Rules of the Hunt
Rules of
The
Hunt
by
V
i
c t o r
O ' R e
i
l
l
y
Prologue
Off Fitzduane's
January 1
The killing
team needed a cover story for their presence.
As Japanese in
a Western environment, they were more likely to be noticed and remembered.
They decided
to come in as a film crew.
Gold had been
discovered in the region amid some of the most scenic terrain of the West of
Ireland, and there was controversy as to whether it should be mined.
It was a classic environmental issue and
attracted international media attention.
Film crews came and went, and most hired some kind of aerial transport.
air.
The team
carried out their initial reconnaissance in a four-seater Piper Aztec.
Discretion minimized their amount of flight
time over the island itself, but it was sufficient for them to become
comfortable with the lay of the land.
On
the second day, to allay suspicion, they telephoned Fitzduane's castle,
explained the story they were working on, and requested permission to film from
the ground to add some local color.
They
were politely refused.
The island
itself was like a finger, ten kilometers long and four kilometers across at its
widest, pointing west into the Atlantic toward
away.
It was joined to the mainland by a
bridge set into the cliffs over a treacherous-looking divide; land access
elsewhere looked impossible.
The jagged
coastline consisted of high, overhanging cliffs or, in the few places where the
fall of land was more gentle, was guarded by concealed rocks and changing
currents.
From the air
they could see shadows of darkness in the sea and in two locations the remains
of ancient wrecks.
The sea seemed
beautiful, moody, and dangerous.
It was
not a hospitable-looking spot.
There were two
castles on the island.
The westward
castle, Draker, was a sprawling Victorian Gothic structure which they knew had
once been an exclusive school but which was now boarded up.
The castle
nearer the landward side was Fitzduane's castle, Duncleeve.
It was this
that interested them.
It stood on a
rocky bluff at one end of a bay.
Inland
was a freshwater lake overlooked by a small, white, thatched cottage.
Their
reconnaissance covered many things:
access, terrain, population, security, cover, threat assessment, and
weather conditions.
But their main
concern was with confirming the killing ground.
They booked
the helicopter and a faster, longer-range aircraft for the last two days.
They explained that they were on a deadline
and had to fly some exposed film to make a connection in
Their credentials were double-checked by a cautious reservations clerk
but were verified as satisfactory.
They would
contour-fly in at fifty feet or less by helicopter, and land on the north side
of the island in a clearing to seaward of one of the hills.
They would be neither heard nor seen.
They would then proceed on foot to the spot
they had chosen.
Fitzduane tended to
vary the route he took on his daily ride, but there was one spot he normally
visited either coming or going.
The child and
his desires were the man's weakness.
A
watcher had monitored his movements for several weeks before the killing team
had moved in.
The team
members were experienced, well-trained, and totally motivated.
After the hit, they would escape on foot to
the waiting helicopter, fly to the aircraft, and enplane immediately for
There, they would vanish.
It was now
down to implementation and that intangible — luck.
*
*
*
*
*
The bodyguard
tensed as he saw the gates in the outer perimeter wall swing open and the
gleaming black limousine enter the drive.
The gates
should not have opened without his checking the visitor on the TV monitor and,
even more to the point, without his activating the release of the electronic
lock.
The master received a constant
stream of visitors and petitioners at certain specified times of the day, so
black limousines were more the rule than the exception.
But this was seven in the morning, and the
master's insistence on privacy while he bathed and prepared himself for the day
was well-known.
It was a
running joke in the circles of power that more careers were made and broken by
the decisions made by Hodama
-san
while he soaked in his traditional copper bath than by the rest of the
government put together.
The joke had
more punch when you realized that Hodama held no official position.
The drive
through the formal gardens to the single-story traditional Japanese house was short.
Even though
modesty of lifestyle.
Overt displays of
power and wealth were frowned upon.
Further, Hodama's simple house and grounds were in the exclusive Akasaka
district of Tokyo.
The ownership of a
property at such a location was a message in itself.
Hodama's dwelling and grounds, not much more extensive than a typical
American ranch-style bungalow and yard, were valued conservatively at tens of
millions of dollars.
The bodyguard,
a grizzled veteran in his sixties, was kept on less for his physical skills
than for his memory and sense of protocol.
