Sandy Clark watched him from fifteen feet away. He was a handsome man, and probably a brave one-for a criminal, her mind added. She remembered John telling her more than once that bravery was a far more common thing than cowardice, and that the reason for it was shame. People went into danger not alone, but with their friends, and you didn't want to appear weak in front of them, and so from the fear of cowardice came the most insane of acts, the successful ones later celebrated as great heroism. It had struck her as the worst sort of cynicism on John's part… and yet her husband was not a cynical man. Could it therefore be the truth?
In this case, it was a man in his early thirties, holding a weapon in his hands and looking as though he didn't have a friend in the world
–but the mother in her told Sandy that her daughter was probably safe now, along with her grandchild. The dead one had called after her, but now he was messily dead on the hospital floor, and so Patsy had probably gotten away. That was the best information of the day, and she closed her eyes to whisper a prayer of thanks.
"Hey, Doc," Vega said in greeting.
"Where are they?"
Vega pointed. "Around this corner. Four of them, we think. George dropped one for the count."
"Talk to them yet?"
Oso shook his head. "No."
"Okay." Bellow took a deep breath. "This is Paul," he called loudly. "Is Timothy there?"
"Yes," came the reply.
"Are you okay?-not wounded or anything, I mean," the psychiatrist asked.
O'Neil wiped some blood from his face - the glass fragments in the van had made some minor cuts. "We're all fine. Who are you?"
"I'm a physician. My name is Paul Bellow. What's yours?"
"Timothy will do for now."
"Okay, fine. Timothy, uh, you need to think about your situation, okay?"
"I know what that is," O'Neil responded, an edge on his voice.
Outside, things were gradually becoming organized. Ambulances were on the scene, plus medical orderlies from the British Army. The wounded were being moved now, to the base hospital at Hereford where surgeons were waiting to reat them, and coming in were SAS soldiers, thirty of hem, to assist the Rainbow troopers. Colonel Malloy 's helicopter set down on the pad at the base, and the two prisoners were taken to the military hospital for treatment.
"Tim, you will not be getting away from here. I think you know that," Bellow observed, in as gentle a voice as he could manage.
"I can kill hostages if you don't let me leave," O'Neil countered.
"Yes, you can do that, and then we can come in on you and try to stop that from happening, but in either case, you will not be getting away. But what do you gain by murdering people, Tim?"
"The freedom of my country!"
"That is happening already, isn't it?" Bellow asked.
"There are peace accords, Tim. And Tim, tell me, what country ever began on a foundation of the murder of innocent people? What will your countrymen think if you murder your hostages?"
"We are freedom fighters!"
"Okay, fine, you are revolutionary soldiers," the doctor agreed. "But soldiers, real soldiers, don't murder people. Okay, fine, earlier today you and your friends shot it out with soldiers, and that's not murder. But killing unarmed people is murder, Tim. I think you know that. Those people in there with you, are any of them armed? Do any of them wear uniforms?"
"So what? They are the enemy of my country!"
"What makes them enemies, Tim? Where they were born? Have any of them tried to hurt you? Have any of them hurt your country? Why don't you ask them?" he suggested next.
O'Neil shook his head. The purpose of this was to make him surrender. He knew that. He looked around at his comrades. It was hard for all of them to meet the eyes of the others. They were trapped, and all of them knew it. Their resistance was a thing of the mind rather than of arms, and all of their minds held doubts to which they had as yet not given voice, but the doubts were there, and they all knew it.
"We want a bus to take us away!"
"Take you away to where?" the doctor asked.
"Just get us the bloody bus!" O'Neil screamed.
