The Devil's footprint hf-3 Read online

  The Devil's footprint

  ( Hugo Fitzduane - 3 )

  Victor O'reilly

  The Devil's Footprint

  Victor O'Reilly

  Prolog

  Tokyo Bay, Japan

  She had looked like a bundle of rags bobbing in the sea.

  They would have passed her by without further thought. But they saw for a brief moment an arm had come out of the water that had seemed to wave. It must have been an illusion, because her eyes were closed and she was quite limp when they approached her.

  They had hoisted her into the old fishing boat and taken her down to the small cabin below. Her face was cut from forehead to chin and her clothing seemed to have been scorched and burned.

  They bandaged her face as best they could. Then they stripped her and wrapped her in a quilt and laid her on a futon. The space was cramped and smelled of rotting fish, but it was the best they could do.

  The old man had gone back to the steering wheel and Hiro to the bow to look for more survivors.

  Yoshi was left alone with the woman. He stared at the bandaged face, seeing not that but the lithe body and firm breasts and the V between her legs. Her face would be permanently scarred, he was sure, but she had been a beautiful woman.

  More than beautiful. Sexual. Strong. Well muscled. Long lean thighs. Unusually prominent nipples. A woman to dream about.

  The quilt slipped from her shoulder and he leaned over to pull it up. She was still unconscious. He was sorely tempted to look again, but then his upbringing interrupted him. He had a duty toward this survivor. One day it could be the other way around. You never knew with the sea.

  The woman's clothing lay in a heap by the corner of the cabin. Bored, he knelt beside the wet pile and started to examine the items. They seemed to comprise some sort of uniform. There was a shirt with buttoned pockets like the military wear, and the trousers had side pockets and large external bellows pockets that extended to just above the knees. They were used for maps and other equipment, he supposed.

  The helicopter must have been military, he guessed. He picked through the pockets. There was a laminated photograph in one of them. It was slightly blurred, as if it had been taken with a telephoto lens. The subject was a gaijin, a man in his midforties, he guessed. There was a military look about him.

  Yoshi turned the photograph. There was a description on the back in kanji and a name in English: Hugo Fitzduane.

  A friend, an exotic foreign lover, a suspect? This was the kind of conjecture the police used. He shrugged and tossed the photograph to one side.

  He had half expected to find identity papers in the shirt, but there was nothing. That was odd if she was military, he thought. But then again, he didn't really know how the military worked. The closest he had come to that world was through television.

  There was a bulge in one of the bellows pockets. He remembered that they had seemed heavy when they were being removed, but he had paid no attention at the time, thinking it was just the weight of water in the clothing.

  He reached into the pocket. The object inside was hard and round. He removed it and stared in disbelief.

  The object fell from his frightened fingers and thudded onto the floor. The fishing boat heaved in the swell and the hand grenade rolled across the cabin floor and thudded into the bulkhead.

  Yoshi's eyes bulged. He knew he should move, but he stayed there petrified, waiting for the terrible explosion. His heart thumped and sweat beaded on his forehead.

  The boat plunged down into a trough and the hand grenade rolled back toward him. He grabbed it and held it with both hands. The pin was still in place.

  Shaking, he put the grenade back into the pocket so it would not roll around. Then he checked the other pockets. There was a length of some thick elasticized cord and a long pocketknife with a button on the side.

  He pressed the button and a stiletto blade sprang from the handle and locked into place.

  What kind of person would carry such things? he thought. What kind of devil have we dragged from the sea?

  Yoshi felt a hand on his shoulder. The touch was gentle, utterly unlike the callused hand of his father grabbing him to do this or that. Always work. More work.

  The hand was reassuring. It promised only pleasure. Instantly he thought again of the woman's body, of how she would feel under him.

  He turned awkwardly, shuffling on his knees. He was afraid, yet compelled to move.

  The woman stood there, her face obscured by the bloodstained bandages, her body golden and perfect in contrast.

  She must be in such pain. How could she stand there without showing some sign of her agony? No matter how strong her will, she had to feel weak.

  The dressings covered not just her entire face but also her mouth. She could not speak. She put her hand behind his head as he knelt before her, and drew him toward her.

  Yoshi could smell her sex, feel her skin. He pulled her toward him, paying no attention as the stiletto was removed from his uncaring fingers.

  He felt her hand behind his head and he pressed his face into her loins. He sighed with pleasure.

  He bent his head still farther toward her. She held him with her thighs for the brief time it was necessary to plunge the stiletto into the back of his neck.

  *****

  Shiro came to spell his father at the wheel. They were heading back to Tokyo. Others were better equipped to carry out a search, and the injured woman needed medical attention. It would have been better still to radio for help, but the batteries were flat. The old man really had no time for the newer ways, and quietly frustrated his son's best efforts. The boat was powered by a fine Yamaha marine diesel, but he still used oil lamps for illumination.

  Hori smiled to himself. What could you do with such a father but respect him?

