The Devil's Footprint (39 page)

My weapon might jam.

They could be waiting for us.

My night-vision goggles are damaged or knocked off, and I am in the same
darkness that they are.

I am injured.

One of my team is hit.

We break through,
but Kathleen is
dead!

Hugo is injured!

What do I do?

Again and again, Chifune activated the automatic pop-up targeting
mechanism and rehearsed her moves.
 
The
silenced Calico hissed death.
 
Spent
rounds were ejected downward into the clip-on bag.
 
No empty case tinkling on the ground.
 
No brass to slip on.
 
Details, details, details.

Targets sprang up again, were hit again, and scores automatically logged.

Despite the air-conditioning, the atmosphere in the killing house grew
thick with fumes.
 
She activated the
extraction system and the massive fans cut in.

Her fatigues drenched in sweat, Chifune finally slumped to the ground
panting.
 
She lay there for several
minutes and then walked to the showers.
 
She missed her Japanese bath, but in addition to the showers there was a
hot tub there, and that was close enough.

The shower block was empty.
 
She
had the place to herself.
 
It would be
another two hours before the camp awoke.

She stripped off her clothes.
 
She
did not switch on the lights.
 
There was
just enough illumination from security lights filtering through the roof lights
of the shower room, and the combination of streaming water against her body and
the near darkness was soothing.
 
She
turned off the shower.
 
Toweling her hair
while she walked, she made her way to the hot tub and slid in.

Eyes closed, she stretched her legs.

Flesh.

A figure leaped into the air.
 
"JUDAS PRIEST!" yelled a voice, clearly freshly wakened.
 
"Who the hell is that?"

Chifune started to laugh.

"They say it's dangerous to fall asleep in the hot tub, Hugo,"
she said sweetly.
 
"Didn't your mother
ever tell you that?"

The figure slid back into the water.
 
"My mother told me to beware of Japanese women," growled
Fitzduane.
 
There was a long pause before
he spoke again.
 
"Especially the
kind a man has learned to really care about."

"Men forget," said Chifune softly.

"We make choices," said Fitzduane, "and we live with those
choices, but we don't forget.
 
We were
close and we'll always be close.
 
It
doesn't end just because..."
 
He
left the last words unspoken.

He leaned across and kissed her on the forehead, and her arms went around
him and for a moment they were locked together.
 
Then they separated.

Chifune sat in the darkness and cried.
 
Fitzduane put his arm around her.
 
After a while her tears ceased and she began to talk.
 
Mostly Fitzduane listened.

"I must go, Hugo," she said eventually, "or Oga-
san
will be out looking."
 
She laughed.
 
She felt a great sense of peace.

She moved toward him and kissed him once on the lips.
 
Our
lives are intertwined,
she thought.
 
I will be your shadow
.

"I'm glad you're here, Chifune," said Fitzduane quietly.
 
"It means more than I can say.
 
When I've doubts I see you and think ‘Yes, we
can do it.’
 
I often have doubts."

"We'll get Kathleen back," said Chifune simply.

In the morning, Oga expected Chifune to look tired and to eat little, as
had been her habit recently.
 
Instead she
was in sparkling form and ate like a little horse.
 
He felt immensely relieved.

Oshima, he thought, you're going to have problems.
 
Whatever happened last night, Tanabu-
san
is back on form.

14

It was Rheiman's fourth visit.

He did not seem to mind that she did not reply.
 
He chattered away and she stayed silent and
that was accepted as the natural order of things.
 
Nonetheless, despite her inner campaign of
silent resistance, Kathleen looked forward to his visits.
 
Rheiman, whatever he had done and whatever he
was,
was gentle.
 
He was considerate, and above all, he came across as a normal, warm
fellow human being.

A lie?
 
Another unpleasant twist in the psychological battle Reiko Oshima was
waging to break her?
 
Perhaps, but she
thought not.

Kathleen wanted to cry with relief when Rheiman came to visit, but
nothing showed.
 
The mantra was repeated
again and again.

I am strong
.

It was no longer just a slogan.
 
It
was the truth.
 
And there was a new
mantra.
 
I know
.

I am strong and I know
.
 
Blindfolded, bound, and helpless though she
was, she felt an ever-increasing strength and understanding that had previously
eluded her.
 
Motives and behavior,
previously
inexplicable,
now made sense.
 
It was if her mind had been out of focus in
the past and the conclusions blurred.
 
Now the focus was tight and clear and vivid.

She heard his marvelously civilian footsteps outside and then a brief
interchange with the guard.
 
They made
jokes about him when his back was turned, but to his face they treated Rheiman
with respect.
 
He had no direct authority
over them, she gathered, but he had some clout of some sort.
 
He was a senior figure in the scheme of
things.

But what did he do?
 
Why was he
here?
 
So far, she had no idea.
 
He had talked a great deal, but always in
generalities.
 
It was a kind of verbal
reconnaissance.
 
As Rheiman had said, people
like to chew over a new idea before swallowing it.
 
And Rheiman as a friend — which was what he
clearly wanted to be — was certainly a novel proposition.
 
For he was also the enemy.
 
And
she
was strong
.

