First Strike (11 page)

“O’Brien’s bio would be useful.”

She passed a photograph across the desk.

“That’s him on the left, with his friend McGuire when we released them both from the Maze. There’s a full biography in the file but briefly, Declan was born in the Bogside in 1954 into a known IRA family. We first became aware of him in the early seventies. We have film of him on Bloody Sunday chatting with Martin McGuiness. He was eighteen at the time. His younger brother, Liam was wounded that day. Never fully recovered. So Declan learned to hate us at a young age. He ran a cell on the mainland for several years and may have been involved in the Docklands and Manchester bombs but there’s no proof. Then we lost sight of him for a while, but at some point his family moved south to Dublin. Last week the CIA picked up some radio traffic in Colombia and spotted Declan flying in and out of Ortega’s private airstrip. From there he travelled south into the safe-haven and met up with the others.”

“So he hates the Brits. I can understand that. Partition was one of the biggest cock-ups in history. If I were Irish I’d be a rebel too. And then we shoot his kid brother for Christ sake. Of course he’s bitter. But it’s a long way from hating the Brits to providing the guerrilleros with a Dirty Bomb.”

Bowman got up and went to the window. “What’s his motivation?”

“McGuire says it isn’t money, though O’Brien probably stands to make half a million dollars, maybe more. Who knows? He could probably name his price. McGuire says Declan wants his name in the history books. Interestingly, that coincides with something in the file. When Declan was active in the UK it sometimes seemed like he was trying to get caught. Kept leaving little clues about the place. The psychological profilers took a look at it, thought he might have some kind of psychobabble complex. Declan O’Brien is dying to be famous. If he pulls this off he’ll be up there with bin Laden.”

“Personal habits?”

“He’s a loner. As far as we know McGuire is the only real friend he’s ever had, apart from his brother, Liam. Declan drinks a lot. Straight Bushmills. One odd thing is he prefers to pay for sex. Normally that would denote a lack of confidence or self-esteem. But that’s not Declan. Declan’s a cocky little bastard, completely self-assured.”

“What sort of sex?”

“Declan’s a sadist, enjoys inflicting pain. If the IRA ever thought they had an informer in their midst it was always Declan O’Brien they’d get to interrogate the man. Declan likes working with his hands. One curious thing, he fancies himself as an actor. Trained at the Abbey for a couple of years but didn’t make the grade as a professional. Apparently he couldn’t take direction. On the plus side, he’s a committed family man. Devoted to his younger brother.”

“Sounds like a real sweetie. What’s his core skill?”

“Declan knows how to handle all the toys, but he especially likes blades, enjoys working close in. He’s a killer not and engineer, which is just as well in the present circumstances. He needs someone like McGuire to help him assemble the detonator and prime the bomb, but killing’s what he’s good at. Which reminds me, it’s probably just coincidence but as I said, Declan’s been in touch with Pablo Ortega. Problem is we don’t know why. I’d deduced a contract killing, they’re common enough in the drugs trade, and if Ortega plans to decapitate a rival cartel that’s certainly all right with me.”

“And what about the FARC? What’s in it for them?”

“The FARC’s motives are straightforwardly political. Tirofijo is probably the last unreconstructed Marxists on the planet. And 9/11 taught him just what terror can do. If they’ve decided to go global we’re in deep trouble, the FARC has more resources than Al Qaeda could even dream of. Washington has been spending billions of dollars a year in Colombia fighting the drug wars and the terrorists at the same time, with the same methods. A Dirty Bomb is Tirofijo’s way of getting back at the Americans in one massive single hit. 9/11 dented capitalism. A Dirty Bomb could bring it down.”

“So how long have we got? Is O’Brien working to any kind of schedule?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Merlyn Stanbridge reddened. “I’ve really no idea.”

Bowman went to the window and looked out across the Thames. “When’s Colombian Independence Day? Assuming they have one.”

“Haven’t the foggiest.” Merlyn Stanbridge was impressed. Lateral thinking was something she admired. “I’ll have to look it up.”

