Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

The Irish cattle trade with Libya was both known and established. The sight of the Sabine was routine. The only change that might have been commented on, but was not, was that the Sabine failed this time to refuel in Gibraltar. She had, apparently, braved the bureaucracy and chronic insufficiency of Qaddafi's Libya and bunkered in Tripoli (a practice the experienced ship's master learns not to repeat unless desperate).

An inquirer – if there had been one – would have been told, with a shrug, that it was a matter of an arrangement, and the thumb and forefinger would have been rubbed together. Such an answer would have sufficed.

The Sabine left the Pillars of Hercules behind and set a course for Ireland.

In the old Land Rover, allowing for a stop in Galway to pick up supplies and eat, they took nearly seven hours to reach the island from Dublin. It rained solidly until early evening, and then they were treated by the weather to such a spectacular display of changing light and mood that Fitzduane forgave all and wondered why he had ever left. It was so bloody beautiful.

His spirits lifted – and then the rain returned in full force as they were approaching the castle, as if to remind them to take nothing for granted.

"This is a fickle country," he muttered to himself while unloading the vehicle. He had been tempted to leave things where they were till morning, but the contents of the four long, heavy boxes and other containers Kilmara had given him were better placed under lock and key as soon as possible.

During the drive he had told Etan much of what had happened. Now he gave Murrough, who was having a drink inside with Etan, a short summary. He had kept his reservations about the Hangman's demise to himself. He didn't want to be unnecessarily alarmist.

Murrough and Oona had lit fires and aired the place, and the heating had been turned on earlier in the day. The castle was warm and comfortable. It felt good to be back.

Murrough was quiet for a while after Fitzduane had finished. Fitzduane refilled their glasses. "You'll have a chance to meet some of these people in a couple of days," he said. "I guess I got carried away during my last week in Bern, when we had one long round of celebrations to see the Hangman off in style. Heini Raufman is still supposed to be convalescing, so I invited him to see how civilized people live, and then somehow Henssen got added to the list – and then young Andreas von Graffenlaub. Andreas needs some distraction. He's bearing up well, but this whole business has been rough on him. His father's death hit him particularly hard."

"Poor lad," said Etan.

"Heini Raufman is the one you call ‘the Bear’?" said Murrough.

"You'll see why when you meet him," said Fitzduane.

"It will be nice to have this place full of people," said Etan.

She had been eyeing the castle and its furnishings with a definite proprietorial air since they arrived. It was dawning on Fitzduane that there were going to be more changes in his life than he had anticipated. He had to admit that the present decor was overheavy on stuffed animal heads, wall hangings, and medieval weapons. Still, what else would you expect in a castle? He was uneasy about the alternatives Etan might have in mind.

Etan looked at him. "Lace curtains on the windows," she said, grinning, "and flowered wallpaper on the walls."

"Over my dead body," said Fitzduane.

"I think I'd better be leaving," said Murrough, not moving but anxious to bring the conversation back to more serious matters.

Fitzduane knew his man. "What's on your mind, Murrough?" he said.

Murrough took his time speaking. "Those kids from the college, reviving something best long forgotten. What's happened about them? You never said."

"Not an entirely satisfactory outcome," said Fitzduane, but understandable, I suppose, given the trauma in the college recently. Information on what was going on was supplied to the acting headmaster by the Rangers, working through the police. I gather he was shocked but after reflection chose to believe that it was little more than juvenile high spirits. Above all, he wanted no more scandal. He said he would deal with the matter in his own way at the end of the term, and he'd appreciate if the police would leave it at that, so the police did. It isn't a crime to dress up like the Wolfman and run around in the woods. Anyway, the best efforts of all concerned failed to identify the individuals involved."

"And how about the small matter of our decapitated billy goat and the traces of sacrifice you found?" said Murrough indignantly. "Isn't that a little more than – what did he call it – juvenile high spirits?"

Fitzduane drained his glass. "Indeed," he said, "but there is the matter of proof, and nobody wants to upset the college further. It brings money into the area, and it's had a rough time recently. I think the police felt they couldn't press things."

Murrough digested what had been said. Etan had fallen asleep in front of the fire. He stood up to go. "So it's finished," he said.

Fitzduane looked at the dying embers. His reservations and his conversation with Kilmara seemed remote at this distance. Anyway, May would soon be over. He decided he'd sleep on the problem. "I hope so," he said, "I really do."

Ambassador Harrison Noble felt that things were going splendidly.

He lay back on his bed and congratulated himself on finding such a comfortable and practical place to stay. It was on the island, it was near his son's school, the woman of the house was a splendid cook, and this man Murrough said he would gillie for him.

Harrison Noble fell asleep within seconds of putting out the light. His sleep was that of a man contented and relaxed and at peace with the world.

Despite taking their travel sickness pills as instructed, most of the passengers on board the cattle boat Sabine were thoroughly ill as they crossed the Bay of Biscay.

The boat rolled unpleasantly without its normal cargo of fourteen hundred heavy cattle and the corresponding load of feed and water. The crew and more than seventy armed men, ammunition, explosives, surface-to-air missiles, and inflatable assault boats did not weigh enough to provide adequate ballast.

The air-conditioning system coped admirably with the smell. The passengers were fully recovered as the boat approached the south of Ireland. They cleaned and recleaned their weapons and rehearsed the details of the plan.

The U.S. Cultural Attache headed the crisis team that coordinated security for the embassy when a specific threat was involved. A diplomat largely occupied in his official duties with cultural exchanges, visiting baseball teams, and the arcane queries of scholars and writers might seem an unlikely choice for such a counterterrorist role, but the cultural attache was also the senior CIA man on the spot and, even more to the point, had experience at the sharp end on several unpleasant occasions in Latin America.

After the last experience, when his unarmored vehicle – a matter of budget cuts – had been sprayed with automatic-weapons fire in San Salvador and his driver killed, he had asked for a posting away from a high-risk zone. He had been sent to Ireland to get his nerve back and play some golf. Both his nerve and his golf had been doing fine until the attack warning had been received.

Now he waited and sweated and drank too much to be good for either his liver or his career and hoped that the extra acoustic and visual monitoring equipment Kilmara had requested would turn up something – or, better still, nothing.

He loathed the waiting, the sense of being a target on a weapons range. He knew too well what happens to targets. His driver in San Salvador had died holding his fingers against the hole in his neck, trying vainly to stop the gushing of arterial blood.