Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

On the fifty day, he had been eased out of bed, propped up with a zimmer frame – a walking support – and, to his amazement, made twenty yards. He had felt terrified at first and then ridiculous. He'd still had his chest drains in. He was told that what he was doing was called ‘shadow walking.’ Shadow or not, it was a start.

At the end of the first week, his chest drains had been removed. During the second week, he had been moved from the frame onto crutches. By the third week, he could do fifty yards at a stretch. Day by day after that, his stamina improved.

Not long after the attack on the hospital, he was assessed yet again by the surgeon. The sight of X rays seemed to bring out a certain manic cheeriness in the medic. "You are fortunate, Hugo," he had said, "that your assailant used a subsonic round. The damage to your femur was serious enough, but it could have been a lot worse. You leg is really in quite reasonable shape, all things considered. Boy, did we do a good job!"

"How the fuck do I know?" said Fitzduane in a reasonably good-humored voice. "I don't get shot regularly. I have no basis of comparison."

The surgeon was used to being addressed as some kind of supreme being by nursing staff and patients as he made his rounds, but he enjoyed Fitzduane.

"Ireland is an island behind an island," he had said, "and you were wounded on yet another, even more remote, island. Think yourself lucky you were not just painted with iodine and left to get on with it. Anyway, it's back to surgery for you. The blood flow in your leg is good and there is encouraging new bone in the area of the wound. I'm going to take off your scaffolding."

Three days later, Fitzduane returned to Duncleeve. His leg was now internally fixated. All the external protruding metal had been removed. In its place he wore a brace, both for support and to remind him to take it easy at first. He could now walk with the aid of only one crutch. Soon that would be discarded, and then the brace.

He grew fitter and stronger.

Kathleen came with him. She was not a physiotherapist, but she was a trained nurse and well-briefed by her colleagues. Further, she had a highly motivated patient who already had learned most of what he had to do in his own right. He would push himself slightly harder every day, training for an hour at a time twice, three times, and then four times a day.

His stamina increased and his slight limp faded.

Kathleen and he became very close, intimate friends. They ate together, talked together late into the night, exchanged confidences, walked arm in arm outside the castle. Yet their physical relationship did not evolve. Kathleen was still deeply affected by the assault on her home and the death of her father. Fitzduane was still recovering his health and was adjusting t his loss of Etan.

Meanwhile there was much to be done. Fitzduane's castle and his island were being transformed.

Relentlessly, Fitzduane, displaying the thoroughness and tactical professionalism of so many of his ancestors, was preparing to strike back.

The telephone rang. Fitzduane picked up the handset gingerly; Boots liked playing with phones, and it was covered with his porridge and honey. Still, it was a reminder that he was home again in Duncleeve.

"You sound distant," said de Guevain. He was back in Paris. Since he largely owned his private bank he was something of his own master, and he had an excellent Director-General, but even so he felt inclined to show the flag now and then.

Fitzduane was holding the instrument far enough away to avoid contact. There was raspberry jam on the damn thing as well. Boots had been hungry that morning. There were toast crumbs everywhere. He hunted around for tissues while he spoke.

"I am distant," he said. "You're in France, I'm in Ireland."

He found the tissues, wiped the phone as best he could, and moved the receiver closer to him. "How are things on your end?"

"The family are fine," said de Guevain, "and the bank is making money. Situation normal. I lead a predictable life. And I have heard from our foreign friends."

"This is an open line," reminded Fitzduane gently.

"I know, mon ami," said de Guevain. "All I want to say is that now I have ever reason to believe that you can rely on the builder we talked about. He is not associated with the competition. My friends are sure of it, and I am sure of them." de Guevain's ‘friends’ could be traced back to his college, his regiment, and his banking connections. The foreign and intelligence services would feature. Apart from his aristocratic background, Christian was an enarques, which meant that he had gone to one of the small group of colleges from which the key rulers of France were selected. It was an intellectual club with excellent sources. It was the final check. Yoshokawa- san could be trusted.

"Take care of yourself, my friend," said Fitzduane. He felt suddenly concerned. It was a feeling, no more. "You were with me when the Hangman was killed. Get some security. Take some precautions." de Guevain laughed. "I'm only in danger when I visit you, Hugo," he said. "But do you know anything?"

"No," said Fitzduane. "Nothing. But I just have a sense of unease."

"Two attempts on your life. You're entitled to some paranoia," said de Guevain. He hung up the phone and thought for a while.

Everything was fine except for the break-in at his apartment two nights earlier. Fortunately, nothing had been stolen. The security system was being upgraded, and he resolved to have a word with the bank's security people.

Tokyo, Japan

March 2

Two months into the Hodama murder investigation, it was clear to Adachi that he was in for an endurance test.

Results were not coming either easily or quickly. Murder investigations typically developed strong leads in the first day or so, resulting in a quick arrest, or else turned into a matter of stamina.

After the first couple of weeks, he realized he faced the prospect of months or even years on the affair. He might be transferred off the case to let some new blood have a go, but, pending that, he was in for the duration. Hodama had been too big a fish for the case to be put quietly on the back burner. This was the killing of an insider, one of the most powerful members of the political establishment. If someone of Hodama's status could be killed and the assassins left undetected, then no one was safe.

A steady stream of government members, senior civil servants, and politicians expressed their decidedly personal concern about the progress of the investigation. There were regular calls from the Prime Minister's office. The Minister of Justice had asked for special briefings on two occasions. The brunt of the pressure was fielded by the senior prosecutor and the Deputy Superintendent-General, so Adachi was left relatively free to operate, but the extent of the concern was made well-known to him, together with regular statements of confidence in his abilities.

Adachi was not naive. He was uncomfortable being supported in this way. It put him neatly in the firing line as the fall guy, if such was required. Secondly, it was his experience that public praise normally came before private termination. The best eulogies, now he thought about it, were delivered at weddings, retirements, firings, and funerals. It was a depressing observation about the human condition. And did weddings really belong in this group of essentially negative transitional occasions? He thought they probably did – although undoubtedly most participants regarded themselves as exceptions.

Inspector Fujiwara came into the squad room looking pleased with himself. Immediately behind him, two sweating detectives appeared, struggling with a very large, heavy object neatly wrapped in the material used by the Forensics Department. The parcel was labeled and sealed with an eye for presentation. Whoever had wrapped the damn thing had obviously aspired to the high aesthetic packaging standards of the Mitsukoshi Department Store. Adachi did not know whether to be proud of this Japanese obsession with doing everything correctly – even when it was not necessary – or to regard his fellow countrymen as being slightly nuts. It was heresy, but it was a thought worth taking further, he considered.