Ambassador Noble felt like a child playing truant as he idled around the hills and lakes of Connemara in his rented Ford Fiesta. It was the first vacation in years in which his pleasure hadn't been diluted with some element of State Department business, and he positively luxuriated in the freedom of traveling without bodyguards. Ireland might have its troubles in the North — and even they were exaggerated and rarely involved foreigners — but the bulk of the island was about as peaceful as could be, he had been assured.
The greatest potential threats to his life were more likely to result form Irish driving habits, an excess of Irish hospitality, and the weather. He would be well advised, he was told, to dress warmly and bring an umbrella. If he planned to fish, he should hire a gillie.
He calculated afterward that his briefing had enhanced the federal deficit by a couple of thousand dollars. He did remember to bring an umbrella. He was managing fine without thermal underwear. He decided the gillie could wait until he arrived at Fitzduane's Island in a few days. He was looking forward to seeing his son and hearing how he was getting on at Draker.
Meanwhile, he was having a ball doing almost nothing at all. No diplomats, no crisis meetings, no telexes, no press. No official dinners or receptions either, he thought as he ate his baked beans out of the can with a spoon and waited for the kettle to boil. And positively no worries about terrorism. He had left them at the office the way all those books on how to succeed said you should.
He looked up at the leaden sky and listened to the rain bounce off his fishing umbrella and thought: Life is bliss.
* * * * *
Fitzduane slept in and enjoyed a leisurely midafternoon breakfast. The storm had done its worst, but the rain continued as if determined to leave him in no doubt whatsoever that he was back in Ireland.
Kilmara had gone hours before but had left behind a note detailing that day's security procedure. Getting in and out of Kilmara's home without setting off some part of the labyrinth of alarm systems was no easy task, and codes were changed at least daily at irregular times. Fitzduane wondered how Adeline put up with being married to a target. That made her, he supposed, a target herself — and then there were the children. What a life. Was he, Fitzduane, since his encounter with the Hangman, now a target, too? And would he stay at risk? What would that mean for his wife and his children? For the first time it came to Fitzduane that once you were involved with terrorism — on either side — there was really no end to it. It was a permanent state of war.
He was digesting this unpleasant thought when he heard a faint noise coming from the front of the house — a house that was supposed to be empty. It sounded like a door opening and closing. The sound was not repeated.
He was tempted to stay where he was, to ignore what he almost doubted he had heard. He checked the perimeter alarm board — there were monitors in every room — but all seemed secure.
He took the Remington and chambered a round. Moving as silently as he could, he left the kitchen and edged along the corridor to the front hall. He had two doors to choose from. As he deliberated, the door of the living room opened. Fitzduane dropped into a crouch.
Etan stood there.
"Holy shit!" exclaimed Fitzduane.
Etan smiled. "Shane's idea," she said. "The colonel as matchmaker." She looked at the gun. "He's told me quite a bit. Things make more sense now."
Fitzduane realized he was still pointing the gun. He lowered it, replaced the safety catch, and laid it down gently. He felt weak and happy and scared stiff and more than a little stupid. His heart was pounding. He couldn't believe how glad he was to see her. He sat on the floor.
"Hugo, are you all right?" she said anxiously. "For God's sake, say something. You're white as a sheet."
Fitzduane looked up at her, and his pleasure was plain to see. He shook his head. "Cuckoo," he said.
Etan was wearing jeans tucked into half boots and an Aran sweater. He could smell her perfume. She pushed the gun away with her boot and then knelt beside him. "Staying long?" she said. She peeled off her sweater and blouse. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts were firm and full, the nipples pronounced. Her voice had gone husky. She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed. He didn't argue. He lay back.
"Soldier from the war returning. Where have you been? How has he been?" She undid his belt and unzipped him and encircled his organ with her hand. She squeezed hard. "I have a proprietary interest," she said. "My mother told me never to put anything in my mouth if I didn't know where it had been." She teased him with her tongue. "Where has this little man been?" She released her hand and looked. "On second thoughts," she said, "he's not so little." She shucked her boots and wriggled out of her jeans, then lay on her stomach on the carpet. "Do it this way," she said, "nice and slow and deep." She raised her buttocks suggestively and parted her legs. Fitzduane put his hand between them and stroked her where she liked. He ran his lips and tongue along her back and slowly moved down. It was only after she had been moaning and quivering for quite some time that he took her doggie fashion on the floor. Halfway through he turned her and entered her from above. She reached up and sucked his nipples, and he gasped. He drove into her again and again, and their loins became slick.
When it was over, he took her in his arms and just held her. Then he kissed her gently on the forehead. "You know," he said, and there was laughter in his voice, "this has been a year of tough women."
Etan bit his ear and then lay beside him, her head resting on one arm. Her free hand caressed his loins. "Tell me," she said, smiling sweetly, "about Erika."
* * * * *
Kilmara sat in his office examining yet again the plans of the U.S. Embassy in Dublin and the security arrangements. Every fresh examination made him feel unhappier.
The embassy had been built in the days when a violent protest consisted of a rotten egg or two thrown at the ambassador's car. It seemed to have been designed to facilitate terrorist attacks.
The three-story circular building — plus basements — had a façade consisting mainly of glass hung in a prestressed concrete frame. Offices were positioned around the perimeter of each floor. The core of the building was a floor-to-ceiling rotunda overlooked by the circular corridors. The embassy was located at the apex of a V-shaped junction of two roads, each lined with houses that overlooked the embassy building. Car access to the basement level was by way of a short driveway guarded by a striped pole.
A terrorist was faced with a downright excess of viable choices. The place was so easy to attack that if you didn't know better — and Kilmara unfortunately did — you might think that there must be a snag, or else be put off the idea for reasons of sportsmanship because the target hadn't a chance. Even the sewers — thought why any terrorist would choose the sewers when he had such a range of more hygienic options was beyond Kilmara — were not secure.
Kilmara closed the file in disgust. Short of blocking off the access roads — impossible because one was vital for south Dublin traffic — and surrounding the place with a battalion of troops — too expensive considering the state of the nation's finances — full or even adequate security for the embassy was impossible to achieve against a small well-armed terrorist unit. Against a force of seventy, his efforts would be derisory.