Unless, of course, he got lucky. With a sigh he opened the file again. The saying was true. The harder he worked, the luckier he seemed to get. He wondered if the same principle applied to the other side, and he was not pleased with his conclusion.
The bottom line in this situation meant: one, he had to obey orders; two, out of his full complement of sixty Rangers, roughly a third were assigned to full-time embassy duty, and given that there were three shifts per day, that meant that almost the full command was committed; three, they were operating in exactly the wrong way for a force of this type — tied down and waiting to be attacked rather than staying flexible and keeping the initiative; four, training time was being seriously eroded (to keep to their unusually high standard of marksmanship, Rangers shot for several hours a day at least three days a week and often more); five, his own time was being used up running this screw-up of an operation; six, God knows what else was happening while this was going on.
It was a crock.
* * * * *
Fitzduane stayed another night in Kilmara's house and left for home the following afternoon, his body satiated from a night of lovemaking and the long, deep sleep that had followed.
Kilmara had called to say he wouldn't be back and the couple could have the house to themselves. "Couple?" Fitzduane had queried, stroking Etan's nipples with the tips of his fingers.
"Lucky guess," said Kilmara dryly.
Fitzduane laughed. "We're getting married."
"About time," said Kilmara. "I've got to go." He phoned back about two minutes later. "Don't forget what I said," he added. "People in love are dangerous; they forget things."
"I don't feel dangerous," said Fitzduane.
"I'd feel a little better if you did. Check in by radio when you get home. The signal is automatically scrambled. You'll be able to talk freely."
Fitzduane was thoughtful as he replaced the phone. Etan ran her tongue over his penis. "Pay attention," she said. He did.
* * * * *
The Pillars of Hercules — better known in more recent times as the Strait of Gibraltar — are a classic naval choke point dominated by the Rock of Gibraltar.
Gibraltar, if one forgets for a moment the slightly paranoid local population of some twenty-eight thousand crammed into a land area the size of a parking lot, consists of surveillance equipment, weaponry, hollowed-out rock, military personnel, and apes in roughly that order.
Despite all this concentration of spies, people, apes, and matériel, it was nonetheless scarcely surprising that the passing through the Strait of Gibraltar of an Italian cattle boat, the Sabine, en route from Libya to Ireland to pick up a fresh cargo of live meat for ritual slaughter on return to Tripoli, should be logged but attract no further attention.
The Irish cattle trade with Libya was both known and established. The sight of the Sabine was routine. The only change that might have been commented on, but was not, was that the Sabine failed this time to refuel in Gibraltar. She had, apparently, braved the bureaucracy and chronic insufficiency of Qaddafi's Libya and bunkered in Tripoli (a practice the experienced ship's master learns not to repeat unless desperate).
An inquirer — if there had been one — would have been told, with a shrug, that it was a matter of an arrangement, and the thumb and forefinger would have been rubbed together. Such an answer would have sufficed.
The Sabine left the Pillars of Hercules behind and set a course for Ireland.
24
In the old Land Rover, allowing for a stop in Galway to pick up supplies and eat, they took nearly seven hours to reach the island from Dublin. It rained solidly until early evening, and then they were treated by the weather to such a spectacular display of changing light and mood that Fitzduane forgave all and wondered why he had ever left. It was so bloody beautiful.
His spirits lifted — and then the rain returned in full force as they were approaching the castle, as if to remind them to take nothing for granted.
"This is a fickle country," he muttered to himself while unloading the vehicle. He had been tempted to leave things where they were till morning, but the contents of the four long, heavy boxes and other containers Kilmara had given him were better placed under lock and key as soon as possible.
During the drive he had told Etan much of what had happened. Now he gave Murrough, who was having a drink inside with Etan, a short summary. He had kept his reservations about the Hangman's demise to himself. He didn't want to be unnecessarily alarmist.
Murrough and Oona had lit fires and aired the place, and the heating had been turned on earlier in the day. The castle was warm and comfortable. It felt good to be back.
Murrough was quiet for a while after Fitzduane had finished. Fitzduane refilled their glasses. "You'll have a chance to meet some of these people in a couple of days," he said. "I guess I got carried away during my last week in Bern, when we had one long round of celebrations to see the Hangman off in style. Heini Raufman is still supposed to be convalescing, so I invited him to see how civilized people live, and then somehow Henssen got added to the list — and then young Andreas von Graffenlaub. Andreas needs some distraction. He's bearing up well, but this whole business has been rough on him. His father's death hit him particularly hard."
"Poor lad," said Etan.
"Heini Raufman is the one you call ‘the Bear’?" said Murrough.
"You'll see why when you meet him," said Fitzduane.
"It will be nice to have this place full of people," said Etan. She had been eyeing the castle and its furnishings with a definite proprietorial air since they arrived. It was dawning on Fitzduane that there were going to be more changes in his life than he had anticipated. He had to admit that the present décor was overheavy on stuffed animal heads, wall hangings, and medieval weapons. Still, what else would you expect in a castle? He was uneasy about the alternatives Etan might have in mind.
Etan looked at him. "Lace curtains on the windows," she said, grinning, "and flowered wallpaper on the walls."
"Over my dead body," said Fitzduane.
"I think I'd better be leaving," said Murrough, not moving but anxious to bring the conversation back to more serious matters.
Fitzduane knew his man. "What's on your mind, Murrough?" he said.
Murrough took his time speaking. "Those kids from the college, reviving something best long forgotten. What's happened about them? You never said."
"Not an entirely satisfactory outcome," said Fitzduane, but understandable, I suppose, given the trauma in the college recently. Information on what was going on was supplied to the acting headmaster by the Rangers, working through the police. I gather he was shocked but after reflection chose to believe that it was little more than juvenile high spirits. Above all, he wanted no more scandal. He said he would deal with the matter in his own way at the end of the term, and he'd appreciate if the police would leave it at that, so the police did. It isn't a crime to dress up like the Wolfman and run around in the woods. Anyway, the best efforts of all concerned failed to identify the individuals involved."
"And how about the small matter of our decapitated billy goat and the traces of sacrifice you found?" said Murrough indignantly. "Isn't that a little more than — what did he call it — juvenile high spirits?"