The mist of dawn burned away in the sunlight, and it was shaping up to be a truly spectacular day. The sky was cloudless. The strong westerly had abated to the merest hint of a breeze. Washed by the recent rain, the air was clear and balmy. Insects buzzed, and birdcalls filled the air. Faced with this image of rural tranquility, Fitzduane found it hard to anticipate what the Hangman could have in mind, and he wondered if he wasn't letting his imagination run away with him.
The obvious target was Draker, and given the Hangman's proclivities, the objective would be kidnapping. God knows —and the Hangman surely did — that the students' families were rich enough to make the game well worth playing.
There was some security now. Discreet lobbying by Kilmara meant that six armed plainclothes policemen had been temporarily assigned to the college. They lived in the main building and should be able to deal with any threat — or at least buy time until help could be summoned. The Achilles' heel of that arrangement was, of course, the length of time it would take to get assistance to the island. The location was isolated — none more so in Ireland — and it would be several hours at best before specialist help could arrive. The local police might get there sooner, but what they could do against terrorist firepower was another matter.
Fitzduane had suggested to Kilmara that the parents, if they were so rich, might be persuaded to finance some extra security. He hadn't been thinking when he made the suggestion. The facts of life were explained to him: If the parents received the slightest hint of danger, all the students would be whipped away back to Mommy and Daddy in Saudi or Dubai or Tokyo faster than a bribe vanishes into a politician's pocket. No students would mean no college, and no college would mean no income for the local community. Without proof to back up these vague theories of a threat, it was not a good suggestion; downright dumb, in fact.
The sea, often so gray and menacing, now presented an image of serenity. The color of the day was a perfect Mediterranean blue — a deceptive ploy, Fitzduane thought, since the temperature of the Atlantic waters, even at this time of year, was only a few degrees above freezing.
"All this peace and harmony is an illusion," he said to Pooka. "But how and when the shit is going to hit the fan is another matter." The horse didn't venture a reply. She went on chewing on a tuft of grass.
Smoke was trickling from the chimney of Murrough's cottage. He distracted Pooka from her snack and cantered toward the house. Murrough leaned over the half door as he drew near, and Fitzduane could smell bacon and eggs. He suddenly felt ravenously hungry.
"You're up bright and early," said Murrough. "What happened? Has Etan slung you out?"
Oona's face appeared over Murrough's shoulder. "Morning, Hugo," she said. "Don't mind the man — he's no manners. Come on in and have some breakfast."
Fitzduane dismounted. "I'm persuaded," he said. "I'll be in in a minute. I just want to pick Murrough's brains for a moment."
Oona grinned and vanished toward the kitchen. "Best of luck," she called over her shoulder.
Murrough opened the bottom half of the door and ambled out into the sunlight. "I must be dreaming," he said. "There's not a cloud in the sky."
"Murrough," said Fitzduane, "last night, when you were bringing me up-to-date on the local gossip, you mentioned that a plane had landed here recently. I didn't pay much heed at the time, but now I'm wondering if I heard you right. Did you meant that a plane landed on the mainland or right here on the island?"
Murrough took a deep breath of morning air and snapped his braces appreciatively. "Oh, not on the mainland," he said. "The feller put it down on this very island, on a stretch of road not far from the college, in fact."
"I didn't think there was room," said Fitzduane, "and the road is bumpy as hell."
"Well," said Murrough, "bumpy or not, the feller did it — several times, in fact. I went up to have a look and talked to the pilot. He was a pleasant enough chap for a foreigner. There were two passengers on board — relatives of a Draker student, he said."
"Remember the student's name?" said Fitzduane.
Murrough shook his head.
"What kind of plane was it?"
"A small enough yoke," said Murrough, "but with two engines. Sort of boxy-shaped. They use the same kind of thing to fly out to the Aran Islands."
A Britten-Norman Islander," said Fitzduane. "A cross between a flying delivery van and a Jeep. I guess with the right pilot one of those could make it. They only need about four hundred yards of rough runway, sometimes less."
"Why so interested?" said Murrough.
"I'll tell you after we've eaten," answered Fitzduane. "I don't want to spoil your appetite." He followed Murrough into the cottage. Harry Noble was sitting at the pine table with his hands wrapped around a mug of tea.
"Good morning, Mr. Ambassador," said Fitzduane.
Harrison Noble's jaw dropped. "How on earth do you know that?" he said in astonishment.
Fitzduane sat down at the table and watched appreciatively as Oona poured him a cup of tea. "Friends in high places," he said.
Ambassador Noble nodded his head gloomily. He had enjoyed being incognito. Now a bunch of U.S. Embassy protocol officers would probably parachute in. So much for a quiet time fishing.
"I want to share a few thoughts with you," said Fitzduane, "which you may well find not the most cheerful things you've ever heard."
Oona brought the food to the table. "Eat up first," she said. "Worry can wait."
They ate, then Fitzduane talked.
"Hmm," said the ambassador when he'd finished. "Do you mind if I'm blunt?"
"Not at all," said Fitzduane.
"Lots of gut feeling and not much fact," said the ambassador, "and your law enforcement authorities have been informed of your suspicions. It seems, on the face of it, most unlikely that anything at all will happen. You're probably jumpy because of your recent experiences in Switzerland."
Fitzduane nodded. "A reasonable reaction," he said, "but I run on instinct — and it rarely lets me down."
Murrough went to a cabinet and removed a bolt-action rifle equipped with a high-power telescopic sight. It was a .303 Mark IV Lee-Enfield customized for sniping, a version of the basic weapon of the Irish Army until it was replaced by the FN in the early sixties. He had used one just like it in combat in the Congo. He stripped down the weapon with practiced hands. Noble noticed that he didn't look at what he was doing, but his touch was sure.
"Mr. Noble," said Murrough, "sometimes we don't know how things work even though they do." He indicated Fitzduane. "I've known this man a long time, and I've fought with him — and I've been glad we were on the same side. I've learned it pays to listen to him. It's why I'm alive."
The ambassador looked at Murrough's weather-beaten face for some little time. He smiled slightly. "Only a fool ignores the advice of an experienced gillie," he said. Murrough grinned.
The ambassador turned to Fitzduane. "Any ideas?" he asked.
"Some," said Fitzduane.
* * * * *
The Bear had to admit that his initial reaction to Ireland was — to put it mildly — not exactly favorable. The grim weather didn't help, of course, but it merely served to exacerbate his views. Even allowing for the depression induced by a cold wind and a sky the color of lead — it had been warm and sunny in Switzerland when they had left — the most charitable observer of Dublin (all he had seen of the country on that first evening) would have to agree that it was — he searched for the right word — ‘scruffy’.