The Devil's Footprint
The Devil's Footprint
Prologue
TOKYO BAY, JAPAN:
She had looked like a bundle of rags bobbing in the sea.
They would have passed her by without further thought. But they saw for a brief moment an arm had come out of the water which had seemed to wave. It must have been an illusion because her eyes were closed and she was quite limp when they approached her. They had hoisted her into the old fishing boat and taken her down to the small cabin below. Her face was cut from forehead to chin and her clothing seemed to have been scorched and burned.
They bandaged her face as best they could. Then they stripped her, and wrapped her in a quilt and laid her on a futon. The space was cramped and smelled of rotting fish but it was the best they could do.
The old man had gone back to the steering wheel and Hiro to the bow to look for more survivors.
Yoshi was left alone with the woman. He stared at the bandaged face seeing not that but the lithe body and firm breasts and the vee between her legs. Her face would be permanently scarred, he was sure, but she had been a beautiful woman.
More than beautiful. Sexual. Strong. Well muscled. Long lean thighs. Unusually prominent nipples. A woman to dream about.
The woman's clothing lay in a heap in the corner of the cabin. Bored, he knelt beside the wet pile and started to examine the items. They seemed to comprise some sort of uniform. There was a shirt with buttoned pockets like the military wear and the trousers had side pockets and large external bellows pockets that extended to just above the knees. They were used for maps and other equipment, he supposed.
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, weather conditions, wind and light. These were all important details. But their main preoccupation was with escape and evasion - and confirming the killing ground.
The helicopter must have been military, he guessed. He picked through the pockets. There was a laminated photograph in one of them. It was slightly blurred as if it had been taken with a telephoto lens. The subject was a gaijin, a man in his mid forties he guessed. There was a military look about him.
Yoshi turned the photograph. There was a description on the back in Kanji and a name in English: HUGO FITZDUANE.
Yoshi turned the photograph. There was a description on the back in Kanji and a name in English: HUGO FITZDUANE.
He had half expected to find identity papers in the shirt but there was nothing. That was odd if she was military he thought. But then again he didn't really know how the military worked. The closest he had come to that world was through television.
There was a bulge in one of the bellows pockets. He remembered that they had seemed heavy when they were being removed but he had paid no attention at the time thinking it was just the weight of water in the clothing.
He reached into the pocket. The object inside was hard and round. He removed it and stared at it in disbelief.
The object fell from his frightened fingers and thudded onto the floor. The fishing boat heaved in the swell and the hand grenade rolled across the cabin floor and thudded into the bulkhead.
Yoshi's eyes bulged. He knew he should move but he stayed there petrified waiting for the inevitable explosion. His heart thumped and sweat beaded on his forehead.
Shaking he put the grenade back into the pocket so it would not roll around. Then he checked the other pockets. There was a length of some thick elasticized cord and a long pocket knife with a button on the side.
The drive through the formal gardens to the single storey traditional Japanese house was short. Even though Kazuo Hodama was one of the wealthiest men in Japan, custom dictated a certain modesty in life style. 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 world. Hodama's dwelling and grounds, not much more extensive than a typical American ranch style bungalow and yard, were valued conservatively at in excess of $20 million dollars.
Yoshi felt a hand on his shoulder. The touch was gentle utterly unlike the callused hand of his father grabbing him to do this or that. Always work. More work.
This hand was reassuring. It promised only pleasure. Instantly he thought again of the woman's body, of how she would feel under him.
He turned awkwardly shuffling on his knees. He was afraid yet compelled to move. The woman stood there, her face obscured by the bloodstained bandages, her body golden and perfect in contrast.
She must be in such pain. How could she stand there without showing some sign of her agony? No matter how strong her will, she had to feel weak.
The dressings covered not just her entire face but also her mouth. She could not speak. She put her hand behind his head as he knelt before her and drew him towards her.
Yoshi could smell her sex, feel her skin. He pulled her towards him paying no attention as the stiletto was removed from his uncaring fingers.
He felt her hand behind his head and he pressed his face into her loins. He sighed of pleasure.
He bent his head still further towards her. She held him with her thighs for the brief time it was necessary to plunge the stiletto into the back of his neck.
Shiro came to spell his father at the wheel. They were heading back to Tokyo. Others were better equipped to carry out a search and the injured woman needed medical attention. It would have been better still to radio for help but the batteries were flat. The old man really had no time for the newer ways and quietly frustrated his sons best efforts. The boat was powered by a fine Yamaha marine diesel but he still used oil lamps for illumination.
Hori smiled to himself. What could you do with such a father, but respect him.
The old man selected some fish and his kogatana and took them downstairs to prepare. He'd gut and clean them and then they would eat after they had docked. It was easier to cook when the boat was tied up. Meanwhile he whiled away the time as they chugged in with a little sake. Or maybe quite a lot of sake.
