First Strike (16 page)

“Flowers?” she smiled. “Can’t be for me, surely? Oh Alex, how thoughtful.”

She heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel at the front of the house and the insistent ringing of the doorbell. As she went into the cottage Ron put down his pruning shears, glanced up at the bedroom window and saw Annette looking out at him. He moved quietly round the side of the house. The front door was open. Melanie stood in the doorway holding a large bouquet in both arms. She was smiling.

The deliveryman was dressed in an expensively tailored business suit and polished shoes. His right hand moved slowly inside his bulging jacket.

“Freeze!” Ron yelled. “One false move and I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

Melanie looked in horror at the glistening gun in the gardener’s hand, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Then Annette rushed down the stairs, pushed Melanie back down the corridor, opened the man’s jacket and pulled out a Beretta sub-compact. The cleaner examined the piece, released the safety and held it up to the deliveryman’s head. Next she rummaged through his wallet, searching for ID.

“American Embassy? What the fuck...?”

Annette looked up at him quizzically, turned to Ron, then back to the deliveryman.

“Who the hell are you? Is this some kind of joke?””

He didn’t answer.

“I don’t get it, Ron. The bugger’s got a Grade One Security Pass for Grosvenor Square. Better call Legoland. Talk to Miss Stanbridge. We might have been a little hasty.”

Willowby smiled.

“That’s right. You have. And I always thought you guys were supposed to have a sense of humour. But I think you should check with the Embassy first. No point in bothering Miss Stanbridge.”

Frank Willowby was totally unruffled.

“If I know Merlyn she’ll be mad as hell if she hears about this. Look, guys, I realise you’re only doing your job. Let’s just forget about the whole thing. There’s no need to tell your boss. Mind if I have my gun back?”

“After I speak to Miss Stanbridge.”

Annette went back inside and picked up the phone.

“Frank Willowby? Frank Willowby?” Merlyn Stanbridge repeated the name. “I’ve known Frank Willowby for years.”

“You want us to hold him or let him go?”

“Yes, hold him. I’ll need to speak to him, at the very least.”

“Shall I give him back his gun?”

“No, Annette, keep the gun. Inside the Embassy the Yanks can do what they like but carrying firearms is still illegal in this country. Willowby knows that. He’ll expect nothing less. I’ll be there in a couple of hours. Oh, and I may need to stay overnight. Is there a spare room?”

“Yes, ma’am, there’s two. And Ron and me can always double up.”

“Check with Miss Drake if it’s OK for me to spend the night. And Annette...”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Be nice to Mr Willowby till I get there. I don’t want this turning into a major diplomatic incident on the threshold of a potentially catastrophic war.”

***

Two hours later Merlyn Stanbridge sat in an armchair in the drawing room of the cottage. Willowby was sprawled inelegantly across the sofa as laid-back as could be. Ron was in the corridor and outside in the garden, front and back, was a handful of additional men. Melanie and Annette were busy in the kitchen.

“Well, Frank? What is this all about? Turning up on the doorstep of a woman who says she’s never met you, a bunch of flowers in one hand and a handgun in the other?”

“I always carry a gun. That’s normal DEA practice.”

Willowby wasn’t in the least defensive.

“In the States, maybe, Frank. Not here. Here it’s illegal.”

“Your guys carry weapons.”

“That’s different. My guys have permission.”

She lit a cigarette and tossed him the pack.

“Look, Frank, it’s obvious there’s something you’re not telling me. Does this have to do with the Moroccan business Melanie got involved in? Is that it?”

“That’s it.” Willowby sat up straight. “I wanted to thank her for the part she played. Express my sympathy for what happened to her. It must have been awful. The flowers were a token of Uncle Sam’s appreciation.”

“No, Frank. That’s not it. You wouldn’t have delivered the flowers yourself; you’d have sent them. All that business with the van. It isn’t like you. You’d have arranged a reception at the Embassy, prepared a little speech, made a big deal out of it. Got your picture in the paper. I know you, Frank. I know your style. I think you came here to get something. Something you need. But I can’t figure out what it is. There’s nothing of value in the cottage.”

She got up and began to pace round the room.

“So it has to be something intangible… something abstract. Some idea. Some knowledge. Something Melanie knows and you don’t.” She turned to Willowby. “Am I getting warm, Frank?”

