Fitzduane 03 - Devil's Footprint, The Page 3

  A major corporation would have been embarrassed by the crowded conditions of most of the offices. Typically, a congressman had a three-room suite with a tiny reception lobby and waiting area. One room housed the congressman, the second his chief of staff, and the third as many of his staff as could be squeezed in. If you were a staffer, it helped greatly if you were small and thin. Or even tall and thin. The offices had high ceilings.

  "Hugo, the U.S. of A. is run by kids," said Warner as they ambled back to the office. He glanced across at Fitzduane and grinned. "It confuses the shit out of the other side, whoever they are these days. God! Bring back the Cold War. It was so beautifully simple."

  Fitzduane raised an eyebrow.

  Warner needed no further encouragement. "The workload in this place is ridiculous," he said happily. "The average elected official spends most of his time working on being reelected — on his image — and commuting to and from his constituency. Any surplus time is spent taking his TV makeup off, bogged down in procedure, sitting in meetings, and getting drunk and screwing around because he or she is working so hard. So he hasn't a snowball's chance of actually reading the stuff he votes on, and certainly not in detail.

  "Hell, man, consider the numbers and the crazy way this place operates. A single bill can run to thousands of pages. And the House rules are of a scale of complexity that even Machiavelli would admire. And they keep changing."

  "So where do the kids come in?" asked Fitzduane obligingly.

  "Since the elected have not the time to do the job they were voted in to do, the staffers have to do it. However, there is a twist here too. Members do not like being accused of spending too much money on themselves, so they have voted a peanut budget for staffers.

  "That means two things. First, few people with a useful body of experience can afford to stay here. As they get older they acquire family commitments, and this is an expensive town. They leave and become lobbyists or head back to the boonies and live on their war stories. Second, staffs are heavily padded out with teenage interns who work for honor and glory and an entry on their CV. They get paid nothing.

  "It's a mighty peculiar system. It means the U.S. legislature, if you get right down to it, is operated by a bunch of teenagers working for free. And since the U.S. is the superpower these days, it explains a lot. God bless America!"

  "So what about you and Lee and Maury?" said Fitzduane. "You're not exactly still in diapers."

  Warner halted and faced Fitzduane. "Well, Hugo," he said lightly, "I guess we're kind of unusual."

  Fitzduane was getting used to Dan Warner's exuberance, but on this point he did not think the deputy chief of staff was joking. Loose cannon or the right stuff? He had some thoughts on the matter, but it was much too early to be sure.

  * * * * *

  It was fortunate tat the Yaibo team were already in place.

  Wakami's unit had not come to Washington specifically for a killing, but they had been reconnoitering the city for future incidents. They had already checked out many of the government facilities.

  These had included the FarnsworthBuilding. They had been in and out on several occasions and had even visited offices near those of Congressman Wayne Sanders, where the Task Force on Terrorism was located.

  They had been able to survey nearly the length and breadth of the capital without hindrance, because they presented themselves not as tourists but as a lobbying group. Since the Japanese were particularly energetic at using the U.S. lobbying system to advance and protect Japanese interests — even when they were quite contrary to American interests — three more Japanese lobbyists attracted no attention at all.

  Wakami had even had business cards printed identifying them as ‘The Osaka Industries United States Friendship Group,’ and these brought general access.

  Senators, congressmen, and their staffers were permanently on the lookout for money, influence, and votes in roughly that order. Everyone knew that Japanese businessmen had money, rice sacks full of it, and that bought influence.

  It all added up to a warm welcome for Wakami-san and his people. Wakami, who spoke adequate English, had become quite good at making long speeches about mutual friendship in Japanese and having Endo translate in halting English while politicians, their eyes glazed over, stood smiling. Photographs of such events were expected, even encouraged. Lining up a target assassination list, complete with full-color illustrations, had never been easier.

  Armed with his copy of The World Almanac of U.S. Politics, bought in Sidney Kramer's Bookstore, and The United States House of Representatives Telephone Directory, given to him by a friendly staffer who fancied switching to a better-paid job as a lobbyist for Japan, Wakami had Endo line up an appointment with Lee Cochrane's office.

  Cochrane-san might be running the counterterrorism Task Force with minimal staff, but he also had a demanding political role as chief of staff for his congressman. Wearing his political hat, he would see Wakami and his team or at least have him received — if only by an intern not yet old enough to drink legally.

  The important thing was that Wakami now had access into the subcommittee's offices, and if a guard at the entrance called up — through that was most unlikely — their credibility would be already established.

  He and his people could wait in the subcommittee's reception until his target came into sight. He would delay any meeting until a mythical missing member of their group would turn up. With a bit of luck they would even be given tea. He was not worried about being recognized later.

  All three members of Osaka Industries United States Friendship Group quite deliberately had identical haircuts, horn-rimmed glasses, and clothing. To Americans, they would be like peas in a 120-million-population pod.

  In Wakami's opinion, it all said a great deal about how the United States regarded terrorism, not that he was complaining. Well, they would learn the hard way. He decided they would go in the main entrance. There was more traffic that way, so the guards would be busier.

