First Strike (14 page)

Woman (shouting): “What’s in the papers isn’t it, Liam. There’s worse. Far worse. It could be the end of everything. You have to make him stop!”

Liam: (yelling) “Just get the fuck out of this house.”

Tape ends.

The watchers saw the auburn haired woman hurry to the end of the street and climb into a waiting cab. Behind the taxi a red Ford Fiesta pulled slowly away from the curb. Forty minutes later Melanie Drake checked in for the last London flight. She had time to make one brief phone call to Merlyn Stanbridge’s voice-mail at Vauxhall Cross.

“Message delivered but not heeded.”

***

21

Pablo Ortega had known about the arrest of the three Irishmen two days before it happened. Unlike the CIA and the FBI his was not a high-tech operation, the specialised computer expertise the Americans disposed of was not available in Colombia. So instead Ortega had men in place inside every government building and department. He owned the police and the prison service. Customs and Excise were on the payroll. Senior judges accepted payment. Politicians holidayed with their bimbos on Pablo’s private island in the Caribbean.

When Ortega received the tape of Gerry McGuire’s conversation with the Consular official he did not immediately understand the significance of what was being said. He had to have the expression “Dirty Bomb” explained to him. When he grasped the concept he froze. Why would Tirofijo be in the market for a Dirty Bomb? Except to destroy a city? Ortega recognized the threat to his own organisation immediately. If the FARC contaminated an American metropolis it would wipe out one of his major markets at a stroke. Worse, the dollar would very likely plummet. The billions he had stashed away in banks around the world, laundered and re-laundered, would be completely worthless. No investment would be safe. The value of his stocks and shares, his real estate holdings, would all be decimated. A lifetime’s work rendered useless overnight.

Ortega’s first thought was to arrange a meeting with Tirofijo. Reason with him. Dissuade him. Buy him off. But Pablo knew what the terrorist’s response would be. Socialismo o Muerte. Socialism or death. The destruction of the capitalist system was the ageing Marxist’s sole aim. So Ortega could not work with Tirofijo. He had to work against him. Ortega’s problem was he had no cards to play at all. For the first time in his life he was completely out of the loop. He would have to find a way to deal himself back in.

McGuire, O’Rourke and Kelly lived in constant fear of reprisal. Right-wing paramilitaries had vowed to execute the Irishmen for aiding the Marxist rebels. There had already been several attempted stabbings. The Colombian authorities were concerned for the captives’ safety. The American, Irish and British governments had all made representations on the men’s behalf. Extradition procedures had been set in train. It was vital the men be kept unharmed. So the prisoners were moved to a single windowless cell with a toilet but no beds. They slept by rotation on a single straw-filled mattress on the floor. They were not allowed to leave the cell, not even to take exercise. It was too dangerous. They had no fresh air or sunlight. They had no books or newspapers. They did nothing all day but talk to one another, constantly revisiting the same old familiar ground.

“What a world class cock-up, lads. Caught red-handed with our dicks up our own arses.”

“I wish we knew what the fuck is going on. Our mug shots must be all over the world’s press. Can you imagine the reaction in Dublin? In the middle of an election campaign? The politicals must be going ape. Denial. Denial. Denial. Like denying you know your own brother.”

“And that little prick O’Brien got clean away. How’s that for justice? If he’d stuck with us the bastard would at least be locked up safe. And there’s plenty here would slit his throat for a couple of pesos, save the three of us the trouble. Thank God he’s not an engineer. He’ll never be able to assemble a bomb without technical assistance.”

“I’m not so sure.” Gerry McGuire was staring at his hands.

“Whadaya mean, Gerry? You’re not sure?”

“He’s got an Al Qaeda manual. Detailed drawings, wiring diagrams, the full technical specification. He showed it to me in San Vicente. Anybody working with that amount of information shouldn’t have much of a problem, even if he has no training. Any bright teenager could do it.” 

La Picota was on a knife-edge. Right-wing extremists were baying for the Irishmen’s blood. FARC inmates had sworn to protect them. The two factions were held in separate wings penned in by razor wire but if they got high on drugs they’d still attempt a breakout. The prison governor lived in fear of the international repercussions if the Irishmen came to any harm but the situation was out of control now and he couldn’t guarantee their safety. He appealed to the Minister for reinforcements. A Brigade of riot police was rushed to La Picota. Teargas and stun grenades were issued from the armoury.

