Rules Of The Hunt
Rules Of The Hunt
Prologue
OFF FITZDUANE'S ISLAND: IRELAND:
November:
The killing team needed a cover story for their presence.
Their behaviour, which would involve hiring aircraft, would be out of pattern for tourists. And as Japanese, in a Western environment, they were more likely to be noticed and remembered.
They decided to come in as a film crew. Gold had been discovered in the region amidst some of the most scenic terrain of the West of Ireland and there was controversy as to whether it should be mined. It was a classic and ongoing environmental issue and attracted international media attention. Film crews came and went and most hired some kind of aerial transport. Ireland looks glorious from the air.
The team carried out their initial reconnaissance in a four seat Piper Aztec. Discretion minimised the amount of flight time they had over the island itself but it was sufficient for them to become comfortable with the lie of the land. On the second day, to allay suspicion, they telephoned Fitzduane's castle, explained the story they were working on and requested permission to film from the ground to add some local colour. They were politely refused.
The island itself was like a finger, ten kilometres long and four kilometres across at its widest, pointing west into the Atlantic towards America some three thousand miles away. Joined to the mainland by a bridge set into the cliffs over a treacherous looking divide about twenty metres across, land access elsewhere looked impossible. The northern coast consisted of a range of hills descending to a jagged coastline of high overhanging cliffs constantly being eroded by the Atlantic. The southern coastline was protected by similar cliffs or, where the fall of the land was more gentle, by concealed rocks and changing currents.
From the air they could see shadows of darkness in the sea and in two locations the remains of ancient wrecks. The sea looked beautiful, moody and treacherous. It was not a hospitable looking spot.
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.
They booked the helicopter and a faster longer range aircraft for the last two days. They explained that they were on a deadline and had to fly some exposed film to make a connection in London. Their credentials were double checked by a cautious reservations clerk but were verified as satisfactory.
They would contour fly in at fifty feet or less by helicopter and land on the north side of the island in a clearing to seaward of one of the hills. They would neither be heard or seen. They would then proceed on foot to the spot they had chosen. Fitzduane tended to vary the route he took on his daily ride but there was one spot he normally visited either coming or going. The child and his desires were the man's weakness. A watcher had monitored his movements for several weeks before the killing team had moved in.
The team members were experienced, well trained and totally motivated. After the hit, they would escape on foot to the waiting helicopter, fly to the aircraft and enplane immediately for France. There, they would vanish.
It was now down to implementation and that intangible - luck.
* * *
TOKYO: JAPAN:
2 November:
The bodyguard tensed as he saw the gates in the outer perimeter wall swing open and the gleaming black limousine enter the drive.
The gates should not have opened without his checking the visitor on the TV monitor and, even more to the point, without his activating the release of the electronic lock. The master received a constant stream of visitors and petitioners at certain specified times of the day so black limousines were more the rule than the exception but this was seven in the morning and the master's insistence on privacy while he bathed and prepared himself for the day was well known. It was a running joke in the circles of power that more careers were made and broken by the decisions made by Hodama-san while he soaked in his traditional copper bath than by the rest of the government put together. The joke had rather more punch when it was realized that Hodama held no official position.
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.
The bodyguard, a grizzled veteran in his sixties, was retained less for his physical skills than for his memory and his sense of protocol. Threats were not seriously feared. Those days were long over. Hodama's power and influence were too great. Instead, the bodyguard was primarily concerned with the procedural niceties of controlling the flow of visitors. Appearances and appropriate behaviour were of enormous importance. The wrong greeting or an inadequate bow by one of Hodama's retainers could be misinterpreted and damage the harmony of the relationship between visitor and Hodama himself. And Hodama attached great importance to his relationships. The people he knew and influenced, the people he flattered and pampered and manipulated and betrayed were the basis of his power.
With these thoughts in his mind, and concerned not to upset some dignitary, the bodyguard took no action for the few seconds it took for the long black vehicle with its shining chrome and tinted windows to sweep around in front of the house and purr gently to a halt. The sight of the numberplate and discrete symbol it bore was instantly reassuring. The bodyguard relaxed, immensely relieved that he had not initiated any precipitative action and caused embarrassment and loss of face. The opening of the perimeter gates was now explained. The limousine belonged to one of Hodama's intimates.