She would not be seduced or flattered or won over by gentle words any
more than she would give in to physical abuse.
 
She would hold on fast and she would win.
 
Somehow.
 
There was always a way.

Sometimes you found out too late.

The cell door opened and closed and his footsteps came closer, and then
there was a new noise.
 
She racked her
brain.
 
She was getting good at
identifying sounds.
 
She smiled.
 
Got
you!
 
It was a folding chair.

Small victories, Fitzduane used to say when he was blocked by
something,
they're all you need to keep going.

Rheiman cleared his throat.
 
He
seemed to feel the need to announce himself before he started to speak.
 
Once he got going there was scant trace of
hesitation, but initially he always betrayed that he was not quite sure of his
ground.
 
This did not support the idea
that he was part of some plan of Oshima's.
 
It was much more as if he was following his own agenda but was not quite
sure how to proceed.

A weakness!
 
A weakness that could be exploited!

"I brought a chair, Kathleen," said Rheiman
apologetically.
 
"It's not for you,
I'm afraid.
 
They insist you stay chained
to the wall.
 
That's the way they
are.
 
But then, you know that."

Kathleen remained stony-faced.

"I saw you smile when I came in," said Rheiman.
 
He paused and then continued almost
sadly.
 
"For me?
 
I think not.
 
But you have a most beautiful smile, Kathleen.
 
It melts my heart when I see you like
this.
 
I really do want us to be
friends."

Kathleen swore silently.
 
She was
almost sure that she had shown no expression when she had guessed that the
sound was the chair, but her damn body was letting her down.

"I used to work for a man named George Bull," said
Rheiman.
 
"He was a genius — way
ahead of his time — and I hated him.
 
Quite a few people did.
 
People
generally don't like people who are that smart.

"I loathed Bull's guts because he was attractive to women in a way
that I was not.
 
On the scientific side,
I could more than give Bull a run for his money.
 
I'm proving it now.
 
am building what he only dreamed about — but
my installation is way superior.

"The secret, you must know, is in the use of hydrogen as a
propellant.
 
Bull, you know, used a form
of gunpowder.
 
An odd
choice for such a progressive man.
 
Apart from being technologically less efficient, it is
not
the kind of thing that you can buy
by the ton without attracting unwelcome attention.
 
Hydrogen, on the other hand, is used for
activities as innocent as children's balloons, and you can make it from
ordinary water."

Kathleen knew she had a decision to make.
 
She could maintain her silent resistance or switch tactics.
 
Rheiman was dangling information in front of
her as an incentive to speak.
 
And if she
did speak she could begin to guide the conversation and perhaps learn something
that would help her escape.
 
On the other
hand, if she did break her silence, it could be seen as a sign of weakness.

But what counted was not so much what they thought but how she felt
inside.
 
I am strong and I know!

She made her decision.

"I don't — don't understand," she said slowly.
 
Her throat was dry, and speech did not come
easily.

"I'm sorry," said Rheiman.
 
"I should have realized how you felt."
 
She heard the sound of water pouring, and
then her hands were being folded around a cup and steered gently toward her
lips.

Water.
 
It
meant more than she could ever express.
 
She was kept permanently thirsty.
 
She felt a rush of gratitude toward Rheiman, and then her defense mechanisms
cut in.
 
Don't be fooled, Kathleen.
 
This
is a trick.
 
This man is the enemy.
 
Use him.
 
Do not weaken.

"Feel better?" said Rheiman.

"A little," said Kathleen.
 
Follow up an advantage.
 
"It
would be easier if I could see you, Mr. Rheiman.
 
It's difficult to talk when you cannot see
the other person."

There was silence.
 
"I — I'm
sorry," said Rheiman.
 
"You're
right, of course, but there are limits to what I can do.
 
How they're treating you is barbaric, but you
are Oshima's prisoner.
 
She is not someone
one defies lightly.
 
Do you know who she
is?"

Kathleen nodded.
 
"I know who
she is," she said with feeling.
 
"And what she is."
 
She
looked toward where Rheiman was sitting.
 
There was an opportunity here, a sensitivity to exploit.
 
She would use his first name.
 
"And you're working for her,
Edgar?"

There was another long pause.
 
"I — I... there are reasons, Kathleen."

"Tell me about them, Edgar," said Kathleen, her blindfolded
face facing his, her voice soft.
 
"Tell me about them."

She heard the metal frame of his chair rasp against the stone of the
floor,
then
hurried footsteps.
 
For long seconds there was silence as he
paused by the door, and then it was opened and closed quietly.

She had pushed too hard and had alienated her one potential ally.
 
Despair seized her, but then she fought
back.
 
She remembered a story Fitzduane
had once told her.

"A man owned a valuable mule," he had said, "not just any
old mule but a valuable, fine, upstanding animal with a glossy coat and clear
eyes.
 
Unfortunately, the mule would not
do what it was told.
 
To put it mildly,
it was a bloody-minded beast.

"The mule owner, nor unreasonably, was frustrated by this
recalcitrant animal.
 
He tried various
techniques and a whole raft of different mule tamers, but to no avail.
 
The mule remained uncooperative.