First Strike (13 page)

“You mentioned this guy O’Brien mixes with the FARC,” said Hoolahan. “What about the Arabs? Surely this has Al Qaeda written all over it?”

“That’s what most people would assume, but as far as we know they’re not involved, though of course we can’t be sure of anything.”

“So what exactly are we looking for?” said Ambrose. “How big does this thing have to be?”

“Depends on the toxicity of the radioactive material. If he can get his hands on weapons-grade plutonium a small amount will do. If it’s spent fuel from a nuclear reactor he’ll need a whole lot more. How big? Could be anything from a briefcase to a truckload. But even if it’s small it’ll be heavy. The nuclear material will be encased in lead so he doesn’t get radiation poisoning. That stuff is lethal. At close range just a few grams could kill you, if you’re not properly protected. O’Brien has to take precautions, every step of the way. The precautions will slow him down.”

“What about the target?” said Hoolahan. “Why Miami?”

“I’ve no idea if it’s Miami. Could be any major city. Denver, Phoenix, maybe even London given the Irish connection. Who knows? I don’t suppose it matters a damn to the FARC which one they destroy. But we have to start somewhere and this is as good a place as any. We know O’Brien was here on his way in and out of Colombia. There’s a strong drugs connection and Miami is a major international hub. O’Brien’s probably getting paid in drugs and that’s how he’ll purchase the explosive and commission the detonator. Also there are more Hispanics in this city than any other place in the States, many of them highly politicised. Chances are O’Brien is liaising with the FARC through someone in Little Havana. Place is crawling with dissident Colombians.”

Hoolahan frowned and shook his head.

“If O’Brien needs help he’ll go to his own countrymen, not the Latinos.”

“I hope you’re right, Pat.”

Bowman wondered where Hoolahan’s political sympathies might lie. Turning in maverick volunteers was not part of Irish Republican culture.

“That’s why I want you to ask around among the Irish community. The clubs, the cultural societies, the churches, and above all Noraid.” He turned to Ambrose. “As for you, Ben, I want you to infiltrate the lowlife, the drug traffickers and arms dealers. O’Brien probably has a stash of top grade cocaine hydrochloride to use as currency. One suitcase of the pure stuff would be worth millions. If significant amounts of cocaine hydrochloride hit the market I want to know about it right away. Understood?”

“You got it,” said Ambrose,

Bowman turned again to Hoolahan.

“You have any problems? You’re sure you’re comfortable dealing with Noraid and the rest?”

“I’ll go talk with them in the morning. First thing. I don’t anticipate a problem.”

***

20

When Sinn Fein organised a press conference in Dublin it was accepted Melanie Drake should represent the Echo. Editor Sean Flaherty could not; he might be accused of bias. But Melanie Drake had no Irish baggage one way or the other, her religion didn’t even count. But what separated her from the other scribblers present was that she knew about the fourth man, understood what he as up to. So she found Sinn Fein’s presentation unutterably dull. Yes, they knew about the three men. Yes, they now admitted, one of the trio had been Sinn Fein’s accredited representative in Cuba. Yes, the other two were thought to be members of the IRA. But Sinn Fein righteously insisted on due process. They would not be drawn on further questions till the law had run its full and proper course. They didn’t want to prejudice a fair trial. That’s all very well, thought Melanie, but it doesn’t exactly make exciting copy. She wanted desperately to intervene, stand up and challenge them about O’Brien and the Dirty Bomb. But she had given undertakings to Merlyn Stanbridge, agreed to sign the Official Secrets Act.

Melanie’s thoughts drifted off to other things, to Bowman and what he might up to. She hadn’t heard from him since he went to the States, which was odd since he’d promised to stay in touch and Bowman always kept a promise. Perhaps he was just too busy. Maybe even in danger. But she wasn’t worried about him. Bowman knew how to look after himself. Her only concern was she wanted to get involved. There must be something she could do.

Melanie sat in the front row surrounded by eager journos, sucking unselfconsciously on the top of her ballpoint pen. Her auburn hair stood out from the crowd. Her legs were crossed and her skirt had ridden half way up her thigh. She felt hot. She undid the top two buttons of her blouse, faintly aware she was being watched. Her eyes travelled left to right across the podium. He was seated three from the end, a nice looking man in his early thirties with fair hair and pale blue eyes behind wire-framed NHS glasses. He looked like a schoolboy. She caught his eye, blushed, re-buttoned her blouse, uncrossed her shapely legs and blushed again, hesitantly extracting the pen from between her lips. He smiled a boyish smile. Melanie sat up straight, turned her attention back to the droning speaker and made a mental note to email Bowman to check he was OK. But she knew the schoolboy was still watching her.

