AK-47 on top of the dishwasher, rooted in the drawers for a bread knife, and went to work with a will. He was in seventh heaven. You could take your French cuisine and stuff it. The high point of Eamon's culinary life had been bread and jam at his mother's table, and this little feast evoked strong and pleasant memories.

The weather outside was atrocious. It was so dark that without the light on in the kitchen he would have been scarcely able to see, and sheets of rain lashed at the windows and made looking outside a matter of squinting and peering. It was like looking through Vaseline. But in these conditions nobody would be out walking and he would hear any car that drove in. Even with the noise of the rain, the wind, and distant thunder, there was a loose cattle grid at the entrance that clanged noisily when driven over.

He had the radio on quietly in the corner. It was really very pleasant, this cocoon of warmth, light, and comfort in the midst of the worst the elements could do.

As his hunger was being satisfied, his other needs surfaced. Out of sight, the attractions of the nurse increased. He conveniently forgot the bloodstained upper body, the knife nicks on her throat and breasts. Instead he remembered slim thighs and long legs. She was wearing only a bathrobe and panties. He felt pressure against the front of his pants. He would have a couple more slices of bread and jam and then service this woman. He might as well. She would be dead meat soon enough. He did not fancy fucking a corpse. It was obscene.