But he was needed.
* * * * *
They lunched alone. Their relationship had been that of commanding officer and young lieutenant — mentor and disciple — during the early days of their service together in the Irish Army, but shared danger in the Congo and the passage of time had made it a relationship of equals. They had been comrades-in-arms. They had become close friends.
The cold buffet was excellent. The wine came from Kilmara's private stock, and its quality suggested that he was putting his French associations to good use. The finished with Irish coffees. They had been talking about times past and about the Ireland of the present. The matter of the hanging had been left by mutual consent until the meal was over.
Kilmara finished lighting his pipe. "Ah, it's not a bad life," he said, "even in this funny little country of ours — frustrations, betrayals, faults, and all. It's my home, and we're a young nation yet."
Fitzduane smiled. "You sound positively benign," he said. "Dare I add complacent?"
Kilmara growled. "Sound maybe; am, no. But enough of this. Tell me about Rudolf von Graffenlaub."
Fitzduane told his story, and Kilmara listened without interrupting. He was a good listener, and he was intrigued as to why the death of a total stranger had so affected his friend.
"An unfortunate way to start the day, I'll grant you," said Kilmara, "but you're not exactly a stranger to death. You see more dead bodies in a week in your line of work than most people do in a lifetime. I don't want to sound callous, but what's one more body? You didn't know the young man, you don't know his friends or his family, and you didn't kill him" — he looked at Fitzduane — "did you?"
Fitzduane grinned and shook his head. "Not that I remember."
"Well then," said Kilmara, "what's the problem? People die. It's sort of built into the system. It's what they call the natural order of things. What is Rudi von Graffenlaub's death to you?"
Fitzduane gathered his thoughts.
Kilmara spoke again. "Of course I'll help," he said. "But I am curious about your rationale for what seems, on the face of it, a somewhat arcane project."
Fitzduane laughed. "I don't have one neat reason," he said. "More like a feeling that this is something I should stay with."
"You and your instincts," said Kilmara, shaking his head. "They are, as I remember full well from the Congo, downright spooky. So what's on your mind?"
Fitzduane refreshed his memory from his notes. "I'd like to talk to the pathologist who carried out the postmortem on our freshly dead friend. The normal pathologist for the are was away at a conference, and Harbison was tied up on some thing or other. A Dr. Buckley drove up from Cork for the occasion."
"I know Buckley," said Kilmara. "He's first-rate, but he's like a clam when it comes to professional matters unless there are good reasons for him to talk."
"That ball is in your court," said Fitzduane. "I tried ringing him off my own bat and got nowhere. He was affable but firm."
"Ah, the people of West Cork have great charm," said Kilmara. "It must go with the scenery. I'll see what I can do. What's next?"
"I'd like copies of all the relevant reports: police, forensic, coroner's. The lot," said Fitzduane.
"It's certainly improper and arguably illegal to give that sort of thing to a civilian. But okay. No problem."
"I need some sort of introduction to the authorities in Bern," said Fitzduane. "That's where Rudolf von Graffenlaub came from. That's where his parents and friends live. I want to go over and ask some questions, and I don't want to be politely deported on the second day."
Kilmara grinned. "This one calls for a little creative thinking."
"Finally, what do you know about DrakerCollege?" asked Fitzduane. "And I don't mean have you got a copy of the college prospectus."
"I thought you might get to that one sometime," said Kilmara. "Now it's my turn for a question. Do you have any idea what you're looking for?"
Fitzduane smiled gently. "No," he said, "but I expect I'll know when I find it."
They were silent for a few moments. Kilmara rose and stretched and walked over to the window. He peered through the venetian blinds. "The rain isn't so bad," he said. "It's only spitting now. What about a stroll in Herbert Park?"
"It's winter and it's March and it's cold," said Fitzduane, but his movements belied his words. He shrugged into his still-damp coat. "And there are no flowers."
"There are always flowers," said Kilmara.
* * * * *
They walked the short distance to Herbert Park and turned onto the deserted grounds.
The four security guards moved in closer, though they were still out of earshot. They were perceptibly edgy. The light was dull, and the shrubbery provided cover for a possible assailant. It was unlike the colonel to expose himself for this length of time in what could not be made, with the manpower available, a secure area. The bodyguard commander called in to Ranger headquarters for backup. He wondered what the two men were talking about. He hoped the rain would get heavier so they'd return to bricks and mortar and a defensible perimeter.
They were talking about terrorists.
"Take our homegrown lot," said Kilmara. "We hunt them and imprison them, and occasionally we kill them, but I still have a certain sympathy for, or at least an understanding of, the Provos and other splinter groups of the IRA. They want a united Ireland. They don't want Britain hanging on to the North."
"By exploding bombs in crowded streets, by killing and maiming innocent men, women, and children, by murdering part-time policemen in front of their families?" broke in Fitzduane.
"I know, I know," said Kilmara, "I'm not defending the IRA. My point is, however, that I understand their motives."
They left the ponds and gardens of Herbert Park and crossed the road into the area of lawn and tennis courts. Wet grass squelched underfoot. Neither man noticed.
Kilmara continued. "Similarly, I understand other nationalist terrorist organizations like ETA or the various Palestinian outfits, and the Lord knows there are enough of those. But I have great difficulty in grasping the motives of what I tend to think of as the European terrorists — the Baader-Meinhof people, the ‘Red Army Faction,’ as they call themselves, Action Directe — or gangs like the Italian Brigate Rosse.
"What the hell are they after? Most of the members come from well-to-do families. They are normally well educated — sometimes too well. They don't have material problems. They don't have nationalistic objectives. They don't seem to have a coherent political philosophy. Yet they rob, kidnap, maim, and murder. But to what end? Why?"
"What are you leading up to?"
Kilmara stopped and turned to face Fitzduane. He shook his head. "I'm buggered if I know exactly. It's a kind of feeling I have that something else is brewing. We sit on this damp little island of ours with mildew and shamrock corroding our brains and think all we have to worry about, at least in a terrorist sense, is the IRA. I'm not sure it's that simple."
"I've no time for communism, which is self-destructing anyway, but all is far from well in Western democracies. There is a gangrene affecting our values that gives rise to terrorists like the Red Army Faction, and I'm beginning to get the smell in this country."
They started walking again. To the great relief of the bodyguard commander, the heavens opened, and rain descended in solid sheets. The colonel and his guest headed toward a Ranger car.