First Strike (18 page)

They took the lift down to the ground floor and ordered lunch at an isolated corner table overlooking the sculpture garden.

“Thanks for coming, Alex. This place is really convenient for me, just a short detour on my way from FBI Headquarters to the White House. Matter of fact, I’ve just come from the Oval Office. It was a very difficult meeting. If word of this gets out the whole population will panic. The President has ordered nothing be changed. He hasn’t even summoned the full cabinet. He’ll brief everyone individually as he sees them in the normal course of business. So everything appears perfectly normal. Even nuclear waste is still being shipped around the country on a daily basis. No additional security precautions are being taken. Do you have any idea how much radioactive material we have just lying about in this country?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Neither did I. So I checked. Apparently there’s about seventy thousand tons. I can’t even envisage what seventy thousand tons would look like. And don’t ask me how many locations the stuff is stored in. I haven’t been able to find out. Seems nobody knows. Let alone how secure the storage facilities are. Jesus, Bowman, if we even knew which city he’s aiming at we could at least draw up contingency plans to evacuate the place. Give us something to work on. As it is the President can’t address the nation, or even talk to the press. He won’t even convene a meeting of the Intelligence Chiefs, in case there’s a leak and the media smells a rat.” Jennings took a sip of wine. “The President has put me in charge of this operation, Bowman. The rest of Government is tied up with Saddam, whether or not to launch the pre-emptive strike Herzfeld’s pushing for. The guy’s the most respected politician in America right now. The President’s reputation took a real knock when that garbage about the Yellowcake transaction got included in his speech. But if you ask me, Herzfeld flipped on 9/11. The man’s unhinged.” Jennings refilled both their glasses. “But getting back to our problem, Bowman, everything will go through me to the Oval Office. The President won’t even maintain direct contact with CIA or the FBI. Aside from our problems with Iraq, after 9/11 the whole security establishment is far too concerned with covering its own ass. Then there’s a problem with inter-service rivalry. The FBI won’t talk to the CIA. The CIA won’t talk to the National Security Council. The NSC won’t talk to Military Intelligence. But because I’m new to the game I don’t have a Washington profile. I can come and go as I please without causing any excitement. Which is where you come in, Bowman. You’re more of an unknown than I am. That’s a big advantage. More importantly you have direct access to the head of MI6. They have agents inside the IRA. We don’t. But as long as you’re in the States, Bowman, I want you to report to me. And when you find O’Brien I want you to kill him. No arrest. No trial. Just a nice neat execution.”

“I’ll need to clear that with Merlyn Stanbridge.”

“I’ve already talked to her, Bowman. She doesn’t have a problem. Her main concern is the Irish dimension to this thing. This is London’s big chance to discredit the IRA. Cause them maximum embarrassment. Talking of which, how are you making out with Special Agent Hoolahan?”

“It’s early days, I’ve only just met him, but he seems OK. Except he obviously isn’t very fit, puffing and wheezing the whole time. That could make a difference in a tight corner. You know anything about his political affiliations?”

“You mean is he an Irish Republican? Most Irish Americans are. But there’s not much on his file to indicate one way or the other. He has made regular donations to Noraid over the years but that isn’t necessarily significant, most Irish Americans have at one time or another. It could be just a social thing, keeping up with friends and family. It doesn’t make him political. One thing’s for sure. He is a patriot. Did splendid service in ‘Nam with Special Forces. Judging from his record he should have gotten decorated, but he never did. Word is he disarmed one of Charlie’s bombs under enemy fire but his superior officer stole the credit and picked up the Distinguished Service Cross. Hoolahan never forgave him. And he never forgave the army.”

“Were his Noraid contributions significant amounts?”

“Two or three hundred dollars at a time. Just petty cash. But his Noraid connections could be useful. The IRA wants to stop this just as much as we do. If O’Brien succeeds it’s curtains for the IRA and Noraid in the States. They’d never raise another dime. They realise that. So I want Hoolahan to milk his Noraid contacts for all they’re worth. They have representation in every major US city, especially on the eastern seaboard. If O’Brien makes contact with the Irish community Noraid is sure to know about it.”

Jennings gestured for the check.