“Not even close,” Willowby smiled. “You’re way off the mark. Like I said, I just wanted to thank her on Uncle Sam’s behalf.”

“Melanie knows about the coke farm up in the Atlas. But so do you. You’ve had a copy of our file; we’ve had a copy of yours. So that’s not it. You know everything there is to know about the plantation. So you need…you need to
erase
what Melanie knows. That’s it, isn’t it, Frank? You came here to cancel something out. You came here to…to kill her.”

She stared at Willowby in disbelief.

“Oh my God! Frank! You’re working for the other side! You’re working for Ortega!”

“Merlyn.” Willowby spread his hands before him. “Come on, willya; that’s just absurd.”

Merlyn opened the door and stepped into the corridor.

“Ron. Cuff him. Drive him back to Legoland and put him in the basement. I’ll go to work on him in the morning.”

She lit a cigarette, her hands shaking slightly.

“And send a message to Langley. Tell them we have our channel to Ortega.”

Merlyn Stanbridge strode into the kitchen where Melanie and Annette were busy at the stove.

“Sorry about all this inconvenience, Melanie,” She sniffed the air. “Now, Melanie my dear; what’s for supper?”

***

Willowby was held in a small but comfortable room five floors below street level in the bowels of Legoland. The room was serviceably furnished with a wooden bed and a couple of soft armchairs. There was a separate toilet and shower room. No windows. No mirrors. No exposed electrical wires. The door was re-enforced steel. Fixed to the ceiling was a CCTV camera, linked to a display in the central monitoring room, somewhere along the corridor. Willowby had been strip-searched and given a pair of pyjamas and a robe with no drawstring. His head was shaved. All his possessions had been removed. His watch. His wedding ring. His glasses. He hadn’t slept.

Willowby heard the footsteps in the corridor outside, then the key turn in the lock. Merlyn Stanbridge entered, followed by a steward carrying a tray.

“I thought you might want breakfast.”

She sat in one of the armchairs.

“Sorry about the plastic. No sharp objects. I’m sure you understand. Coffee?”

“Thanks.”

“I’ve spoken to the Prime Minister. The PM has spoken to Washington. We’re prepared to offer you a deal. We want you to provide a conduit to Ortega.” She saw that Willowby didn’t follow. “You’ve read about the IRA doing business with the FARC? It’s been all over the American press.”

“I’ve been away on business. I did see something on CNN but I haven’t followed it closely.” Willowby rubbed his newly shaven head. “What’s that got to do with Ortega?”

“The three Irishmen were air-lifted out of La Picota. It wasn’t us. It wasn’t the Americans. And it certainly wasn’t the Irish. So it was either the FARC or Ortega. Bogotá is a long way from the safe-haven. Out of helicopter range. We think it was Ortega.”

“I don’t get it. What would be his motivation?”

“He’ll want to bargain his way back into the action.”

“What sort of action?”

“There’s some stuff that’s been kept out of the press. When I tell you, you’ll understand why.” Briefly she told him about the fourth Irishman. The Dirty Bomb. “So you see Ortega’s problem? If O’Brien succeeds, he’ll destroy one of Pablo’s major markets, wipe out all of his investments, and it could turn off the rest of his consumers. Americans are funny that way. There could be a backlash against all things Colombian, sort of an unofficial coke embargo, if you catch my drift. I know it seems unlikely but we think it’s a strong possibility.”

Willowby was outraged. He was a criminal but he was a patriot as well. The idea of a Dirty Bomb contaminating an American city appalled him.

“So what do you want me to do?”

“We have no way of talking to Ortega. We need you to make the introduction. Then we can set up a satcom link and share resources with him. Pablo has people on the streets in every major American city.  They’ll be out there now, searching for O’Brien.”

“And what happens to yours truly when this is over?”

“I’ll have to turn you in, Frank; ship you back to the States. You can always cop a plea, do the best deal you can. But it’ll be better than dealing with Ortega. Ortega’s nasty.”

It took twenty-four hours to establish the Satcom link from Legoland to Ortega’s compound outside Medellin. Merlyn Stanbridge called the Embassy in Bogotá and directed MI6’s head of station to liaise with his counterpart at CIA. One thing the Brits could never match was the Americans’ technical gadgetry. A small truck was dispatched to Medellin. The digital equipment took hardly any room. No special modifications were needed, just the fitting of a minute explosive charge so the kit could be destroyed remotely when it was no longer needed. For packed inside that glistening cubic foot of steel was some of the most advanced encryption software yet devised.

