Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

"I didn't think there was room," said Fitzduane, "and the road is bumpy as hell."

"Well," said Murrough, "bumpy or not, the feller did it – several times, in fact. I went up to have a look and talked to the pilot. He was a pleasant enough chap for a foreigner. There were two passengers on board – relatives of a Draker student, he said."

"Remember the student's name?" said Fitzduane.

Murrough shook his head.

"What kind of plane was it?"

"A small enough yoke," said Murrough, "but with two engines. Sort of boxy-shaped. They use the same kind of thing to fly out to the Aran Islands."

A Britten-Norman Islander," said Fitzduane. "A cross between a flying delivery van and a Jeep. I guess with the right pilot one of those could make it. They only need about four hundred yards of rough runway, sometimes less."

"Why so interested?" said Murrough.

"I'll tell you after we've eaten," answered Fitzduane. "I don't want to spoil your appetite." He followed Murrough into the cottage. Harry Noble was sitting at the pine table with his hands wrapped around a mug of tea.

"Good morning, Mr. Ambassador," said Fitzduane.

Harrison Noble's jaw dropped. "How on earth do you know that?" he said in astonishment.

Fitzduane sat down at the table and watched appreciatively as Oona poured him a cup of tea. "Friends in high places," he said.

Ambassador Noble nodded his head gloomily. He had enjoyed being incognito. Now a bunch of U.S. Embassy protocol officers would probably parachute in. So much for a quiet time fishing.

"I want to share a few thoughts with you," said Fitzduane, "which you may well find not the most cheerful things you've ever heard."

Oona brought the food to the table. "Eat up first," she said. "Worry can wait."

They ate, then Fitzduane talked.

"Hmm," said the ambassador when he'd finished. "Do you mind if I'm blunt?"

"Not at all," said Fitzduane.

"Lots of gut feeling and not much fact," said the ambassador, "and your law enforcement authorities have been informed of your suspicions. It seems, on the face of it, most unlikely that anything at all will happen. You're probably jumpy because of your recent experiences in Switzerland."

Fitzduane nodded. "A reasonable reaction," he said, "but I run on instinct – and it rarely lets me down."

Murrough went to a cabinet and removed a bolt-action rifle equipped with a high-power telescopic sight. It was a. 303 Mark IV Lee-Enfield customized for sniping, a version of the basic weapon of the Irish Army until it was replaced by the FN in the early sixties. He had used one just like it in combat in the Congo. He stripped down the weapon with practiced hands. Noble noticed that he didn't look at what he was doing, but his touch was sure.

"Mr. Noble," said Murrough, "sometimes we don't know how things work even though they do." He indicated Fitzduane. "I've known this man a long time, and I've fought with him – and I've been glad we were on the same side. I've learned it pays to listen to him. It's why I'm alive."

The ambassador looked at Murrough's weather-beaten face for some little time. He smiled slightly. "Only a fool ignores the advice of an experienced gillie," he said. Murrough grinned.

The ambassador turned to Fitzduane. "Any ideas?" he asked.

"Some," said Fitzduane.

The Bear had to admit that his initial reaction to Ireland was – to put it mildly – not exactly favorable. The grim weather didn't help, of course, but it merely served to exacerbate his views. Even allowing for the depression induced by a cold wind and a sky the color of lead – it had been warm and sunny in Switzerland when they had left – the most charitable observer of Dublin (all he had seen of the country on that first evening) would have to agree that it was – he searched for the right word – ‘scruffy’.

On the other hand, the city had a vitality and a bounce that were not so apparent and energy and a sense of fun, and the whole place reeked of tradition and a volatile and unsettled history. Some of the old buildings were still pocked with bullet marks from the rising against the British in 1916.

Their first evening out was marked by friendly and erratic service, excellent seafood, music that aroused emotions they didn't even know existed – and too much black beer and Irish coffee to drink.

They got to bed in the small hours and didn't breakfast until eight in the morning. The Bear woke up confused and decidedly unsure what a couple of weeks in Irelandwas going to do to him. The others said they hadn't had so much fun in years. It was all decidedly unSwiss.

When they drove onto the island, pausing by the bridge to look down at the Atlantic eating away at the cliffs below, Fitzduane's castle lay ahead of them against a backdrop of blue sky and shimmering ocean.

"Incredible!" said the Bear as they climbed out of the car to greet Fitzduane.

Fitzduane grinned. "You don't know the half of it."

"The thought occurs to me," said Henssen, "that we don't actually have to do anything even if the Hangman does show up. We start off with two advantages: we're not the target, and we have a castle to hide away in. All we've got to do is drop the portcullis and then sit drinking poteen until the good guys arrive."

The Bear was outraged. "Typical German fence sitter," he said. "Leave a bunch of kids to a ruthless bastard like the Hangman. It's outrageous. You can't mean it."

"You've got a lot of nerve talking about sitting on the fence," said Henssen cheerfully. "What else have the Swiss done for the last five hundred years except wait out the bad times eating Toblerone and then picking over the corpses?"

"Calm down, the pair of you," said Fitzduane. "Nothing may happen at all." The group fell silent. They were seated around the big oak table in the banqueting hall. The centuries-old table was immense. Its age-blackened surface could have accommodated more than three times as many as the twelve who were there now. They all looked at Fitzduane. "It's only a gut feel," he added.

The ambassador spoke. His son, Dick, had joined the group for lunch. The ambassador had not intention of letting him return to the college until this bizarre situation was resolved. A small voice privately wondered if he, the ambassador, could be on the Hangman's list. The head of U.S. State Department's Office to Combat Terrorism would look good stuffed on the Hangman's wall.

He cleared his throat. "I speak as an outsider," he said, "and to me the evidence is not entirely convincing." There was a murmur of protest from several of the others. The ambassador held up his hand. "But," he continued, "most of the people here know you and seem to trust your instincts, so I say we stick together and do what we can. Better safe than sorry."

He looked at the group. There were nods of agreement. "The next thing is to decide who does what," he said.

"Easy," said the Bear. "This isn't a situation for democracy. It's Fitzduane's castle and Fitzduane's island – and he knows the Hangman best. Let him decide what to do."

"Makes sense," said Henssen.

"Looks like you're elected," said the ambassador. There was a chorus of agreement.

Fitzduane rose from the table and went to one of the slit windows set into the outer wall of the banqueting hall. It had been glazed, but the slim window was open, and a breeze off the sea blew in his face.

He could see a ship in the distance. It was a small freighter or a cattle boat – something like that. It was approaching the headland where the college was located. The weather was still superb. He wished he were out on Pooka with the sun warming his body and the wind in his face rather than preparing for what was to come. He went back to the table, and Etan caught his eye and smiled at him; he smiled back.