The driver's door opened almost as soon as the vehicle came to a halt and the chauffeur, immaculate in navy uniform and white gloves, jumped out and opened the rear passenger door.
The bodyguard had been hastening down to open the passenger door also as one of the gestures of respect he would employ for his distinguished visitor. Now, his first actions rendered unnecessary by the speed of the chauffeur, he stumbled to a halt and bowed deeply, his eyes cast down in respect, as the rear limousine door was opened.
A pair of expensively trousered legs emerged.
Something was wrong. Decades of bowing had made the bodyguard quite expert at making quick assessments from the limited perspective of being bent in two at the waist. Something just did not look right with the trousers. His master's visitor was very particular and consistent. His suits were exclusively English tailored and these trousers were definitely of Italian material and cut .
There was the sound of spitting - three distinct short spitting sounds - and the bodyguard's uncertainties were abruptly terminated as three 9mm hollow point bullets entered the top of his skull, expanded as designed as they smashed through the bone, and then wreaked fatal havoc as they ricocheted around inside.
The bow became abruptly even more respectful until gravity exerted itself to the full and the bodyguard's corpse collapsed in an undignified heap. Blood from his head wound trickled its way into the carefully raked gravel of a Zen stone garden.
The chauffeur spoke one word into a miniature two-way radio and seconds later another black limousine sped into the grounds of the Hodama residence and the gates were closed. A total of ten attackers had now emerged from the two cars. Their sureness of movement betraying much training and rehearsal, the attackers swiftly surrounded the house and then entered simultaneously at one command.
Inside the house, Hodama was looking forward to the simple pleasure of a good long soak in a hot bath. Although US bombers had destroyed the original property which had been on the site and the house was merely a meticulous reconstruction, the bath itself was an original and had been specially built into the new house which was otherwise equipped with the most modern of plumbing.
Special construction was required because the bath, a heavy open topped copper cylinder with a curved base looking more like a deep cauldron than a Western bath, was heated by a small fire located directly underneath it. For convenience, the firebox was placed in an outside wall and was accessible only from the outside. Inside the bathroom, the copper bath was built in flush to the tiled floor. Operation was a matter of filling the bath with water, lighting the fire until the water reached the required temperature, putting out the fire and then - having carefully tested the water again - stepping gingerly into to the steaming water and then sitting on the built-in wooden seat luxuriating in the soothing heat.
Hodama was deeply attached to his copper bath. He liked to say that it had been in his family for more generations than he could count. He could sit in it with the water up to his chin and his legs dangling and think in a way that did not seem to be possible in a chilly, drafty low slung Western bath.
That morning, his manservant, Amika, who had the responsibility for lighting the fire and making the other preparations, had just told Hodama that the bath was ready.
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.
Hodama was wearing a light cotton yukata, a form of kimono, with the left side over the right side. Right over left was used only for corpses. The yukata was held together by a simple obi. Over this he wore a haori or half coat like a cardigan. At his age and particularly in the chill hours of early morning, he was susceptible to the cold. On his feet he wore zori, sandals.
The bathroom was a good sized room with a place to change his clothes and a massage table in addition to the washing and changing areas. When he was younger he had enjoyed many women on that couch. Now it was used merely for its formal purpose.
Amika helped him to undress, hung up his clothes and then followed Hodama across to the bathing area. Wooden boards placed across the tiles allowed drainage. There Hodama sat on a small wooden stool and soaped himself down. When he was ready, Amika then ladled water from a wooden bucket over him until the last trace of soap was removed. He would enter the bath clean and thoroughly rinsed in the Japanese fashion. The idea of soaking in his own effluvia as Westerners did was repellent.
The water temperature was perfect. Hodama smiled in anticipation. He nodded approvingly at Amika. The manservant acknowledged the look with the deferential smile and slight bow that was appropriate for his status as a long serving retainer, and then the front of his face dissolved and he leapt head first into the steaming copper bath.
Crimson leached into the water.
