Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

"This is a fun job," said Gunther as he left the room.

"It changes as you get older," said Kilmara to himself. "Your friends get killed."

Fitzduane's Castle – 1715 hours

The heat haze had increased. Murrough handed Fitzduane the binoculars. Fitzduane stared at the distant spot indicated by Murrough for about thirty seconds, then lowered the glasses.

"Hard to tell," he said. "Visibility at that distance isn't so good. All I can make out is a blur; most of it is cut off by the headland. Some kind of freighter, I suppose." He turned toward Murrough. "There have been boats passing in the distance every hour or so all day. What's unusual about this one?"

Murrough took back the binoculars and had another brief look. "The haze has got worse all right. I should have called you earlier. It's hard to be absolutely sure, but I think our friend over there has been stopped for a while."

"How long?"

"About twenty minutes. I can't be certain."

"Which way did it come? Did you get a look at it earlier?"

"From the south," said Murrough. "It was far out and moving slowly. It's a cattle boat, one of those new jobs with the high superstructure and lots of ventilators like mushrooms on the top."

"How big are those things?"

"I don't know exactly. But big enough to hold over a thousand cattle and all their feed. Maybe the boat's stopped to feed the cattle."

Fitzduane lifted the binoculars to his eyes again and commenced a 360-degree sweep. It was the same boat he'd seen earlier in the afternoon. He continued sweeping and stopped with the glasses pointing at the bridge. A station wagon crossed over it onto the island and pulled to the side of the road. Two men got out and looked around. He passed the binoculars to Murrough.

"Fishermen," said Murrough. "I can see fishing rod cases, and they're wearing fishing gear."

"But what do fishermen use ropes for?" said Fitzduane. Retrieving the binoculars, he watched one of the men lower the other below the bridge supports. The man then lowered a bulky package. He opened his fishing rod case and extracted something. When he clipped it into place a bulky banana-shaped object, there was no longer any doubt as to what he was holding.

"Christ!" shouted Fitzduane. "He's got an AK-47. I'll bet even money the fuckers are going to blow the bridge."

Murrough brought up his sniper's rifle to his shoulder and took aim. The man under the bridge scrambled up the rope, and both men ran for cover. There was a dull explosion and a small puff of dust, and smoke and debris flew into the air. The bridge didn't appear to move.

"They made a balls of it," said Murrough. He choked on his words when the bridge suddenly collapsed at the island end and the whole structure slid down into the sea. The two saboteurs rose from cover and went to review their handiwork. They stood by the cliff edge and looked down. Then one of them turned and began examining the castle through binoculars. Seconds later he gesticulated and brought his AK-47 up to the point of aim. The muzzle faced the keep and winked flame. A burst of automatic fire gouged the ancient stonework.

Fitzduane and Murrough fired at the same time. There was little kick from the SA-80; the weapon was as accurate as promised. Both terrorists died before they hit the submerged debris of the bridge. The spume of the sea turned momentarily pink.

"Show time," said Fitzduane. "Stay here. I'll send someone to relieve you in a couple of minutes; then I want you down in the bawn. We're going to retrieve that station wagon and go calling."

His walkie-talkie crackled. "Get down to the study," said a voice strained with tension.

Fitzduane slung the SA-80 and headed down the circular stairs. The study door was open. Etan was slumped in a chair looking dazed, a bloody cloth pressed to the side of her head. The radio given to him by Kilmara had been smashed to pieces. It was irreparable. Ambassador Noble stood just inside the door with a Browning automatic in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other. He was ashen gray with shock. He was staring at a figure that lay sprawled on the ground facedown. A knife of an unusual design lay by the dead body's hand.

Fitzduane turned the body onto its back. A grotesque wolf mask stared up at him. The shirt below was matted with blood where several rounds had struck.

Ambassador Noble spoke dully. "I heard Etan scream and saw this dreadful figure strike her and then turn to attack me. He had a knife, so I fired instinctively." As Fitzduane pulled off the mask, Noble fell to his knees. "Oh, my God," he said. "What have I done?" He took his son's body in his arms, and tears streamed down his cheeks.

There was silence in the room. Then Fitzduane spoke. "It's not your fault. There was nothing else you could do."

Harry Noble stared at him blankly. "Dick belonged to this cult you spoke about," he said, his voice flat.

"So it seems." This is the way the Hangman operates. He corrupts and manipulates, and young people are always the easiest to manipulate. I'm sorry." There was nothing else he could say.

Noble bent down and by his son again and kissed him, then picked up his Browning and looked at Fitzduane. "I shouldn't have doubted you. Whatever has to be done, let's do it."

Etan sobbed without tears, and Fitzduane held her in his arms. Soon she was quiet. "So it's really going to happen," she said.

"Yes," said Fitzduane.

The Bear stood in the doorway. "The phone is dead," he informed them, "and the electricity is out. We're trying to get the generator going now."

"There's a knack," said Fitzduane. He felt more than heard a faint throbbing sound as the big diesel cut in. The lamp on the study desk came on.

"There are only twelve of us now," said Etan.

"It'll do," said the Bear.

DrakerCollege – 1745 hours

Pat Brogan, the sergeant in charge of the security detail at the college, always looked forward to the departure of the staff minibus. There was a rotating element in the catering and cleaning staff that could permit some dangerous person to infiltrate, and in any case they were just more bodies around to keep an eye on. After the bus left, he had only the students and a few known faculty members to consider, and he felt he could relax.

All in all, it was a pretty good assignment, he thought, if a trifle boring. They had comfortable private rooms – not barracks smelling of sweat and socks like up on the border – and a study had been set aside where they could lounge in easy chairs, watching television or making tea or whatever. The college had thoughtfully provided a fridge for milk, which the guards kept well stocked with beer, and it was a cold beer he had in mind as he handed over to the evening shift.

It had been a long, hot, glorious day, and all was well with his world except that his face was brick red from too much sun. He had read somewhere that pale Irish skins were especially vulnerable to the sun: not enough pigmentation or something. Apparently redheads had the worst time. To judge by O'Malley's state, it was all too true.

He snapped the magazine out of his Uzi submachine gun as he entered the rest room and put the weapon in the arms locker. He kept the. 38 Smith amp; Wesson revolver he wore in a Canadian-made pivot shoulder holster. Orders were to be armed at all times, even when off duty, and wearing a handgun was now as routine to him as wearing a shirt.

The television was on, and the chairs were in their accustomed positions facing it. He knew he'd find the three other off-duty guards already comfortably dug in. He hoped they hadn't made too much of a dent in the beer. The hot day had encouraged the stock to shrink as the hours passed. He took a can of beer from the fridge, noting subconsciously that some kind soul seemed to have replenished the drink supply. The unit was practically full.