When the presentation was over the other journalists rushed out to submit copy to their papers. They thought the whole thing was sensational. Melanie Drake knew it was not. She lingered politely at the door to let the others through. As she waited to go out she felt a hand brush lightly against her elbow.

“You weren’t too impressed with that, were you?”

The schoolboy nodded towards the podium where Gerry Adams and Martin McGuiness were gathering up their things, pleased with the uneventful outcome.

“A little predictable, wouldn’t you say?”

Melanie smiled and ran a hand through her hair, her ample breasts rising against the tight fitting blouse.

“Not bad if all you’re after is damage limitation but I came over from London especially to listen to this junk. That’s a long way to be told absolutely nothing new.”

She pulled the door and went out into the lobby, the schoolboy tagging along behind.

“Would it make things any better if I bought you coffee?” The offer sounded innocent enough.

Melanie looked at her watch. “I’d rather have a Guinness.”

“A Guinness it is then.”

They went out into the sunshine and walked the short distance to McDaids, a dimly lit spit and sawdust pub off Grafton Street. The schoolboy looked her over as they stood at the bar and came to a rapid judgment.

“Half?”

“Pint.”

Melanie withdrew to the ladies room to repair her make-up. When she returned the schoolboy was sitting at a table in a dark secluded corner. The place was crowded with locals, no tourists, and the din was loud. They could talk without fear of being overheard. He stood up and held out his hand.

“I’m Gerard, by the way. Gerard O’Connell. Which paper did you say you’re with?”

“Melanie Drake.” She took off her jacket and slid onto the bench beside him. “I didn’t. But I’m with the London Echo.”

“And a very fine journal it is too. Always puts the Republican view quite fairly. The result of having an Irishman in the editor’s chair, I suppose.” He raised his glass. “The skin off your nose.”

“Cheers. Jesus, what a bloody waste of time that was.”

“The press conference?”

“Is that what it was?” Melanie took a good long pull at her drink. “You have four IRA volunteers caught with their trousers round their ankles and all you can come up with is due process? Sounds a bit lame to me.”

The schoolboy expression vanished from his face. He looked older and more serious. More wary.

“Three volunteers.”

“Excuse me?” Melanie smiled.

“Three volunteers. You said four.”

“Did I?”

She took another swallow of the bitter liquid.

“Tell me something, Gerard O’Connell. What exactly is your position in the party? How senior are you? I don’t think I’ve come across your name before.”

“Me? I’m a nobody. Very junior. I work in the press office. How insignificant is that?”

“Half an hour ago you were sat on a platform with Adams and McGuiness, fielding questions on the biggest PR cock-up in Irish Republican history. Doesn’t sound very junior to me.”

“I’m a bit of a linguist. I was there to help with translations should the need arise, which thankfully it didn’t.”

“Yeah, right.” Melanie let her scepticism show. “And what’s your strongest language, Mr O’Connell? Let me guess. Spanish?”

The schoolboy blushed.

“Matter of fact yes, I do speak fluent Spanish.”

“How very convenient for you, Gerard. And I suppose it’s just coincidence the IRA’s two main overseas clients are the FARC and ETA?”

Melanie finished her pint, aware her tone had become overly aggressive. She put a consoling hand on the young man’s arm.

“Sorry, Gerard, I got a bit carried away there. Here we are enjoying a nice social drink and I start behaving like a bloody investigative journalist. My shout. Same again?”

She went to the bar and bought another round, taking time to regain her composure. But she only planned to spend one day in Dublin and she wasn’t going back with nothing. It was time to make a decisive move. She resumed her seat on the bench beside him, placing a hand on his thigh as she adjusted her position.

“Sorry, Gerard. Slip of the tongue.”

A moist pink protrusion appeared between her lips.

“Excuse me?” The schoolboy blushed.

“The fourth volunteer? I was thinking of Declan O’Brien.”

O’Connell put his head in his hands.

“Oh my God. You’re Secret Service!” 

She didn’t confirm it. But she didn’t deny it either.