Under cover of darkness the three prisoners were transferred to an isolated high security block by handpicked guards loyal to the prison Governor. The Irishmen were shitless. A riot could erupt at any moment. They could sense it, smell it, taste it. And if armed right-wing paramilitaries broke loose the three of them were meat.

At 2 a m McGuire, O’Rourke and Kelly were startled by the clatter of helicopter blades directly overhead. They heard the key turn in the lock as the cell door was flung open with a thunderous clang.

“Vamanos. Let’s go.”

They were ushered rapidly along the corridor and out into the exercise yard. Minutes later they were strapped-in aboard a Bell 430, watching the lights of Bogotá spread out beneath them like an inverted pool of stars as they climbed into the black enfolding sky.

An hour later they descended through low cloud onto a wide expanse of lawn. At the top of a low rise sat an elegant villa ablaze with light. Below the house an illuminated swimming pool glowed turquoise in the dark. As the three Irishmen clambered down from the chopper a short over-weight figure in tee shirt, chinos and sandals stood unseen, observing them from the shadows.

“Bienvenidos, Señores,” Ortega whispered. “Mi casa es su casa.”

“Where the fuck do you think we are, lads? Back in the safe-haven?”

McGuire watched wide-eyed as the ’copter lift off into the darkness.

“They don’t have villas with swimming pools in the safe-haven,” said O’Rourke. “Besides, we weren’t airborne long enough. But wherever we are, it sure beats where we’ve been.”

He put his arms around his two companions and began to laugh. The exhilaration of the unplanned escape was beginning to hit home.

“Free at last, free at last, Lord God A’mighty we’re free at last,” O’Rourke intoned. “Or words to that effect.”

“Who’s that?”

Kelly pointed at the house. The silhouetted figure of a woman stood waiving at them from the terrace.

“Looks like a girl. I think she wants us to go up there.”

“Then let’s go. She looks friendly enough.”

McGuire set off up the incline. When they reached the terrace the woman had disappeared inside. The three Irishman stood in the light and looked at one another. They hadn’t shaved or washed for over a week. Their clothes were filthy and torn. None of them was wearing shoes.

“Christ, Gerry, you look awful.” Kelly cocked his head to one side. “And you stink.”

“We all bloody stink.”

McGuire slid open the door to the house and stepped inside. As he did so three fine looking women arose from the couch and stepped forward to greet them. They were dressed identically in loose fitting white blouses and tight crimson skirts. They were giggling. Each of the women took an Irishman by the hand and led him off to a bathroom to shave him, bathe him, and get him ready for bed. Forty minutes later the trio gathered in the sitting room for a nightcap of straight Bushmills.

“What do you make of all this, lads?”

Kelly looked around the elegantly furnished room. He was wearing a clean white towelling robe, sipping whiskey, grinning. One of the women held him by the hand.

“Did I die and go the heaven?” He rubbed his crotch.

“Like pigs in shit, old son,” McGuire replied. “Just like pigs in shit.”

“Who do you think laid on the party?”

“The British Embassy,” O’Rourke laughed. “But whoever it is, I’d certainly like to thank them.”

“Where d’you think they got the Bushmills?” said Kelly, idly savouring his favourite tipple. “It’s not exactly your typical local brand.”

“You don’t think Declan’s been through here?” O’Rourke looked puzzled. “Nah. That’s impossible. Too much of a coincidence, I’d say.”

The thought of O’Brien troubled all three of them. “You don’t think all this has anything to do with Declan, do you?” said McGuire. “What would be the connection?”

“Bugger O’Brien,” said Kelly, wrapping his arm around one of the women and fondling her breasts. “Let’s enjoy ourselves while we can.”

He felt better than he had in weeks, since before they went into the rain forest. The last time he’d had a woman as good as this one it had cost him a bloody fortune. It seemed like all their problems were over.

***

Next morning the contentedly exhausted trio slept late. Their companions of the night had risen at nine and disappeared without waiting for breakfast. The three Irishmen gathered in the sitting room to compare notes on the night’s activities.

“Mine was fucking fabulous,” said O’Rourke, fondling his crotch. “Just wish I hadn’t been so bloody tired. Fell asleep half way through the second blowjob. You think they’ll be back tonight? My mother disapproves of one-night-stands.”