***

18

As Congress prepared to vote on the resolution authorizing President Santos to wage war on Iraq, a group of senior advisors, including Bill Bradshaw, Director of the CIA and Secretary of Defence Herzfeld assembled in the Oval Office to review the latest intelligence reports. The atmosphere was tense. The movement of men and material to the Gulf was gathering pace. America’s traditional allies were wavering. Mid-day temperatures in southern Iraq were in the high nineties and climbing. But still no weapons of mass destruction had been found. Eagerness for war gripped the American people while in Britain it was patchy. One million anti-war protesters had marched through London and paralysed the city. All across Europe millions of peace campaigners had mounted the most impressive display of public outrage for decades. The governments of France, Germany, Russia and China were vehemently opposed and public opinion across the globe was shifting their way. The assembled group knew the time to act was now.

The President was first to speak.

“OK, Bill, what have you got?” He did not sound optimistic.

Bradshaw cleared his throat.

“Good news, Mr President. We’ve intercepted a shipment of high-tensile aluminium tubes in the Persian Gulf, bound for Iraq.”

The President steepled his hands.

“Is that it? Aluminium tubes? For Christsake, Bill, can’t you do better than that?”

He glanced at Herzfeld who was gazing distractedly out of the window. Herzfeld had convened the meeting but so far he seemed to be playing no part.

“This material,” Bradshaw continued, referring to his notes, “we believe this material was destined for the construction of centrifuges capable of producing enriched uranium.”

The President’s eyes narrowed to a slit. This was getting better.

“Could these tubes be used for any other purpose?”

“Yes, Mr President, at best they’re multiple use. I suppose they could be used for pretty much any industrial purpose, but there’s more. The CIA has received intelligence Saddam is negotiating to buy five hundred tons of uranium oxide from the African State of Niger.”

Bradshaw looked up from his notes to confirm he had the President’s undivided attention.

“Now, while this type of uranium, known as ‘Yellowcake’, could be used as fuel for nuclear power stations, Iraq has no civil nuclear generating programme that would require it.” Bradshaw paused for maximum effect. “But if processed correctly, Mr President, Yellowcake can also be enriched to make weapons-grade material. Five hundred tons of Yellowcake would produce enough enriched uranium for a bomb that would dwarf Hiroshima and Nagasaki.”

The President smiled and glanced again at Herzfeld who continued to gaze out of the window as if none of this concerned him.

“How sure of all this are you, Bill? This is pretty devastating stuff. Where did your intelligence originate?”

“The Brits, Mr President. Specifically with MI6.”

“OK. And where did the Brits get it?”

Bradshaw hesitated.

“From the Italians.”

“The Italians? Oh shit. Did it have to be the Italians?”

“We’re pretty sure it’s genuine,” Bradshaw resumed. “The Brits are about to go to public with this very same material. They wouldn’t do that unless they were absolutely confident of their facts. Subject to your approval, sir, I plan to brief a Senate Committee in secret session a couple of days from now.”

“Let me get this straight, Bill,” said the President. “You’re not saying Saddam’s already purchased this stuff, this Yellowcake? It’s just a negotiation, right? Nothing’s actually been shipped?”

“Unfortunately that’s correct, Mr President.”

“So we can’t say the stuff’s actually been bought?”

“No, Mr President, not ‘bought’. The closest we can get is ‘sought’. Bradshaw gazed down at his hands. “It’s the best we’ve been able to come up with.”

“OK, Bill, have you seen the documentation?”

“Yes, sir.” Bradshaw patted his briefcase. “I have copies of everything right here Mr President, if you want to see it.”

“That won’t be necessary, Bill, long as you’re happy with it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then go right ahead. Take it to the committee. You have my wholehearted approval. If this is the best we’ve got, lets run with it. This looks like the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for. The American people will love it. And the timing’s perfect. It will play very well in my State of the Union address.”

Bradshaw reddened. “I’m not sure you ought to do that, sir.”

“Why not, Bill, if you’re happy this is genuine?”

Bradshaw cleared his throat.

“Just to be sure, Mr President, would you mind attributing the intelligence to the Brits?”

“Be glad to, Bill, since that’s where it came from. The Brits deserve a pat on the back. They’ve been very supportive.”

On his way out of the meeting Karl Herzfeld put his arm around Bill Bradshaw’s shoulders.

“Congratulations, Bill. That was a very fine performance.”

