Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

"There's one thing before we get to the specifics," he said to the group. "I can only tell you what I feel – and I feel that what is to come will be pretty bad." He looked at each face in turn. "Some of us may get killed. Now is the time if anyone wants to leave."

Nobody moved. Fitzduane waited. "Right people," he said after an interval. "This is what we will do." He glanced at his watch as he spoke.

It was 3:17 p.m. – 1517 in military time.

Aboard the Sabine – 1523 Hours

Kadar held the clipboard in his left hand despite the discomfort, as if to convince himself that his hand was still intact. The physical pain was slight, and the wound was healing nicely, but the mental trauma was another matter. The sense of vulnerability induced by having had part of his body torn away remained as an undercurrent during all his waking hours.

The Irishman had been responsible. A shot from Fitzduane's pistol during those last frenetic few seconds in the studio had marred what had otherwise been otherwise a near-perfect escape. The round had smashed the third metacarpal bone of his left hand. Splinters protruding from the knuckle were all that had remained of his finger. He had been surprised. There had been no pain at first, and he had been able to follow his prearranged escape routine without difficulty – even managing the zippers and straps and buckles of his wet suit and aqualung with his customary speed.

The pain had hit when he emerged from the concealed chute into the icy green waters of the Aare. He had screamed and retched into the unyielding claustrophobia of his face mask. Just the memory made him feel queasy.

Fitzduane: he should have had that damned Irishman killed at the very beginning instead of letting Erika have her way. But to be truthful, it wasn't entirely Erika's fault. He had liked the man, been intrigued by him. Now he was paying the price. So much for the famed nobler side of one's character. It had cost him a finger.

Kadar looked at the polished brass chronometer on the wall. It was an antique case fitted with a modern mechanism – typical of the care that had gone into the design of the cattle boat.

The vessel was perfect for his purpose. Not only did it attract no attention, but it was clean and comfortable. To his surprise and relief, there was no smell. Evidently modern cattle, even on their way to ritual throat cutting in Libya, expected – and received – every consideration. The parallels with his own operation did not escape him. There would be plenty of space and fresh air for his hostages. There would be none of the discomfort associated with an airplane hijack – heat and blocked toilets and no room to stretch your legs. No, the Sabine, with her excellent air conditioning system and spacious enclosed cattle pens, seemed to have been purpose-built for a mass kidnapping. It would be equally effective for a mass execution.

Operation Geranium: it was the largest and most ambitious he had mounted. He would finish this phase of his career on a high note. The world's antiterrorist experts would have to do some serious rethinking after his pioneering work became known.

Kadar enjoyed planning, but the period just before an operation when all the preparation was complete was the time he enjoyed most. He savored the sense of a job well done combined with the anticipation of what was to come.

The trouble with most hijacks involving large numbers of hostages was that the terrorists started on the wrong foot and then all too quickly lost the initiative. The first problem was that there were never enough men involved. Even in the confined surroundings of an airplane, half a dozen fanatics had a hard time keeping hundreds of people under guard over an extended period. The most extreme terrorist still needed to eat and sleep and go to the bathroom. His attention wandered. He looked at pretty women when he should be on guard – and then bang! In came the stun grenades and all the other paraphernalia of the authorities, and – lo and behold – there was another martyr for the cause. Pretty fucking futile, in Kadar's opinion. The argument that the publicity alone justified an unsuccessful hijack didn't impress him one small bit.

Another common difficulty was that hijackers, forced to use easy-to-conceal weaponry like pistols and grenades, tended to be under-armed. In contrast, the forces of law and order, galvanized into action by the media and the weapons merchants, had invested in a massive array of antiterrorist gadgetry and weaponry. The scales had never been tilted more heavily against the terrorist. Counterterrorism had become a complete industry.

But even with the manpower and firepower issues left out of it, there still remained a key flaw in terrorist hijack tactics: the initiative, once the initial grab had taken place, passed almost completely to the authorities. The hijackers waited and sweated, and the authorities prevaricated and stonewalled. The only thing the terrorists could do was kill prisoners to demonstrate intent, but even that option was counterbalanced by that unwritten but well-known rule: Once the killing starts the assault forces go in, and too damn bad about the consequences. To make matters worse from a terrorist point of view, experience had shown that a specialist assault force could take out a hijack position with minimal casualties – most of the time. The Egyptians were the exception to that rule.

The final problem with hijacks was that either the terrorists didn't seem to know precisely what they wanted – Kadar, professional and Harvard man that he was, found this hard to swallow, but his research showed it was often the case – or what they demanded was obviously politically unacceptable or impossible. Often it was both.

It had to be admitted that unless you were a publicity hound – and Kadar was profit-oriented first and foremost, though he wasn't averse to a degree of media flirtation and had enjoyed his obituaries immensely – the hijack track record was not good.

"Room for improvement," as a schoolteacher would put it.

In Kadar's view, a fundamentally new approach was required – and Operation Geranium was the result.

Fitzduane's Castle – 1555 Hours

Fitzduane had phoned the police security detail at DrakerCollege and, for good measure, had also spoken to the acting headmaster. His concerns had been politely received but with thinly disguised incredulity. He didn't need to be psychic to know that he wasn't getting through. The sun continued to blaze in a cloudless sky. The idea of a serious threat in such an idyllic spot lacked credibility.

Sergeant Tommy Keane from the police station on the mainland had showed up on his bicycle and, after a private discussion with Fitzduane, had reluctantly agreed to stay around for the next few hours. It was too hot for fishing anyway. He'd try to sneak away in the evening. Meanwhile, he might as well keep an eye on what his eccentric friend was up to – and try to keep him out of trouble.

Fitzduane's little army now numbered thirteen. Eleven, including Fitzduane, reassembled in the great hall. Murrough and his wife were on the fighting platform of the tower. Armed with powerful binoculars, they could observe the bridge onto the island and much of the surrounding countryside with ease. Visibility was generally excellent, though a thin heat haze had sprung up and obscured details in the distance.

Fitzduane spoke. "Our first priority is to secure this castle, so I want you all to be thoroughly familiar with the physical layout, hence the guided tour. I'll go through it again now and explain how the defenses – if required – will work."

He turned to a large plan of the castle painted on wood and resting on an easel. It had been made nearly three hundred years earlier, and the colors were faded. His mind wandered for a moment to the many other occasions when Fitzduanes had assembled to ward off a threat. Most of the time they had been able to talk their way out of trouble. Somehow he didn't think that talk would be the answer this day.