“What was that?” Kelly cocked his head to one side. “Sounded like a car.”

“Two cars,” said O’Rourke. “Maybe we’ll get to meet our host at last. I’d certainly like to thank him.”

Pablo Ortega burst into the room, followed by a team of heavies. He introduced himself with his usual impeccable Latin courtesy.

“Well, gentlemen, I hope you find your accommodations adequate?”

The three Irishmen nodded their approval.

“And the young ladies served you well I hope?”

The Irishmen enthusiastically agreed they were first class.

“And now gentlemen, it’s time to show your appreciation.” Ortega looked at each of his guests in turn. “Where is Declan O’Brien?”

The three Irishmen looked at one another and shrugged, then back to Pablo.

 “Sorry. We don’t know.”

“Come, gentlemen, surely you must know? He was with you in San Vicente was he not?”

“Yes, sir,” said McGuire. “But he left ahead of us. Tirofijo sent him out by jeep. We didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye. He may have gone back to the States. We’re not sure. Honest. We’d tell you if we could.”

Ortega stood up and surveyed the trio. “Este!” He pointed at Kelly, the youngest of the group. Two of the heavies grabbed Kelly by the arms and tied his wrists behind his back with leather thongs, then his ankles. It was done in seconds. McGuire and O’Rourke rushed forward to protect him. Each received a sharp baton blow to the head. Then they too were tied and pushed back onto the sofa where two of the gorillas held knives to their throats. At a signal from Ortega a rod was thrust between Kelly’s tethered arms. Two of the heavies stood on either side of the Irishman and lifted the baton so Kelly dangled in the air, his feet clear of the ground. He was petrified, but made no sound. His body tilted forward at an angle, his shoulders level with Ortega’s head.

“Where is Declan O’Brien?” It sounded like a casual enquiry.

“I don’t know.”

Kelly’s voice was half an octave higher than usual. His face was pale. He felt an urgent need to pee.

“Cuchillo!” Ortega held out his right hand, eyes fixed on Kelly. One of the heavies placed a stiletto in Ortega’s outstretched palm. Ortega flicked open the blade and made a small incision at the base of Kelly’s throat. A small amount of blood tricked down the Irishman’s chest.

“Donde está Declan O’Brien?” Ortega repeated the question.

Kelly was too terrified to answer. With an expert flick of his wrist Ortega slit the Irishman’s throat from the base right up under the chin. There was surprisingly little blood. Kelly emptied his bowels.

“We don’t fuckin’ know,” McGuire yelled from the sofa.

Ortega didn’t turn but motioned to the heavies who held Kelly aloft.

“La cabeza!”

Each of them grabbed Kelly by the hair and held his head rigidly in place.

“Where is Declan O’Brien?”

There was no reply. McGuire and O’Rourke were too horrified to speak. Ortega inserted the blade in the open wound and expertly detached Kelly’s tongue from its roots. Then he wrapped his fist around the severed organ and wrenched it out through the gap. Kelly passed out.

“Toalla!”

One of the heavies produced a cloth for Ortega to wipe his hands. Then at a signal from Pablo they hoisted Kelly above their heads, strapped the baton to the curtain rail and left him dangling there for the others to contemplate. He looked ridiculous. Bright bubbles issued from the bloody wound and made a merry gurgling sound. Blood, shit and urine mingled on the floor.

McGuire and O’Rourke sat weeping on the sofa, too terrified to move. “We don’t fuckin’ know,” they murmured. “Honest. We don’t fuckin’ know.”

Ortega glanced at the seated pair. “No saben.” He shook his head. “Talvez no saben.”

He knew he was wasting his time. The best he could do was alert his people in the States, distribute O’Brien’s mug shot and description, offer a reward of two or three million dollars.

***

22

It was 4 a.m. London time when Merlyn Stanbridge got news of the heist. There was no indication of who had pulled it off. No one claimed responsibility. She was pretty sure the FARC was not involved. Bogotá was too far north of the safe-haven, beyond helicopter range, and an operation like this was way out of the IRA’s league. That left the Americans. The CIA had the equipment, the manpower and the motivation. But if Washington were involved Merlyn Stanbridge would have been informed by now. She just didn’t see who it could be. She called Bill Bradshaw at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.