Hodama gave a cry and staggered back in shock. He felt himself being seized and then flung face down on the massage table. His hands and feet were held and then bound with something hard and thin that cut into his flesh. He was then hauled to his feet.
Men in dark business suits, three or four that he could see, their faces covered in hoods of black cloth, faced him. Two at least held silenced weapons.
There was a sound of a heavy metal object dropping onto the wooden laths and someone started tying something to his feet. He looked down and saw the heavy cast iron weight that was being tied to him.
Blood drained from his face. Suddenly he realized what was about to happen and his fear was total.
"Who are you?" he managed to croak. "What is it you want? Don't you know who I am?"
One of the figures nodded grimly. "Oh yes, Hodama-san, we know exactly who you are." He gave an exaggerated bow. "That is precisely the point."
Two of the figures went to the edge of the bath, crouched down, and then hauled Amika's dead body out of the bath and flung it into a corner of the room.
Hodama stood there bound, naked, slight and wizened - smaller by several inches than the men around him - and tried to preserve what dignity he could. The heat increased in the room. The water in the bath began to bubble gently. As the bubbles increased, his composure collapsed.
"POWER," he screamed. "I HAVE POWER. YOU CANNOT DO THIS AND HOPE TO ESCAPE. IT IS MADNESS, ABSOLUTE MADNESS...."
The figure who had laughed made a gesture and one of the other figures hit Hodama very hard in the stomach. He doubled up and fell to his knees and retched. Through a haze of pain, he looked up. There was something familiar about the figure. Both the laugh and the voice had struck a chord. "Who are you?" he said quietly. "I have to know."
The figure shook his head. "You have to die," he said grimly. "That is all you still have to do." He made another gesture.
Two of the hooded figures lifted Hodama, suspended him over the copper bath and then slowly lowered him into the bloody boiling water.
Book 1
Without Warning
Chapter 1
Fitzduane's Island: Ireland:
1 November
Hugo Fitzduane placed his Swiss-made SIG automatic pistol on a high shelf in the bathroom and reflected that firearms and small children do not mix well. On further consideration, he decided that much the same could be said about more than a few adults.
For his own part he had adjusted to being under terrorist threat as well as one reasonably could - security precautions were time consuming and tedious - but then Peter had arrived on the scene, a small pink rather creased looking little package with a dusting of blond fuzz at the noisier end - and Fitzduane started looking at the world very differently.
He tested the water with his hand. He had read in one of the baby books that the right tool for this was an elbow but that seemed a ridiculous way to go about such a straightforward activity and Peter normally seemed quite satisfied with the result. If he wasn't, he yelled. Children, Fitzduane had found, were believers in direct and immediate communication.
"Boots," called Fitzduane trying to sound stern and in command of the situation, "bath time." He added a threat. "Come here or I'll tickle your toes." Peter's nickname had evolved from the consequences of the rather dubious weather in the West of Ireland. Peter, given his fondness for running around outside and splashing into puddles and playing with mud, had learned to ask for his red wellington boots on one of his first determined forays into speech.
There was no response. Fitzduane checked the bathroom closet and behind the laundry basket half expecting to see a small blond-headed three year old crouched down and shaking with barely suppressed giggles.
Nothing.
He felt mildly concerned. The castle in which they lived, Fitzduane's ancestral home on a remote island off the West of Ireland, was not large as such places go but it had stone stairs and battlements and a high curtain wall around the bawn or inner courtyard in the manner of such fortified installations and there were numerous locations where a child could come to harm. From the point of view of a nervous parent Duncleeve was not the ideal place to bring up a child.
Frankly, Fitzduane was surprised that any of his ancestors had made it to maturity. An accidental long drop onto the rocks below or into the freezing waters of the Atlantic seemed much more likely. But the Fitzduanes had tended to be a resolute and hardy lot and they had survived - fortunately - since he, Hugo Fitzduane, had arrived before the test tube option made parents less essential.
He opened the bathroom door and looked around the dressing room. Still nothing.
The dressing room door-handle began to turn very slowly.
"Boots!" called Fitzduane. "Come here you little monster."
