Kilmara raised his eyebrows and then shook his head ruefully. He looked at his friend in silence for a short while before speaking. "So what's troubling you? The Hangman's dead. Isn't it over?"
Fitzduane looked at Kilmara suspiciously. "Why shouldn't it be over? The Chief Kripo says it's over. He even paid for my going-away party — and drove me to the airport. He thinks Bern is returning to normal. He'll have a seizure if I go back."
Kilmara laughed, then he turned serious again. "Hugo, I've known you for twenty years. You've got instincts I have learned to listen to — and good judgment. So what's bugging you?"
Fitzduane sighed. "I'm not sure it's over, but I really can't tell you why, and I'm not sure I want to know. I'm so bloody tired. I had a bellyful of trouble in Bern. I just want to go home now, put my feet up, twiddle my thumbs, and figure out what to do with the rest of my life. I'm not going to photograph any more wars. I'm too old to get shot at and too young to die — and I don't need the money."
"What about Etan?" said Kilmara. "Does she come into the equation? You know she hauled me out to lunch a couple of times when you were away. I have the feeling I'm supposed to act as some sort of middleman. I wish you two would talk to each other directly. This habit of not communicating when you're away on an assignment is cuckoo."
"There was a reason for it," said Fitzduane. "The idea was for both of us to keep a sense of perspective, not to let things get out of hand."
"As I said," said Kilmara, "cuckoo. Here you are, crazy about each other, and you don't communicate for months. Even the Romans used to send stone tablets to each other, and now we have something called a telephone." He shook his head and relit his pipe. "But why do you think it may not be over?" he said. "Are you suggesting the Hangman didn't die in that fire?"
Fitzduane took his time answering. "The Hangman's whole pattern is one of deception," he said eventually. "And I would feel a whole lot happier if we had had a body to identify. Dental records can be switched. On the other hand I was there, and I don't see how he could have escaped. He certainly couldn't have lived through a fire of that intensity. So the guy must be dead, and I'm not going to spend my hard-earned rest in Connemara worrying about what might happen next. Almost anything might happen. My concern is with what probably will happen."
"The evidence suggests that the Hangman is dead," said Kilmara, "but that is no guarantee his various little units will vanish or take up knitting. Remember, he operated through a series of virtually autonomous groups, and it's likely that new leaders were waiting in the wings. Another thought that nags away concerns Rudi von Graffenlaub's hanging and the other peculiar happenings on your island. There are a lot of rich kids there, and the Hangman never seems to do anything without a reason. He has a track record of kidnapping. Were Rudi and his oddly dressed friends being psyched up to provide some inside support for a kidnapping, maybe of the whole school? The place is isolated, and the parents are richer than you and I can imagine."
"Geraniums," said Fitzduane sleepily.
"What?" said Kilmara.
"Geraniums keep popping up," said Fitzduane, "on the tattoos and in Ivo's notes, and the word was actually written down in Erika's apartment —but I'm fucked if I know what it means."
Kilmara drained his brandy and wondered if there was any point in talking to Fitzduane when he was this tired. He decided he'd better make the effort since time seemed to be a commodity in distinctly short supply.
"Leaving flowers out of the equation," he said dryly, "I've got some other problems worth mentioning." He refilled Fitzduane's glass.
The effort of holding his glass steady forced Fitzduane to pay reasonable attention. He was almost awake. "And you're going to tell me about them," he said helpfully.
"My friend the prime minister," said Kilmara, "is fucking us around."
"Have you ever considered another line of work? I fail to see the attraction in working for a bent machine politician like our Taoiseach. Delaney is a prick — a bent prick — and he isn't going to get any better."
"Kilmara privately agreed with Fitzduane's comment but ignored the interruption. "A good friend of ours in the Mossad — and they're not all such good friends — has told me of a Libya-based hit team, some seventy plus strong, that has unfriendly intentions toward an objective in this country."
"The PLO coming here?" said Fitzduane. "Why? Unless they've been out in the sun too long and want a real rain-drenched holiday to relax in. What has the PLO to do with Ireland?"
"I didn't say PLO," said Kilmara. "There are PLO in the group but as mercenaries, and the objective, if you can believe what the Israelis found on a rather abortive preventive raid, is the U.S. Embassy in Dublin. The timing is put at some time in May."
"How would seventy armed terrorists get into the country," said Fitzduane, "and what has an attack on the U.S. Embassy got to do with me? The embassy is in Dublin. I'm going to be as far away as one could possibly be without falling into the Atlantic. I'm going to be sleeping twelve hours a day and talking to the sea gulls and meditating on higher things and drinking poteen and generally staying as much out of trouble as a human being possibly can."
"Stay with me," said Kilmara, "and I guarantee to get your full attention. We've kicked this thing around since our Mossad friend visited and we hear the news about the Hangman's death — and our conclusions will not make your day. We think this U.S. Embassy thing smacks of the Hangman's game playing, or that of his heirs and successors. It's probably a diversion, and heaven only knows where the real target is. Possibly it won't be in Ireland at all. It could be anywhere, including back in the Middle East. Unfortunately, suspecting it's a diversion doesn't help. The Rangers have been ordered to keep the place secure until the flap is over. That means my ability to deal with any other threat is drastically curtailed. I don't have the manpower to mount a static defense and also maintain strength for other operations."
"I thought the idea was that the Rangers were only to be used as a reaction force, along with certain limited security duties."
"It was and it is — normally," said Kilmara, his voice expressing his frustration, "but I was outvoted on this one. Ireland has a special relationship with Uncle Sam, and my friend the Taoiseach played it perfectly and boxed us in. The Rangers are a disciplined force, and there are times you just can't buck the system."
"So where is all this getting us?"
Kilmara shrugged. "You've got good instincts. If you think the Hangman is out of the picture, I'm tempted to go along with you, but when you're this tired — who the fuck knows? Anyway, it's my business to cover the down side."
Fitzduane yawned. The clock struck two in the morning. He was so spaced he was floating. It was not time to argue. "What do you want me to do?"
"I've got a radio and other equipment here for you," said Kilmara. "All I want you to do is proceed as normal but with your eyes and ears open. If you detect anything untoward, give me a call — and we'll come running."
"If you're so committed elsewhere, how and with what?"
"I'll think of something," said Kilmara. "It'll probably never happen, but if it does, red tape isn't going to stop me."
But Fitzduane was asleep again. Outside, the storm was abating.
* * * * *