Threats were not seriously feared.
Those days were long over.
Hodama's
power and influence were too great.
Instead, the bodyguard was primarily concerned with the procedural
niceties of controlling the flow of visitors.
Appearances and appropriate behavior were of enormous importance.
The wrong greeting or an inadequate bow by
one of Hodama's retainers could be misinterpreted, and damage the harmony of
the relationship between visitor and Hodama himself.
And Hodama attached great importance to his
relationships.
The people he knew and
influenced, the people he flattered and pampered and manipulated and betrayed,
were the basis of his power.
With these
thoughts in his mind, and concerned not to upset some dignitary, the bodyguard
took no action for the few seconds it took for the long black vehicle with its
shining chrome and tinted windows to sweep around in front of the house and
purr gently to a halt.
The sight of the
license plate and the discreet symbol it bore was instantly reassuring.
The bodyguard relaxed, immensely relieved
that he had not initiated any precipitative action and caused embarrassment and
loss of face.
The opening of the
perimeter gates was now explained.
The
limousine belonged to one of Hodama's intimates.
The driver's
door opened almost as soon as the vehicle came to a halt, and the chauffeur,
immaculate in navy uniform and white gloves, jumped out and opened the rear
passenger door.
The bodyguard
had also been hastening down to open the passenger door, as one of the gestures
of respect he would employ for the distinguished visitor.
Now, his first actions rendered unnecessary
by the speed of the chauffeur, he stumbled to a halt and bowed deeply, his eyes
cast down in respect, as the limousine door was opened.
A pair of
expensively trousered legs emerged.
Something was
wrong.
Decades of bowing had made the
bodyguard expert at making quick assessments with his head at waist
height.
Something just did not look
right with the trousers.
His master's
visitor was very particular and consistent.
His suits were exclusively English-tailored, and these trousers were
definitely of Italian material and cut.
There was the
sound of spitting — three distinct short spitting sounds — and the bodyguard's
uncertainties were abruptly terminated, as three 9-mm hollow-point bullets
entered the top of his skull, expanded as designed as they smashed through the
bone, and then wreaked fatal havoc as they ricocheted around inside.
The bow became
abruptly even more respectful until gravity exerted itself to the full and the
bodyguard's corpse collapsed in an undignified heap.
Blood from his head wound trickled its way
into the carefully raked gravel of a Zen stone garden.
The chauffeur
spoke one word into a miniature two-way radio, and seconds later another black
limousine sped into the grounds of the Hodama residence and the gates were
closed.
A total of ten attackers had now
emerged from the two cars.
Their
sureness of movement revealing much training and rehearsal, the attackers
swiftly surrounded the house and then entered simultaneously at one command.
Inside the house,
Hodama was looking forward to the simple pleasure of a good long soak in a hot
bath.
Although U.S. bombers had
destroyed the original property which had been on the site and the house was
merely a meticulous reconstruction, the bath itself was an original and had
been specially built into the new house, which was otherwise equipped with the
most modern of plumbing.
Special
construction had been required because the bath, a heavy, open-topped copper
cylinder with a curved base that made it look more like a deep cauldron than a
Western bath, was heated by a small fire located directly underneath it.
For convenience to the external woodpile, the
firebox was placed in an outside wall and was accessible only from the
outside.
Inside the bathroom, the copper
bath was built in flush to the tiled floor.
Operation was a matter of filling the bath with water, lighting the fire
until the water reached the required temperature, putting out the fire, and
then — having carefully tested the water again — stepping gingerly into the
steaming water and sitting on the built-in wooden seat to luxuriate in the
soothing heat.
Hodama was
deeply attached to his copper bath.
He
liked to say that it had been in his family for more generations than he could
count.
He could sit in it with the water
up to his chin and his legs dangling and think in a way that did not seem to be
possible in a chilly, drafty, low-slung Western bath.
That morning,
his manservant, Amika, who had the responsibility for lighting the fire and
making the other preparations, had just told Hodama that the bath was ready.
Slowly, Hodama
shuffled into the tiled bathroom.
He was
feeling mentally alert but physically every one of his eighty-four years.
He no longer slept much and had already been
working for several hours.
The soothing
water beckoned.