“Sorry, Gerard. I realise being seen with me in public places you in danger. I know what the IRA does to traitors and you seem like such a nice young man. Be a pity to see you in a wheelchair, but chances are the lads’ll think you’re just after a damn good lay. I’m not promising anything mind, but if you could make my trip worthwhile I’d be very appreciative. I’m pretty sure my cover’s still intact and I swear I won’t shop you unless I absolutely have to.”

She moistened her lips and took another drink. Flecks of white froth clung to the corners of her mouth.

“It’s not your cover I’m worried about.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing.” O’Connell loosened his tie and emptied his glass. The palms of his hands began to sweat. “How much do you know?”

“I know O’Brien’s out there. And I’ve worked out what he’s up to. A friend of mine is in the States right now, determined to stop him. I’d like to help in any way I can.”

“What is it you want?” O’Connell looked thoroughly miserable.

“I need to talk to Declan’s family. Specifically to his younger brother, Liam.”

“No way. Declan would never forgive me. Poor Liam’s a very sick man. If Declan knew I’d let his brother be exposed he’d slit my throat for sure.”

“Look, Gerard, I really am a journalist you know. Do you want me to publish everything I know? I don’t think Adams and McGuiness would be best pleased with you if I did. They’re more desperate than anyone to keep this whole terrifying business under wraps. All I’m asking you to do is make one phone call. No one need ever know you did.”

***

When Melanie Drake arrived at the terraced house off Parnell Square the wiretap and audio bugs had already been set up for some days. Two watchers from the Garda Siochana were installed in the upper room in the house across the street. They had listened to Gerard O’Connell’s conversation with Liam O’Brien and knew a visitor was expected. Melanie’s auburn hair caught the eye of one of the observers as she came along the street looking for number seventeen. He held the binoculars with one hand and grabbed his crotch with the other.

“What about those legs? And will ya just look at those tits.” He put his hands together and raised his eyes to heaven. “Thank you, God.” 

His companion joined him at the window and let out a long low whistle. He almost forgot to take her picture but as Melanie turned to press the bell he got a good shot of her profile. Within the hour that lovely face would be on the desk of Merlyn Stanbridge in London and Robert Jennings in Washington DC. The door opened and Melanie disappeared inside. One watcher stayed by the window, camera in hand, while the other sat by the recorder, rolled the tape and put on his earphones. The transcript of what he heard would read as follows: -

Woman: “I’m really sorry to disturb you.”

Liam: “No problem. Gerard O’Connell is a family friend. Besides, I’m always pleased to see a pretty woman. Don’t get out much nowadays the shape I’m in, paralysed from the waist down. Can I get you something to drink?”

Woman: “I’m fine, thanks, I’ve just come from McDaids.”

Liam: “So what is it you want?”

Woman: “Didn’t Gerard explain? I’m a reporter with the London Echo. I came over for this morning’s press conference, but it turned out to be a bit of a non-event. I didn’t want to waste the trip so I thought I’d do some background on Bloody Sunday, what with the new inquiry. I know you were there. That’s where you picked up the bullet in your spine. They say your brother Declan saved your life.”

Liam: “If he hadn’t dragged me to the ambulance, under fire, I’d have bled to death. He took a bullet in the leg himself that day.”

Woman (after pause): “You must love him very much.”

Liam: “I owe Declan my life. What little there is left of it.” 

Woman: “Liam, can I confide in you?”

Liam: (indistinct reply)

Woman: “I’m not here as a journalist, Liam. I’m here as Declan’s friend. Can you get a message to him for me?”

Liam: (softly) “Maybe.”

Woman: “Tell Declan, if he persists in what he’s doing, then your life, and your mother’s life, will be in very great danger. Please don’t ask me to explain, Liam. Declan will know what I mean.”

Liam: (after long pause) “Who are you?”

Woman: “I told you. I’m a friend of Declan’s.”

Liam: (loud) “No you’re not! You’re Secret Service! If I were a whole man I’d break your bloody neck. ‘Tis a fine thing you’re doing, taking advantage of a paraplegic. This has to do with Colombia, doesn’t it? The lads there, drumming up a little extra income on the side? Maybe I can’t walk but I can still read the sodding papers. Whatever Declan’s up to is fine by me and me mam. We’ve lived with danger all our rotten stinkin’ lives. I’ll not be a messenger boy for the bastard Brits. Now get the fuck out of this house.”