Shiro expected Yoshi to appear shortly after the old man went below but then reflected that the pair of them might be discussing their unusual catch and probably sharing the sake flask. Well, tempted though he was to shout down for his share, docking the boat demanded he wait for now.
"Yoshi! Get up here you lazy sod," Shiro called as he brought the boat alongside the dock. You did not have to be too sober to tie a boat up.
Slowly, Hodama shuffled into the tiled bathroom. He was feeling mentally alert but physically every one of his eighty-four years. He no longer slept much and had already been working for several hours. The soothing water beckoned.
Yoshi did not appear and Shiro felt some frustration. He moored the boat fore and aft and went below.
The cabin was dark and there was a thick smell stronger even than that of rotting fish. The oil lamp must have gone out.
But why were both the old man and Yoshi silent? Drunk and out cold. Well it had happened before. And there was the woman to attend to. Someone would have to get help. The catch had to be unloaded. There was work to be done.He fumbled for a match.
In the flare of the flame he saw his father hanging from a hook, his entrails hanging out of his body. He had been gutted.
Yoshi lay at his feet, his clothing and the floor around them both was crimson with blood.
The match burned down to his fingers and Shiro dropped it.
Reiko Oshima lit the oil lamp and surveyed her handiwork.
She was believed to be dead and she would stay that way for the time being. Certainly these fishermen were in no position to argue.
She donned her still wet clothing but supplemented it with various loose garments belonging to the crew. She was now unrecognizable. Her bandages obscured her features and the additional clothing made it impossible to determine her sex.
An old man, an old boat and two drunken sons. All the elements of an accident.
She had vanished into the back streets of Tokyo when the fishing boat blew.She had drunk some sake before she left to help assuage her pain. All she took with her was the stolen clothing and the laminated photograph of Hugo Fitzduane.
This was the man who had killed her.
This was the man she would kill.
Book 1
Terror
Chapter 1
Washington D.C.
The coded fax arrived as the three were having their breakfast.
The leader's room contained basic cooking facilities so the group had prepared the Japanese breakfast they were used to. It was a relief not to have to endure coffee with white powder and foods like croissants saturated in fat. How one could function on such an unhealthy diet was a mystery, Wakami-san considered.
The fax was decoded by Jin Endo, the most junior member of the group. His face turned gray as he read it checking for spelling errors before presenting it to the group leader.
He had sworn to die in the service of Yaibo and had meant every word but to face the fact that this was the day his life would almost certainly end was hard indeed. He was young and good-looking and the juices flowed. He remembered the young blond intern that he had tried to talk to the evening before. Her skirt had been swept back above her knees and her thigh, in the crowded bar, had pressed against his. He was oriental and spoke little English but she found him attractive he knew.
She worked in the Farnsworth building for a congressman from Texas. She had given him her number and extension scribbled on a beer coaster. He had said he was a student visiting Washington with his older brother and uncle. He would be here for a few more days. Look me up, her eyes had said and the warmth of her body had confirmed the promise. But it would be a promise unfulfilled for he would be dead.
They gave no thought as to why this man, Patricio Nicanor, had to die but focused totally on how the order was to be implemented. The most important thing, the order stressed, was that Nicanor be liquidated. They must make sure he was killed before he had a chance to speak to anyone in the congressman's office where the T-Group was based. He must be silenced whatever the cost. The lives of the Yaibo cell members were expendable.
The group leader's stomach churned as he read the decoded fax but his face displayed no trace of his inner feelings. He had trained for many years for such an occasion and he had developed the ability to separate his normal human reactions from his inner self. His initial feelings might be of shock or fear or extreme stress but he now knew that these were false reactions. His inner self and his fundamental sense of purpose were what counted.
Death was of no significance for he was as if already dead. What was important would be the manner of his dying. He had dedicated his life to Yaibo so what mattered was whether his death was in the service of his organization. He would do what was ordered without hesitation or regret.
The fax contained a digitized photo of the target which had been broken up into a dozen segments and then spread amongst the kanji text. It would scarcely fool the computers of the NSA but it was certainly sufficient to deceive the hotel clerk who had delivered the message.
Endo cut up the fax with a scissors and reassembled the pieces of the picture. What emerged was the picture of a Latin male in his early thirties. It was a clear photo but it was more indicative of a type than an individual. From the photograph alone they could not be absolutely certain beyond a doubt who their target was.
Wakami looked at his senior colleague. Matsunaga-san had worked with him for many years. They were the same age and had joined Yaibo at the same time and their thoughts were as one.
Wakami had not spoken but Matsunaga-san nodded. "There is only one certain way of getting the right man, Wakami-san. We know where he is going and we know roughly when he is due. We must kill him inside the congressional building as he approaches his goal. That way his guard will be down and we can be certain."
"But how, Wakami-san?" said Endo. "There are guards at the entrances and everyone is searched."