There was silence. A sudden chill swept over Fitzduane. With a sense of disbelief battling with what his senses were alerting him to, he suddenly realised that the threat he had so long feared but not seriously believed in could have become reality.
He stepped back into the bathroom, picked up the SIG, slid it out of its holster and removed the safety catch. There was already a round in the chamber.
His mind ran through the options available. The windows of both the bathroom and dressing room had twentieth century double glazing but had been designed as firing slits by the original Norman architect. No way in and certainly no way out for Fitzduane's six foot two frame.
The dressing room door-handle began to turn again slowly. Then it slid back noisily as if suddenly released.
Fitzduane didn't think; he reacted. A potential threat to the small person he loved most in the world made him disregard his personal safety. He flung the door open, his weapon traversing an arc of fire that took in the whole corridor. There was nothing. He looked down. The muddiest little person he had ever seen stood there dripping. It didn't look much like anyone he knew though the boots and body language seemed familiar.
"Daddy!" said the mud boy indignantly.
Fitzduane felt weak with relief. He slipped the safety catch back on the SIG. He looked at mud boy. "Who are you?" he said sternly.
"DADDY!" shouted the mud boy. "I'm Peter Fizz..." He paused, a look of concentration on his face, to assess the situation. He had a problem with the Fitzduane part of his name. He brightened. "I'm BOOTS," he shouted. "BOOTS, BOOTS, BOOTS!"
Fitzduane swept him up and kissed him. Small muddy arms encircled his neck. A small muddy face was pressed to his. Fitzduane had not traditionally associated Irish mud with absolute happiness but at that moment he was as happy and content as a human being can ever be.
He hosed down Boots in the shower and when a recognizable two year old had emerged they both went for a soak in the big Victorian bath. As Fitzduane lay back in the soothing water, eyes closed, Boots lay on top of him in his arms for the first few minutes. Flesh to flesh, it was a special time for father and son. Then the normal mischievous nature of Peter 'Boots' Fitzduane took over. He slid from his father's body and went to play in the water.
Minutes passed. Fitzduane, eyes closed, was practically asleep. Playing with taps was forbidden and the hot faucet had been made too stiff to turn, but small hands wrestled with the large brass cold outlet and very quietly half filled a jug. He stood up, protected from falling in an unconscious reflex action by his father's legs. He held the jug over Fitzduane and started to giggle.
Fitzduane opened his eyes just as the icy water hit him. His shout of indignation could be heard through the double doors and echoed through the stone passageways beyond. It was immediately followed by the sound of Boots in an advanced fit of the giggles and then Fitzduane's laughter.
* * *
DROP ZONE: FITZDUANE'S ISLAND:
1 November:
Colonel - to be general in two days time despite the opposition of more conservative military figures and countless politicians and civil servants he had crossed over the years - Shane Kilmara flipped back the cover of his watch and began to check the time.
Just as he focused, the plane lurched again and his stomach surged towards the top of his skull. He still felt nauseated despite the motion sickness pills but had been saved the indignity of actually throwing up. Low level combat flying was an effective way to penetrate airspace undetected but in a special forces modified Lockheed C130 Combat Talon - where functionality was awarded a decidedly higher priority than comfort - you tended to have a hard ride this close to the ground, or the sea, or whatever puke-making terrain you happened to be over.
The Irish Rangers had initially been set up as an anti-terrorist unit in the mid seventies following the assassination of the British Ambassador by a culvert bomb. The political establishment felt they could also end up in the firing line unless they took some precautions and that gave the founder of the new organisation some extra leverage. Kilmara, who had served in a special forces capacity with other national forces for many years after a falling out with the Irish authorities, emerged as the most suitable candidate to head up the new unit.
The entire Irish army, cooks and mascots included, was tiny - at around 13,000 personnel smaller than one US Army division - and was chronically under-equipped and underfunded. Accordingly, Kilmara, whose own special forces unit actually was quite well equipped thanks to specially supplementary funding, had become a world class expert in the art of scrounging. It was helped that he was something of a legend in the western special forces community and that the said community was a small highly personal world which tended to transcend national boundaries under the banner of a common motto aptly propounded by David Stirling, founder of the SAS: "If you need something - do not be put off by bureaucracy - find a way to take it."