  The old man selected some fish and his kogatana and took them downstairs to prepare. He'd gut and clean them and then they would eat after they had docked. It was easier to cook when the boat was tied up. Meanwhile, he whiled away the time as they chugged in with a little sake. Or maybe quite a lot of sake.

  Shiro expected Yoshi to appear shortly after the old man went below, but then reflected that the pair of them might be discussing their unusual catch and probably sharing the sake flask. Well, tempted though he was to shout down for his share, docking the boat demanded that he wait for now.

  "Yoshi! Get up here, you lazy sod," Shiro called as he brought the boat alongside the dock. You did not have to be too sober to tie a boat up.

  Yoshi did not appear, and Shiro felt some frustration. He moored the boat fore and aft and went below.

  The cabin was dark and there was a thick smell stronger even than that of rotting fish. The oil lamp must have gone out.

  But why were both the old man and Yoshi silent? Drunk and out cold. Well, it had happened before. And there was the woman to attend to. Someone would have to get help. The catch had to be unloaded. There was work to be done.

  He fumbled for a match.

  In the flare of the flame he saw his father hanging from a hook, his entrails hanging out of his body. He had been gutted.

  Then Shiro saw that the hook was not a hook but his father's favorite kogatana, rammed through the old man's throat into the bulkhead.

  Yoshi lay at his feet, his clothing and the floor around them crimson with blood.

  The match burned down to his fingers and Shiro dropped it.

  He was quaking with fear, unable to make sense of anything he saw when the stiletto punched under his chin, through his tongue, and into his brain.

  *****

  Reiko Oshima lit the oil lamp and surveyed her handiwork.

  She was believed to be dead and she would stay
that way for the time being. Certainly these fishermen were in no position to argue.

  She donned her still-wet clothing but supplemented it with various loose garments belonging to the crew. She was now unrecognizable. Her bandages obscured her features and the additional clothing made it impossible to determine her sex.

  An old man, an old boat, and two drunken sons. All the elements of an accident.

  The hibachi grill was fired with propane. She opened the valve and set the oil lamp at the far end of the cabin.

  She had vanished into the backstreets of Tokyo when the fishing boat blew.

  She had drunk some sake before she left to assuage her pain. All she took with her was the stolen clothing and the laminated photograph of Hugo Fitzduane.

  This was the man who had killed her.

  This was the man she would kill.

  Book One

  Terror

  1

  Washington, D.C.

  The coded fax arrived as the three were having their breakfast.

  The leader's room contained basic cooking facilities, so the group had prepared the Japanese breakfast they were used to. It was a relief not to have to endure coffee with white powder and foods like croissants saturated in fat. How one could function on such an unhealthy diet was a mystery, Wakami- san considered.

  The fax was decoded by Jin Endo, the most junior member of the group. His face turned gray as he read it, checking for spelling errors before presenting it to the group leader.

  He had sworn to die in the service of Yaibo and had meant every word, but to face the fact that this was the day his life would almost certainly end was hard indeed. He was young and good-looking and the juices flowed. He remembered the young blond intern whom he had tried to talk to the evening before. Her skirt had been swept back above her knees, and her thigh in the crowded bar, had pressed against his. He was Asian and spoke little English, but she found him attractive, he knew.

  She worked in the FarnsworthBuilding for a congressman from Texas. She had given him her number and extension scribbled on a beer coaster. He had said he was a student visiting Washington with his older brother and uncle. He would be here for a few more days. Look me up, her eyes had said, and the warmth of her body had confirmed the promise. But it would be a promise unfulfilled, for he would be dead.

  They gave no thought as to why this man, Patricio Nicanor, had to die, but focused totally on how the order was to be implemented. The most important thing, the order stressed, was that Nicanor be liquidated. They must make sure he was killed before he had a chance to speak to anyone in the congressman's office, where the T-Group was based. He must be silenced whatever the cost. The lives of the Yaibo cell members were expendable.

  The group leader's stomach churned as he read the decoded fax, but his face displayed no trace of his inner feelings. He had trained for many years for such an occasion and he had developed the ability to separate his normal human reactions from his inner self. His initial feelings might be of shock or fear or extreme stress, but he now knew that these were false reactions. His inner self and his fundamental sense of purpose were what counted.

  Death was of no significance, for he was as if already dead. What was important would be the manner of his dying. He had dedicated his life to Yaibo, so what mattered was whether his death was in the service of his organization. He would do what was ordered without hesitation or regret.

  The fax contained a digitized photo of the target that had been broken up into a dozen segments and then spread amongst the kanji text. It would scarcely fool the computers of the NSA, but it was certainly sufficient to deceive the hotel clerk who had delivered the message.

  Endo cut up the fax with a scissors and reassembled the pieces of the picture. What emerged was a picture of a Latin male in his early thirties. It was a clear photo, but it was more indicative of a type than an individual. From the photograph alone they could not be certain beyond a doubt who their target was.