"That is a problem we have still to resolve," said Wakami, "but we are not entirely unprepared. There is certainly a solution."
Then Endo asked the question which had been haunting him. He hesitated and then the words rushed out as if they had a life of their own. Immediately he regretted having spoken. This was not appropriate behavior from a junior colleague and indeed he already knew the answer. But he was young and he was afraid and he had to ask. His hands clasped in front of him in a posture of respect as he stood there were damp with sweat and shaking.
"Wakami-san," he said. "How will we escape after we have killed this man?"
Wakami looked at his young colleague with affection. How little the young know, he thought, and how petty are their concerns.
"Endo-san," he said, "your concern that you might be taken alive is worthy indeed. You must trust me. I know you will do your duty."
Endo bowed in submission. His bowels had turned to liquid. His life, one way or another, would end this very day. It was certain. He could smell the very skin of the young blond intern, carefree and enthusiastic. She had her whole life ahead of her. He wanted to sob out loud. He straightened and was once again in control. There was a task to perform.
Oshima-san trusted him and had initiated him personally. He would not let her down.
They entered the outskirts of Washington DC.
Twenty minutes later, Warner gave a uniformed guard a wave. It was acknowledged by a nod of recognition, the barrier was raised and they shot into the basement car park of the Farnsworth Building. It was a mildly handsome but otherwise unremarkable light gray stone building housing one hundred and fifty elected members and their staffs of the Congress of the United States of America.
Fitzduane looked around the drab basement parking area. The place was two thirds empty. There was nothing to distinguish this car park from tens of thousands of conventional commercial building car parks but still the knowledge that he was now in the very core of the most powerful political center on earth gave him pause for thought.
From this complex of buildings flowed the legislation that made the United States of America.
Fitzduane loved the United States. He was not so sure about its capital.
But the bottom line was that Washington DC counted. It was not a question of whether you liked what they did there or not. The power was real.
Warner hopped out of the car and stretched. Then he came around to Fitzduane's side. The Irishman was still sitting there lost in thought.
"Yeah," said Warner, "it really makes you think when you come here the first time. This really is IT - the House, the Senate, the Supreme Court. All that good shit. The State Department, the FBI, the Pentagon. All those organs of the United States government just waiting to serve.
"It's enough to bring a lump to your throat. You think little old you can make a difference. You go around glowing for a few days, maybe a few weeks, possibly a month or two. And then you start very slowly to understand as the structure starts almost imperceptibly to destroy you.
"It is nearly impossible to get anything done in this fucking place. All this talent and ambition, all hundred senators and four hundred and fifty congressman and twenty-thousand staffers and eighty thousand lobbyists cancel each other out. The Founding Fathers wanted checks and balances and they surely did succeed.
Fitzduane smiled. "Hell of a speech, Dan," he said.
Warner grinned. "You wouldn't believe me if I said I liked it."
Fitzduane walked with Warner to the elevator. "How is security on the Hill," he said. "I noticed we weren't stopped on the way in and I didn't see you show a pass, Dan."
Warner grunted. "Basically, it sucks," he said, "but I guess you can't entirely blame the Capitol Hill police. They are supposed to keep the bad guys out while letting the public in. That is pretty damned difficult. But they go through the motions. If you had not been with me, Hugo, and went in the main entrance upstairs you would have had to walk through a metal detector and your bag, if you had one, would go through a scanner. But there are ways around that shit. The Task Force thinks security should be tightened but the politicians don't want to lose any votes. Guess who is winning?"
Fitzduane smiled. The elevator reached the second floor.
Lee Cochrane, Chief of Staff of the Congressional Task Force on Terrorism, glared at his subordinate.
Maurice Isser, a complex hybrid of French-Canadian, Russian and Jewish origin - now neatly packaged as American - was, at times, a near impossible man. He got away with it because he was arguably a genius at both intelligence and analysis. But one of his many quirks was his absolute paranoia when it came to meeting new people. He hated the initial contact at any time but never more so when he was not well prepared and softened up in advance.
Cochrane was going to strangle the man. He was going to positively enjoy strangling the man. The prospect was cheering.
"Maury," said Cochrane, "all I want you to do is meet him. You can't spend your life as The Invisible Man or peering out of a slit in the stationery closet. Someone is going to wrap a canvas jacket around you and cart you away."
"Why didn't you tell me?" said Maury in an aggrieved voice.
Cochrane looked up at the ceiling which was of little help. It needed painting badly. The federal budget was certainly not being spent here.
"You were traveling," said Cochrane soothingly. "Fitzduane," said Maurice, "who is he? What's his history?"
"Jesus, Maury," said Cochrane, "you want history, I'll give you history."
He sighed. "About seven hundred years ago, a Norman knight, Sir Hugo Fitzduane, part of the initial British invasion force of Ireland, quarreled with someone on high and then left the main force and set off for the West of Ireland.