  That left him with the decision as to how the actual killing of the target should be carried out. Their instructions emphasized that he must be killed and they must be sure he was dead. A dying man could still talk.

  To get through the metal detector and scanner, the killing would have to be carried out without either firearms or event the traditional blade. Yet death must be certain and immediate.

  There was really only one absolutely foolproof way Wakami could think of.

  Finally, Wakami thought about how the members of the team might escape. ‘Escape,’ of course, was a relative term.

  * * * * *

  The liquid explosives came in as double-walled ampoules of insulin.

  The guard at the main entrance had spotted the two containers and the hypodermic on the scanner through the sides of the briefcase, but his voice was sympathetic as he routinely checked the items.

  The word ‘insulin’ was printed on both labels, together with the name of the prescribing doctor and the pharmacy. In that context, the hypodermic required no explanation.

  If he had been able to check the ampoules, it would have made no difference unless he had spotted and opened the sealed double wall. There was genuine insulin at the core. It was a useful poison for some situations. Injecting a large dose into a normal healthy person was lethal and hard to detect. The body naturally dispenses insulin into the bloodstream when unduly stressed, and imminent death comes into that category.

  The outer wall of the ampoule contained enough explosive to equal the force of a hand grenade.

  The guard did not query the other items.

  The killing weapon came in as an extension cable for the camera. The cable normally consisted of an outer flexible core and a thin inner wire. Pushing a release at one end pushed a plunger out the other and activated the shutter release. In this case, the ends constituted no more than decorations. The substance was the razor-sharp serrated inner wire.

  The other weapons were short ‘punch daggers’ — ultrathi
n needle blades with a crosspiece making a T, which were clenched in the fist and punched in when stabbing. They were built into each man's briefcase looking like part of the reinforcing frame, with the crosspiece being the designer handle. Each man had one. The blades had no cutting edge but were strong enough when stabbing to pierce even most body armor.

  * * * * *

  Fitzduane's eyes caught Maury's briefly as he entered the room. Maury smiled very slightly and gently, as if it were entirely normal to greet someone while half-concealed behind a drape.

  "Hugo, a pleasure," said Cochrane.

  Unlike Warner and the other staffers, the marine-trim chief of staff was formally dressed, his shirt white and crisp and his tie regimental. The style was that of a military man in civilian clothes, but the eyes were not just those of a direct man of action. There was a look of introspection here. They were the guarded eyes of a very intelligent man who had seen much to disappoint him but still believed. Fitzduane was mildly irritated at himself for being surprised. He had expected surface polish and competence. He was faced with someone who was more substantial and decidedly more complex.

  Fitzduane had read the reports put out by the Task Force on Terrorism. Those who originated them knew — really understood — how their special world worked. And Maury, from what he had heard and read, would not work with a fool. Fitzduane smiled to himself. He trusted he would prove up to the mark.

  Maury stayed behind his curtain and said nothing. The situation would have been unusual enough, but the chief of staff's office was comparatively small. Maury was not some discreet watcher from a distance but stood only a few feet away, as if sheer willpower and his very still composure would make him invisible. There was room just for a desk and two scuffed leather sofas with a small table in the middle.

  This was a functional place for meeting and talking, not designed to impress. The one exception was a small case containing medals and a photograph of two men in fatigues.

  Vietnam, Fitzduane looked at the mementos with mixed emotions. He had been young then, too, and in some ways it had been the best of times. But too many friends had died there.

  Cochrane saw Fitzduane's glance. "Not mine," he said. "They belong to the man who inspired all this. His widow wanted me to have them."

  "I'm sure you have your own, Lee," said Fitzduane.

  Cochrane nodded somewhat stiffly. "The military give them out by the shitload. They're not what counts. It's what you stand for and what you do. All I did was show up."

  Fitzduane nodded. More than many, he reflected.

  Standing to one side of Fitzduane, Warner was suddenly struck by the fanciful notion that he was watching the meeting of two knights from the Middle Ages.

  Both had warrior stamped all over them. Both were being friendly enough on the face of it, and on the face of it had similar values, but there was still an unspoken competitive element between them. On second thought, the competitive factor probably emanated from Lee. Hugo Fitzduane had actually done the kind of things that Lee merely aspired to do. Of course, Lee had certainly served his time, but that was many years ago. Fitzduane had also been in Vietnam but had had major encounters with terrorism twice —the latter as recently as a year ago.

  Lee, the paper pusher, was encountering the adventurer. The chief of staff was competitive from gullet to zatch. It could not be easy for him. Worse, he had to behave himself.

  He wanted to enlist the Irishman's help, and Colonel Hugo Fitzduane did not look someone you could lead by the nose. Warner was silently amused. This was going to be fun.

  Of course, what two gallant knights like Cochrane and Fitzduane were doing within the confines of Congress was another matter entirely. The Hill was not about daring deeds and gallantry. It was about politics, and that was a cold, reality-based world.

  "Lee?" Tanya, one of the full-time receptionists, put her head around the door. "Before you get comfortable... There is that Japanese delegation, and Patricio has just arrived."

  Cochrane gestured at Fitzduane. "Take a seat, Hugo, and I'll be back in a moment. Dan can introduce you to our friend from Mexico while I exchange pleasantries with our Japanese friends. I gather it is just a courtesy call."