Kilmara hadn't taken the Lockheed Combat Talon - it actually belonged to the US Air Force - he had merely borrowed it and its highly skilled crew in a complex arrangement with Delta. He had a tendency towards elegantly complex barter deals because then, in his experience, no bureaucrat could ever possibly unravel them. A much simplified interpretation of this particular arrangement was that the Irish were given access to the Combat Talon and certain other goodies in exchange for Delta being allowed to train in Ireland and in particular with the new high speed heavily armed FAV - Fast Attack Vehicle - known as the Guntrack.
None of this, needless to say, had been arranged through official channels. However all of it was supported by the appropriate paperwork. Kilmara had operated in this outrageous manner for years. He got away with it because he was very good indeed at what he did. And he was consummate at working the system.
The Guntrack was a Rangers' innovation and had been inspired by Fitzduane. The primary purpose of the exercise was to test the dramatic looking black tracked vehicle under simulated combat conditions. The C130 would infiltrate the 'enemy' airspace of Fitzduane's island flying not much higher than the roof of a suburban house and then drop down to a not much higher level than the top of the front door. The rear doors of the Lockheed, which could gape in much the same fashion as a socially inclined alligator's mouth, would be open. At a very precise point indeed, a cargo parachute attached to the palleted guntrack would be activated and the vehicle would be pulled sharply out of the rear doors and would fall only a few feet onto the ground - hopefully in one piece.
The technique was known as LAPES - low altitude parachute extraction system - and providing the pilot didn't sneeze while flying a bulky cargo plane at 120 miles an hour five feet above the ground at night in new terrain, LAPES was considered a safer way to put cargo on the ground than actually dropping things from a height. It was regularly used by airborne troops even for substantial items like armoured vehicles.
The whole procedure tended to scare the shit out of Kilmara. He could just see the pilot absent mindedly spill his coffee at the wrong moment. Fortunately, LAPES was not recommended for people. The drill was to drop the equipment first at mud pie height and then climb to five hundred feet and start throwing out the human element. Five hundred feet just about allowed a parachute to open, though reserves didn't really have much of a role to play. To balance that out, the enemy didn't have much time to shoot you as you dangled silhouetted against the sky. And, with luck, they would be asleep.
The pioneers of airborne had tried dropping people first and then the heavy equipment on top of them. The survivors suggested this had not been a good idea.
The trouble with Europe was that it was too congested. There just weren't enough places where you could drop things and shoot things without damaging the locals. On the other hand, the nice thing about Fitzduane's island was that all you were likely to flatten, if you picked the right spot, was the heather.
The warning light came on. Hydraulics began to whine. Outside the night was dark and cold and looked bloody miserable. The Combat Talon was now so low that Kilmara found he could look up at some of the terrain. He just hoped that all the microchips that made this kind of lunatic flying possible were getting on well with their electrons. He wanted to live to be a general in two days.
* * *
Fitzduane had reached the stage of an evening where, although he knew common sense dictated getting some sleep, he just hadn't the energy to make a move.
Fitzduane was thinking about what he was going to do with his life. Apart from the part-time occupation of acting as something of a 'Think-Tank' for the Irish Rangers as they expanded their operations, for the last few years he had tended to take the easier way out, to let his accountant take care of his affairs and to concentrate on bringing up Boots. It was not good enough. He now had a feeling that this course would change and it brought with it a sense of foreboding.
He checked the security system and then went to pot Peter. His small son lay there, long eye-lashes over closed eyes, cheeks pink and tanned from the wind, lithe young body sprawled in over and around the duvet. He looked very beautiful. His bed was very wet.
Fitzduane stripped the bed, diapered Peter, meditated briefly on bladder control and a two year old's potty training, and then carried his son to his own big bed. He hadn't the energy to remake the cot - or that is what he told himself.
Father and son slept side by side in the big bed throughout the night. Fitzduane's sleep was somewhat disturbed since Boots tended to wriggle. In the early hour he thought he heard the sound of a familiar airplane but by the time the thought had fully registered he was asleep again.