"He fought the bad guys, married a local Irish princess and found himself an island off the West of Ireland to build a castle on. Duncleeve it's called. The Castle of the Sword. It says a great deal of what you need to know about the Fitzduanes.
"All these centuries later, a Hugo Fitzduane still lives there. The Fitzduanes seem to be a persistent bunch with something of a 'What I have I hold' outlook on life. And a tradition of arms."
The swivel chair began to turn slowly. Cochrane had Maury's attention.
"The present Fitzduane followed that tradition. He joined the Irish Army and was posted to the Congo with the United Nations. Special forces. His commander was a Colonel Shane Kilmara. His unit racked up quite a reputation for itself. The Congo in those days was something of a bloodbath."
"Ah!" said Maury. "General Kilmara these days, I think. Now it's coming back to me. He's turned up all over the globe over the last couple of decades. He is probably the best counter-terrorist military man out there.
" About bloody time, thought Cochrane. Maury never forgot anything but he did not always remember where he stored what he knew and the protocol was to help him to find it.
"Kilmara seems to have always accepted his calling as a warrior. Fitzduane was more ambivalent and has always had something of a love/hate relationship with violence. He resigned from the army after the Congo business and then spent the next twenty years as a combat photographer. Cover of Time, that kind of thing. Still, you name a war and he's been there. The word is that he's forgotten more about combat than most generals ever knew.
"The word also has it that though Fitzduane is a reluctant warrior he has proven to be very good in combat. One of the best."
"The Hangman affair," breathed Maury.
Cochrane nodded. "It was a classic counter-terrorist operation and during it our friend Hugo Fitzduane began to lose his amateur status. He was to find out the hard truth that once you enter the game, it is near impossible to leave it alive. A few years later, when he thought the whole Hangman thing had blown over, a hit team of Japanese Yaibo terrorists bent on revenge landed on his island and shot up both him and his young son. Both recovered but it was a close thing. After he had sorted out that little affair he realized if he was going to be forced to be a permanent player he had better become a good one."
"I've got it !" said Maury, rising to his feet and beginning to prowl around the office. "This is the same man who set up that counter-terrorism think-tank. We trade information but I deal with a man called Henssen, a German I think."
"Yeah," said Cochrane, "Henssen runs the show on a day to day basis leaving Fitzduane time to pursue his various other interests which include an involvement with the Rangers, Ireland's special forces. Hugo Fitzduane is a reserve colonel with them and still very close to Kilmara."
Maury suddenly paused in his pacing and froze, his back hunched.
Cochrane sighed. Maury was remembering again that he had not been consulted. It was time for diplomacy or Maury would suddenly make a break for it. "It was your idea, Maury," said Cochrane lying, his blue eyes guileless. "Since we're blocked from using US forces, let's find someone else to do the job. So while you were away, we looked and came up with Fitzduane. He thinks he's coming here on a routine courtesy visit but I think we can persuade him. That is why I want him to meet Patricio."
Maury's interest was engaged again. He picked up Fitzduane's file and studied it intently and then he read Cochrane's notes.
"There is no report here from Patricio," said Maury accusingly.
"Patricio did not like to go into any detail over a Mexican phone," said Cochrane, "nor any US phone given the currently political climate." He grinned and looked at his paranoid friend. "That is something you understand, Maury. Anyway, relax. Patricio has made it out of Mexico. He rang from National half an hour ago. He'll be here any minute."
"Did he say anything?" said Maury.
"He sounded immensely relieved to be out of Mexico in one piece and he said he had brought some physical evidence."
"Evidence of what?" said Maury.
"I have absolutely no fucking idea," said Cochrane cheerfully. "He just said that the whole thing was more serious than we had thought and he added it was the luck of the devil that Rheiman had made it down there. Rheiman meant diddly to me but Patricio was anxious to get over here so I figured it could wait."
Maury crashed back into his swivel chair and rotated it a few times his legs stretched straight out in front of him. Suddenly, he dropped his feet as he centered on Cochrane bringing the chair to an immediate halt.
He leant forward to emphasize his words. "Why should Colonel Hugo Fitzduane, this good natured Irish aristocrat with his island and his castle and his think-tank, go on a mission for us. According to what I read here, he's recently married and he has a young son by a previous arrangement. Why would he risk his life to do the Task Force's dirty work?"
"Well," said Cochrane, "that's the beauty of it. Fitzduane doesn't know it yet but there's a problem down there he won't be able to walk away from. Remember a certain someone who was reported as being very dead but re-appeared in Tecuno. A Japanese connection? A certain Reiko Oshima?"
Maury thought for a few seconds then a look of perfect understanding came over his face. "A brilliant plan, Lee," he said.
"Entirely your concept, Maury," said Cochrane tactfully.