  Wakami looked at his senior colleague. Matsunaga- san had worked with him for many years. They were the same age and had joined Yaibo at the same time, and their thoughts were as one.

  Wakami had not spoken, but Matsunaga- san nodded. "There is only one certain way of getting the right man, Wakami- san. We know where he is going to and we know roughly when he is due. We must kill him inside the congressional building as he approaches his goal. That way his guard will be down and we can be certain."

  "But how, Wakami- san?" said Endo. "There are guards at the entrances and everyone is searched."

  "That is a problem we have still to resolve," said Wakami, "but we are not entirely unprepared. There is certainly a solution."

  The Endo asked the question that had been haunting him. He hesitated, and the words rushed out as if they had a life of their own. Immediately he regretted having spoken. This was not appropriate behavior from a junior colleague, and indeed he already knew the answer. But he was young and he was afraid, and he had to ask. His hands, clasped in front of him in a posture of respect as he stood there, were damp with sweat and shaking.

  "Wakami- san," he said. "How will we escape after we have killed this man?"

  Wakami looked at his young colleague with affection. How little the young know, he thought, and how petty are their concerns.

  "Endo- san," he said, "your concern that you might be taken alive is worthy indeed. You must trust me. I know you will do your duty."

  Endo bowed in submission. His bowels had turned to liquid. His life, one way or another, would end this very day. It was certain. He could smell the very skin of the young blond intern, carefree and enthusiastic. She had her whole life ahead of her. He wanted to sob out loud. He straightened and was once again in control. There was a task to perform.

  Oshima- san trusted him and had initiated him personally. He would not let her down.

  *****

  They entered the outskirts of Washington, D.C.

  Twenty minutes later, Warner gave a uniformed guard a wave. It was acknowledged by a nod of recognition, the barrier was raised, and they shot into the basement car park of the FarnsworthBuilding. It was a mildly handsome but otherwise unremarkable light gray stone building housing four hundred and fifty elected members and their staffs of the Congress of the United States of America.

  Fitzduane looked around the drab basement parking area. The place was two-thirds empty. There was nothing to distinguish this parking lot from tens of thousands of conventional commercial-building lots, but still the knowledge that he was now in the very core of the most powerful political center on earth gave him pause for thought.

  From this complex of buildings flowed the legislation that made the United States of America.

  Fitzduane loved the United States. He was not so sure about its capital.

  But the bottom line was that Washington, D.C. counted. It was not a question of whether you liked what they did there or not. The power was real.

  Warner hopped out of the car and stretched. Then he came around to Fitzduane's side. The Irishman was still sitting there lost in thought.

  "Yeah," said Warner, "it really makes you think when you come here the first time. This really is IT – the House, the Senate, the Supreme Court. All that good shit. The State Department, the FBI, the Pentagon. All those organs of the United States government just waiting to serve.

  "It's enough to bring a lump to your throat. You think little old you can make a difference. You go around glowing for a few days, maybe a few weeks, possibly a month or two. And then you start very slowly to understand as the structure starts almost imperceptibly to destroy you.

  "It is nearly impossible to get anything done in this fucking place. All this talent and ambition, all hundred senators and four hundred and fifty congressmen and twenty thousand staffers and eighty thousand lobbyists cancel each other out. The Founding Fathers wanted checks and balances, and they surely did succeed."

  Fitzduane smiled. "Hell of a speech, Dan," he said.

 
; Warner grinned. "You wouldn't believe me if I said I liked it."

  Fitzduane walked with Warner to the elevator.

  "How is security on the Hill?" he said. "I noticed we weren't stopped on the way in, and I didn't see you show a pass, Dan."

  Warner grunted. "Basically, it sucks," he said, "but I guess you can't entirely blame the Capitol Hill police. They are supposed to keep the bad guys out while letting the public in. That is pretty damned difficult. But they go through the motions. If you had not been with me, Hugo, and went in the main entrance upstairs you would have had to walk through a metal detector, and your bag, if you had one, would go through a scanner. But there are ways around that shit. The Task Force thinks security should be tightened, but the politicians don't want to lose any votes. Guess who is winning?"

  Fitzduane smiled. The elevator reached the second floor.

  *****

  Lee Cochrane, Chief of Staff of the Congressional Task Force on Terrorism, glared at his subordinate.

  Maurice Isser, a complex hybrid of French-Canadian, Russian, and Jewish origin – now neatly packaged as an American – was, at times, a near-impossible man. He got away with it because he was inarguably a genius at both intelligence and analysis. But one of his many quirks was his absolute paranoia when it came to meeting new people. He hated the initial contact at any time, but never more so than when he was not well prepared and softened up in advance.

  Cochrane was going to strangle the man. He was going to positively enjoy strangling the man. The prospect was cheering.

  "Maury," said Cochrane, "all I want you to do is meet him. You can't spend your life as the Invisible Man or peering out of a slit in the stationery closet. Someone is going to warp a canvas jacket around you and cart you away."

  "Why didn't you tell me?" said Maury in an aggrieved voice.