The following afternoon Merlyn Stanbridge sat in front of the newly installed monitor. At 4 p.m. precisely the VDU flickered into life and Pablo Ortega’s cherubic features filled the screen. From three and a half thousand miles away his malevolent presence was tangible. He looked very pleased with himself. He had manoeuvred his way back into the action, held a couple of very valuable cards. Merlyn Stanbridge watched the focus of Ortega’s eyes widen as he recognised Frank Willowby seated beside her. Ortega’s expression darkened to a frown as he tried to calculate what Willowby was up to.

“We think you lifted the three Irishmen from La Picota,” Merlyn Stanbridge began. “We want them back.”

“Two Irishmen.” Ortega corrected her. “One of them met with an unfortunate accident.”

Merlyn Stanbridge understood immediately.

“You questioned him? Gave him one of your famous neckties?”

“Of course I did.”

Ortega grinned; pleased his reputation reached out across the ocean.

“And do they know the whereabouts of Declan O’Brien?”

“It doesn’t seem so.”

Ortega smiled his vicious smile. Stanbridge believed him implicitly.

“We want them back. The Americans are keen to talk to them, find out what they’re up to.”

“They’re the only cards I have. I need something in exchange.”

“Name it.”

Ortega glanced at Willowby, sitting behind Merlyn’s right shoulder.

“I’ll have that bastard for a start.”

Willowby knew everything there was to know about Ortega’s European operations, names, dates, bank account details.

Stanbridge knew that wouldn’t be enough.

“What else?”

“I want a free hand in Morocco. My people have been doing some research, it looks like a very promising opportunity. But there’s been some stuff in your press over there. I want that stopped. In return you can pick up the two Irishmen any time you like. Meantime my people in the States are already on the lookout for O’Brien. If he’s using drugs as payment we’ll be the first to know about it. If we find him we’ll kill him. Do we have a deal?”

“We have a deal.” Merlyn Stanbridge thought it was a bargain.

Ortega threw a switch to terminate the transmission from his end and the screen went dead.

“I thought we had an understanding,” Willowby frowned. “You offered to ship me back to the States when this is over. Get me a lighter sentence.”

“Deals are made and broken, Frank. You know that. Things change. Ortega has a lot more to offer than you do.”

“I could raise my bid.”

“How?

“I can give you a complete organisation chart of Pablo’s worldwide set-up. The people he owns. Names. Addresses. Bank accounts. You name it I can give it to you.”

“May not be enough, Frank. But it’s certainly a good place to start.”

***

25

Special Agent Hoolahan left home early and drove to the offices of the Florida chapter of Noraid, the Irish Northern Aid Committee, in Miami Beach. He pulled into the car park at the rear of the two-story stucco building, walked up to the front door and pressed the bell.

“Yeah?” A metallic voice crackled from the speaker.

“That you, Terry? It’s me; Pat Hoolahan.”

He looked up into the CCTV camera fixed above the door and smiled.

“C’mon up, Pat”

There was a buzzing sound and the door clicked open. Hoolahan closed the door behind him and walked up the stairs. The hall and corridors were festooned with posters proclaiming “British Government: Sponsors of State Terrorism.” “Irish Holocaust.” “Oppressed Peoples of Occupied Ireland Unite.”

Terrence Cosgrave stood framed in the doorway of the rear office and held out his hand. He was a tall thin affable looking man with a flattened nose and brownish thinning hair

“Pat, old son. Long time no see.”

“Top of the morning, Terry.”

Hoolahan nudged passed him and collapsed into the nearest armchair, fanning himself with his hat. He was out of breath. Beads of sweat formed on his brow.

“How’s things? Bucks still rollin’ in?”

“There’s been a bit of a fall-off. 9/11 didn’t do us any good. One man’s freedom fighter is another man’s terrorist so they say, and we’re all tarred with the same brush. It’ll pick up again for sure, but it’s a long time till Paddy’s day. I take it we can count on your continued support?”

“Sure you can, you know me, Terry, always been up for the cause.”