Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

Off Fitzduane's Island, Ireland

January 1

The killing team needed a cover story for their presence.

As Japanese in a Western environment, they were more likely to be noticed and remembered.

They decided to come in as a film crew. Gold had been discovered in the region amid some of the most scenic terrain of the West of Ireland, and there was controversy as to whether it should be mined. It was a classic environmental issue and attracted international media attention. Film crews came and went, and most hired some kind of aerial transport. Ireland looks glorious from the air.

The team carried out their initial reconnaissance in a four-seater Piper Aztec. Discretion minimized their amount of flight time over the island itself, but it was sufficient for them to become comfortable with the lay of the land. On the second day, to allay suspicion, they telephoned Fitzduane's castle, explained the story they were working on, and requested permission to film from the ground to add some local color. They were politely refused.

The island itself was like a finger, ten kilometers long and four kilometers across at its widest, pointing west into the Atlantic toward America some three thousand miles away. It was joined to the mainland by a bridge set into the cliffs over a treacherous-looking divide; land access elsewhere looked impossible. The jagged coastline consisted of high, overhanging cliffs or, in the few places where the fall of land was more gentle, was guarded by concealed rocks and changing currents.

From the air they could see shadows of darkness in the sea and in two locations the remains of ancient wrecks. The sea seemed beautiful, moody, and dangerous. It was not a hospitable-looking spot.

There were two castles on the island.

The westward castle, Draker, was a sprawling Victorian Gothic structure which they knew had once been an exclusive school but which was now boarded up.

The castle nearer the landward side was Fitzduane's castle, Duncleeve.

It was this that interested them. It stood on a rocky bluff at one end of a bay. Inland was a freshwater lake overlooked by a small, white, thatched cottage.

Their reconnaissance covered many things: access, terrain, population, security, cover, threat assessment, and weather conditions. But their main concern was with confirming the killing ground.

They booked the helicopter and a faster, longer-range aircraft for the last two days. They explained that they were on a deadline and had to fly some exposed film to make a connection in London. Their credentials were double-checked by a cautious reservations clerk but were verified as satisfactory.

They would contour-fly in at fifty feet or less by helicopter, and land on the north side of the island in a clearing to seaward of one of the hills. They would be neither heard nor seen. They would then proceed on foot to the spot they had chosen. Fitzduane tended to vary the route he took on his daily ride, but there was one spot he normally visited either coming or going.

The child and his desires were the man's weakness. A watcher had monitored his movements for several weeks before the killing team had moved in.

The team members were experienced, well-trained, and totally motivated. After the hit, they would escape on foot to the waiting helicopter, fly to the aircraft, and enplane immediately for France. There, they would vanish.

It was now down to implementation and that intangible – luck.

Tokyo, Japan

The bodyguard tensed as he saw the gates in the outer perimeter wall swing open and the gleaming black limousine enter the drive.

The gates should not have opened without his checking the visitor on the TV monitor and, even more to the point, without his activating the release of the electronic lock. The master received a constant stream of visitors and petitioners at certain specified times of the day, so black limousines were more the rule than the exception. But this was seven in the morning, and the master's insistence on privacy while he bathed and prepared himself for the day was well-known.

It was a running joke in the circles of power that more careers were made and broken by the decisions made by Hodama -san while he soaked in his traditional copper bath than by the rest of the government put together. The joke had more punch when you realized that Hodama held no official position.

The drive through the formal gardens to the single-story traditional Japanese house was short. Even though KazuoHodama was one of the wealthiest men in Japan, custom dictated a certain modesty of lifestyle. Overt displays of power and wealth were frowned upon. Further, Hodama's simple house and grounds were in the exclusive Akasaka district of Tokyo. The ownership of a property at such a location was a message in itself. Tokyo property prices are the highest in the world. Hodama's dwelling and grounds, not much more extensive than a typical American ranch-style bungalow and yard, were valued conservatively at tens of millions of dollars.

The bodyguard, a grizzled veteran in his sixties, was kept on less for his physical skills than for his memory and sense of protocol. Threats were not seriously feared. Those days were long over. Hodama's power and influence were too great. Instead, the bodyguard was primarily concerned with the procedural niceties of controlling the flow of visitors. Appearances and appropriate behavior were of enormous importance. The wrong greeting or an inadequate bow by one of Hodama's retainers could be misinterpreted, and damage the harmony of the relationship between visitor and Hodama himself. And Hodama attached great importance to his relationships. The people he knew and influenced, the people he flattered and pampered and manipulated and betrayed, were the basis of his power.

With these thoughts in his mind, and concerned not to upset some dignitary, the bodyguard took no action for the few seconds it took for the long black vehicle with its shining chrome and tinted windows to sweep around in front of the house and purr gently to a halt. The sight of the license plate and the discreet symbol it bore was instantly reassuring. The bodyguard relaxed, immensely relieved that he had not initiated any precipitative action and caused embarrassment and loss of face. The opening of the perimeter gates was now explained. The limousine belonged to one of Hodama's intimates.

The driver's door opened almost as soon as the vehicle came to a halt, and the chauffeur, immaculate in navy uniform and white gloves, jumped out and opened the rear passenger door.

The bodyguard had also been hastening down to open the passenger door, as one of the gestures of respect he would employ for the distinguished visitor. Now, his first actions rendered unnecessary by the speed of the chauffeur, he stumbled to a halt and bowed deeply, his eyes cast down in respect, as the limousine door was opened.

A pair of expensively trousered legs emerged.

Something was wrong. Decades of bowing had made the bodyguard expert at making quick assessments with his head at waist height. Something just did not look right with the trousers. His master's visitor was very particular and consistent. His suits were exclusively English-tailored, and these trousers were definitely of Italian material and cut.

There was the sound of spitting – three distinct short spitting sounds – and the bodyguard's uncertainties were abruptly terminated, as three 9-mm hollow-point bullets entered the top of his skull, expanded as designed as they smashed through the bone, and then wreaked fatal havoc as they ricocheted around inside.

The bow became abruptly even more respectful until gravity exerted itself to the full and the bodyguard's corpse collapsed in an undignified heap. Blood from his head wound trickled its way into the carefully raked gravel of a Zen stone garden.