“Which leaves us with the Colombians. MI6 have opened up a channel to Ortega. Merlyn Stanbridge thinks he could be useful. The President isn’t happy about using him, but he’ll go along. Under the circumstances, he doesn’t have much choice. So the drugs angle is covered. Now it’s pretty much up to you, Bowman. We’re in your hands. Anything comes up my end, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Jennings downed the dregs of his wine.

“One last thing. I’ve arranged a safe-house for you over in Georgetown, so you can come and go as you please.”

He placed a set of keys on the table and scribbled an address on the back of his business card.

“This has all my contact details, Bowman. Home number. Direct line. Email. You’re to phone me every morning at eight o’clock precisely on my cell phone. I’ll be with the President in the Oval Office at that time. So if you need a decision you can have one. Likewise, I can put you in the picture if my people have turned up anything new. If you get over to the apartment right away, you’ll find Agent Moreno waiting there to brief you on the bureau’s communications protocols. We’ve installed secure voice and data lines, a computer and some other technical gadgetry. That way we can stay in touch.”

Jennings stood up and held out his hand.

“Good luck, Bowman. The President of the United States is counting on you. We all are.”

***

Bowman went outside and took a cab to the end of the Mall and north on Ohio Drive. He found the address on the fringes of Georgetown and Foggy Bottom, overlooking a bend in the Potomac. He took the lift to the penthouse floor and let himself in to the apartment. Agent Moreno was seated at the computer, back to the room, finalising the installation of the encryption software. She was wearing headphones and didn’t hear him come in.

“Hello?” Bowman cleared his throat. “Agent Moreno?”

Bowman crossed the room and touched her on the shoulder. She sat up with a start and made a grab for the Colt Anaconda holstered under her left shoulder. Bowman held up his hands.

“My name’s Bowman. Alex Bowman.”

She looked at him and smiled, re-holstering the piece.

“OK. Don’t tell me. You have a double zero rating? Am I right?”

Her accent was purest Brooklyn. She’d never worked with a Brit before. She wondered if it would be fun. She was in her late twenties, six feet tall with a prominent nose, large brown eyes, clear Levantine skin and a wide, promising mouth. She wore chinos, combat boots and a plain white sweatshirt. The Star of David dangled from a chain around her neck.

“Not me,” Bowman laughed. “I’m not even on the payroll.”

“Wow. That’s tough.”

Agent Moreno was not convinced. Anyone who commanded the personal attention of Director Jennings just had to have a double zero rating.

“I’m about finished with the technical stuff. You want me to talk you through it?”

Bowman looked her over. She was tall and slender like a supermodel but with bigger breasts. That might be a problem for Versace, but Bowman thought they were nice. Agent Moreno caught the vibe, blushed, smiled, and blushed some more. 

“I’m sure I can work it out.”

“You’re right,” she said, “it’s really not that complicated. This is a PC and this is a cell-phone. They’re both secure. You shouldn’t have any problems. If you need me all my numbers are loaded in the directory.”

“You have any idea what this is all about?” Bowman asked.

If she did, she certainly hadn’t grasped the seriousness of the situation they were in. Maybe Jennings hadn’t brought her up to speed. Maybe he was right. The fewer people knew about this the better.

“I know you’re looking for somebody. I know who but I don’t know why. Maybe it’s better that way. Leaves me free to concentrate on the electronics. But this is how we’ll catch him.”

She patted the PC as if it were her pet dog.

“Satellite intercepts are ready to roll. Your man can’t order pizza without me knowing which kind. But if I did know why you’re looking for him it might help.”

“How come?”

“All I have is a name. If I had some key words I could set up an automated sniffer system. Scan the airwaves twenty-four seven and come up with a match. You’d be surprised how careless people can be if they don’t know they’re being listened to.”

“Bloke I’m looking for is Irish. You could tap into anything that has to do with Noraid and the Irish Republican Army. Telephone numbers. Bank accounts. Credit card transactions. As for key words… you could try knife, blade, detonator, bomb. And every kind of explosive you can think of.” Bowman didn’t mention nuclear material. “How’s that for starters?”

Agent Moreno made notes on her iPhone.