  He looked back at Tanya. "Show Patricio in here. I'll see our Japanese visitors in the congressman's office. Have they had tea?"

  Tanya nodded. Cochrane grinned. Tanya knew the drill.

  "So let's do it," he said. The receptionist backed away and Lee headed toward the door, then waited inside to give Patricio a quick greeting before temporarily ducking out. There were always too many people to see, never enough time, and certainly not enough space. Juggling all the elements was like playing with a Rubik's Cube.

  There was no warning.

  "What are you... Aaagh! My God! My God! They're killing us. They're kill—"

  The shouts and short piercing screams were truncated before their full dreadful meaning was understood.

  The sounds of people dying belonged to other worlds, not to the paper and verbal wars on the Hill.

  They looked at each other uncertainly. There were TV sets everywhere, monitoring Congress on C-Span. Someone had switched into a drama and turned the volume up too loud. It was not real.

  The door crashed wide open, forcing Cochrane backward and he tripped over the small table in the confined space and then collapsed onto the floor with it upended in front of him.

  Warner stood up to help and Fitzduane was blocked.

  "Huh-huh-huh-huh-haaaaa..."

  The sound of dying.

  Patricio Nicanor stood in the open doorway, the expression on his face compounded of shock and horror and fear and pain and something much worse.

  It was the look of a fellow human animal knowing he was losing his life — and that was elemental and singularly disturbing to behold.

  Even as they watched, and that brief moment seemed to take an eternity, his eyes bulged and his throat gaped open in a wet crimson smile.

  There was a loud cry of triumph and effort from behind him, and then blood spurted from his torso and his head toppled from his body and rolled toward them.

  Patricio's headless body was still erect, his heart still pumping blood, crimson spewing from the bloody stump. Then the corpse was released and slid to the ground.

  The killer was suddenly revealed. He stood there for an infinitesimal moment with the bloody steel garrote in his hands and a look of triumph on his face.

  Shouts came from the general office, and Fitzduane saw the terrorist begin to turn while letting one end of the garrote fall from his right hand and then reaching into the side pocket of his jacket.

  There was the whumph of an explosion closely followed by screams of pain that were all the more disturbing for being muted.

  Fitzduane's brain fought to process competing messages.

  Logic dictated that what he was seeing could not be happening. He was in a safeguarded environment.

  Instinct, brutally reinforced by the odors of death, told him that if he did not do something quickly he would be joining Patricio Nicanor.

  Survival more than logic was the dominant force on this occasion.

  Desperately, he looked around Cochrane's office for a weapon — anything, even a paper knife or an unloaded war souvenir.

  There was nothing except an embossed coffee mug.

  Anything can be a weapon!

  He seized the mug by its base, leaped over the temporarily sprawled figures of Cochrane and Warner, and punched the Japanese full force in the face with the open rim as the terrorist was turning back to Cochrane's office after throwing the grenade.

  Fitzduane put everything he had behind the blow. The shock of the vicious impact ran up his arm and jarred his shoulder, and he grunted with the pain and effort.

  The mug shattered, virtually exploding.

  Shards penetrated the assassin's face. The impact broke Wakami's nose and cheekbone, temporarily stunning him.

  Edged metal slammed into the door frame beside
Fitzduane as he ducked in reflex. He realized he would have been stabbed if the first killer's dazed body had not impeded his attacker.

  He pivoted, smashed his elbow into his assailant's stomach, and jabbed with the broken remains of the coffee mug at the back of the hand holding the weapon.

  The hand was caught between the blow and the door frame, and Fitzduane was fighting with the force of true desperation.

  The man gave a shriek of agony as the bones in his hand were shattered and he lost his grip on the punch dagger.

  Fitzduane grabbed the man's arm, the bloody hand dangling uselessly from it, dropped to one knee, and threw the terrorist over his shoulder into Cochrane's office.

  Fitzduane then wrenched the strange-looking weapon from the wood. If felt like a woodworker's tool in his hand; the general shape was like a gimlet, but the blade was like a short, thin stiletto.

  His movements flowing one into the other, he raised the slumped head of his original attacker with a hard palm blow under the chin.

  As his head came up, Fitzduane hooked his right arm around and stabbed the needlelike blade into the man's ear.

  The terrorist jerked upright in a horrified spasm as the punch dagger cut into him and his mouth opened as if to scream, but the point had entered his brain before the pain message could be implemented.

  He collapsed lifeless like an abandoned puppet.

  Fitzduane looked back into Cochrane's office.

  The terrorist he had thrown there had fallen on the edge of the table that had been lying on its side since Cochrane had tripped over it. The impact had driven the air out of his lungs, and while he lay there gasping, Cochrane had taken his own belt off, made a sliding noose with the belt buckle, and looped it around the fallen man's neck.

  The terrorist kicked desperately as the noose tightened, and his one good hand flailed as he tried to loosen the unrelenting grip.

  Warner tried to pinion his legs. The terrorist writhed, his strength formidable in his desperation. His legs kicked clear. Cochrane suddenly jerked the noose at an angle with all his strength.