Iraq’s attempted purchase of uranium oxide from Niger was judged serious enough to be included in the President's Daily Briefing, the most sensitive intelligence document at the heart of the American system. The information the PDB contains is meticulously analysed, or "scrubbed", to verify its authenticity before distribution by the CIA to a small number of the President’s closest aides. The PDB is so secret it is not even made available to members of the Senate or House Intelligence Committees. But these officials quickly got to know what the PDB contained because those who do have access like to talk about it, demonstrate how close to the President they are. The PDB produced immediate echoes. News of the attempted Iraqi uranium purchase reached the middle ranks of the Government within hours. Washington was euphoric. Here was the justification the Administration needed. Its inclusion in the State of the Union address would be the clincher.

Two days later Bill Bradshaw appeared before a closed hearing of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and cited Iraq's attempted purchase of uranium from Niger as proof of Saddam’s persistent nuclear ambitions. Two weeks later a resolution was passed overwhelmingly, granting the President the Congressional mandate he needed for an assault on Iraq at any time of his choosing.  America’s route to war was open.

***

19

Bowman sat in an aisle seat on British Airways flight 8195, while the pilot waited for clearance to take off. Bowman hated flying. He’d had a problem with tight spaces ever since his confinement, but worse was the slow ascent to cruising height. Anxiety turned to panic as the 757 surged forward, unleashing the full power of its four Rolls Royce engines. Bowman felt his stomach drop as the aircraft lifted off and forced himself to look out of the window as the ground receded and his fear increased as the Boeing climbed through clear air turbulence. Bowman braced himself in his seat and squeezed the armrests in his hands. He began to sweat and wanted to loosen his collar but his hands would not let go of the armrests. He closed his eyes and listened to the note of the engines, afraid they might cut out. Gradually, painfully, the plane ascended and the juddering faded. The tightness in his stomach and chest subsided and he found he could move in his seat without disturbing the equilibrium of the plane. He released the armrests. They were going to make it after all.

“Everything all right, sir?”

The stewardess was a two-tone blond with smiling eyes, estuary vowels and a costly dental plan. She noted the sweat on Bowman’s brow and wondered if her nurse’s training was about to come in useful.

“Anything I can get you, sir?”

“A gin and tonic would be great.” Bowman did his best to smile. It wasn’t very convincing. “A large gin and a little tonic.”

“Will that be all, sir?”

She seemed to imply there might be more on offer if he could figure out the buttons.

Bowman slept most of the way across the Atlantic. He popped a pill and woke up on schedule one hour out of Miami leaving time for a rapid re-appraisal of the files. Merlyn Stanbridge’s team had done a very thorough job. There was more information here than Bowman could possibly digest at a single sitting but everything was indexed and cross-indexed. When he needed help, help would be available. Bowman survived the terrifying ordeal of the landing, grabbed his hand luggage and made his way to immigration. The official was unimpressed by Bowman’s diplomatic passport.

“What is the purpose of your visit, sir?” She sounded like a recording. “Business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure,” Bowman lied.

“Enjoy your stay,” she said without a smile.

“I’ll do my best.”

Bowman walked out into the concourse and found a pay machine to check his emails. Ambrose had left a message with the address of a hotel on Eighth Street in Little Havana. Bowman stepped outside into the heat and the humidity. It was like walking into a steam room. By the time he crossed the pavement he was soaked in sweat. He hailed a cab and gave the driver the address in perfect Spanish.

The driver looked at Bowman in the rear-view mirror.

“Eres Español?”

“Soy Inglés.”

“Hombre. Qué bien hablas. Mis cumplimentos.”

“Grazias.”

“Pués nada hombre. Pero qué bien hablas.”

They drove down Eighth Street, better known as Calle Ocho, the main artery into the Hispanic heart of Miami, known locally as Little Havana, whose ten square city blocks are the nerve centre of Florida’s passionately political Latino population, from anti-Castro Cubans to left-wing Colombian para-militaries.

Bowman stepped onto the pavement and experienced a full frontal assault on all his senses. Colours were brash, aromas pungent, sounds rhythmic and loud. Little Havana moved to a salsa beat. Nothing here was subtle. Not since Fez had Bowman felt such an onslaught of sensations. But while Fez was medieval, Little Havana was twenty-first century techno-funk. Bowman paid the cabby, tipped him memorably and crossed Calle Ocho to the shabby hotel. The entrance was a narrow doorway wedged between an illicit Cuban cigar shop and an incongruous Irish liquor store. Bowman squeezed passed a pair of malnourished teenage hookers with no tits and walked up to the desk where a mulatto sat behind a bulletproof glass screen paring his fingernails with a flick-knife. Bowman checked-in.