“He sounds like a real nice guy. You certainly move in interesting circles, Mr Bowman.”

She stood up, ran a hand through her soft brown hair and began to gather up her things.

“Talking of moving in circles… ” Bowman decided to try a minor move. “Do you have a name? Other than Agent Moreno?”

“That’s classified,” she smiled. “But in the interests of Anglo-American relations and given you’re our closest ally, it’s Calista.” She touched the Star of David on her neck. “Bu people call me Cal.”

“You free for dinner, Agent Moreno? Cal?”

“Don’t think that’s a very good idea, Mr Bond.” She looked him squarely in the eye.  “But if anything technical crops up, be sure to give me a call.” She pushed the cell-phone towards him across the desk. “I’m available twenty-four hours a day, every day. Just not for dinner.” Her smile was friendly but dismissive. “If you need me I’ll be back at the office, monitoring the airwaves. Anything else I can help you with?”

Bowman recognised rejection when he saw it and Agent Moreno’s defences looked pretty much impregnable. Pity. She had such a promising mouth.

“A Browning GP35FA would be useful. Had to leave mine in Florida. You know what airline security is like.”

“Sure, no problem, long as you sign for it. I’ll send one over with a couple of boxes of ammo.”

***

The series of catastrophes Cal Moreno and her fellow techno-spooks had helped avert since 9/11 was impressive; from the seizure of bomb making equipment in Brussels to foiling a plot to infest the American Embassy in Rome with cyanide gas. These triumphs belied the technical difficulties involved. But the alternative, the penetration of tight-knit militant communities by agents who combined unquestioned loyalty to the United States with fluency in Arabic or Pashtu, bordered on the impossible.

Agent Moreno did not think Bowman’s Irishman should present any particular difficulty. Director Jennings had provided a complete psychological profile and full personal details and Cal had access to the shadowy international computer network known to a select few practitioners within the intelligence community as Echelon. A system so secret the government denied its very existence, and with reason. Echelon contravened America’s own domestic laws.

Much of the work had already been done. The entire Noraid membership was routinely monitored as it had been since President Clinton got involved in the peace process. Irish Republican activists on both sides of the pond were on the Echelon register, their every communication intercepted, logged and analysed. The problem with this guy O’Brien was that he would be constantly on the move; but if he used a fax, a phone or the Internet it was only a matter of time before Moreno caught him. But chances were O’Brien knew this and would confine himself to public phones and Internet cafés, keeping his communications brief. And he would use cash, not credit cards.

So the best chance of catching him was to screen the people he might contact. In the States that meant engineers with known Irish Republican sympathies and ready access to explosives - people who worked in demolition, mining or the military. On the other side of the pond it meant his friends and family. Cal reckoned at most a couple of day’s computer time using existing Noraid data. She would monitor each phone call, email and bank transaction, sniffing out the key words Bowman had provided. It was only a matter of time before the Irishman broke cover. And when he did she’d catch him.

***

28

Declan O’Brien sat contemplating his shrinking options in a bar in North Miami Beach. Using his contacts in the Irish Republican community was out of the question now. He had made the mistake of telling McGuire what he was up to and that option was definitively closed down. The IRA and Noraid wouldn’t touch him. Worse, they’d probably turn him in. Maybe even put a bullet in his back. The Loyalist alternative had come to him in the middle of the night. He wasn’t even thinking about the problem at the time, it just happened, the notion jumped straight out at him, uninvited. But the more he thought about it, the more he liked the concept. The Protestant Loyalists would know about the IRA’s dealings with the FARC, the whole world knew by now. But not about the Dirty Bomb. They’d be out of that loop completely.

O’Brien’s quandary was he had no point of entry into the Loyalist community. No names. No contacts. No background. The Loyalists had a presence in the States, not on the scale of the IRA, but a presence nonetheless. Problem was, how to find them. But there are hundreds of small settlements in the eastern United States still dominated by the Irish. The same is true of the Poles, the Germans and a dozen other immigrant groups. To find one where the prevailing sympathies were Irish Protestant was unusual but not unheard of. O’Brien knew the best place to look would be the rural Appalachians; a dirt poor region pockmarked with isolated inbred Celtic communities of both persuasions.