First Strike (27 page)

“Whatcha forget this time, hun?”

She turned to see two strangers in grey suits standing in the hallway. The older of the two had a livid scar that ran the length of his right cheek. It seemed to be pulsating.

“Who the fu…”

Clare stared open mouthed as the older man picked Jack up from the floor. The kid reached for the man’s scar and gave it a friendly squeeze.

“Who are you?”

“We’re with Military Intelligence.” His tone was friendly enough.

“And I’m with the FBI. You have some ID?”

“We’d like to keep this as informal as possible, ma’am,” said Preston. He stepped around her and went to look at the computer screen.

“You planning a trip, ma’am? Traverse City? Let me see, that would be your sister, Chloë, wouldn’t it?”

“How would you know…?”

“She’s listed on your job application as next of kin. Guess little Jack here doesn’t have a father?”

“That’s none of your Goddamn business, but since you ask he’s away on a trip. Look, Mister, show me some ID or get the fuck out of my apartment. Otherwise I call the cops.”

She edged towards the panic button in the hall. As she did so the older man, carrying her child, stepped out onto the balcony.

“What floor we on here, ma’am? Fourteen?” Preston peered into the void. “Wow. That’s quite a drop. And you don’t got no protection? Look, the kid could squeeze through these bars quite easily, right here.”

He lowered Jack to the floor and threaded the little boy between two railings to demonstrate the point he was making. Jack made a quiet gurgling sound.

“I were you, ma’am, I’d get that fixed right away.”

They drove Clare and Jack to an isolated farmhouse in rural Fairfax County in the woods off Pohick Road, overlooking the icy surface of Lake Burke.

“You’ll be safe here, ma’am,” said Preston. “It’s single storey. No chance of a serious fall.”

They made Clare call her sister to postpone the trip, something major had come up at work, which was true enough, and Chloë knew better than to press for details. Preston explained to Clare there was an easy way and a hard way to proceed. The easy way would be better all round, especially for baby Jack. But just to make sure they showed her some of their equipment; the dentist’s chair, the electrodes. Just so she’d understand. They even had pictures of what they’d done to some of their previous houseguests. But Clare didn’t need to look at them. By eight o’clock that evening she’d told them what little she knew. It was not her fault. She just wasn’t heroine material.

Preston said,

“So here we have a foreign national, operating on American soil on behalf of an alien power.” He put on an expression of mock horror. “Why, that’s illegal. And you say this guy’s aided and abetted by a senior government official? My God, that’s a federal offence. I wonder if the President knows about this?”

“I doubt it,” said Clare. “Director Jennings kept this on a need-to-know basis.”

“I bet he did. Otherwise the President’s own position would be compromised. The spic’s too smart to take that risk.”

The younger man said,

“This guy Bowman? What’s he look like?”

“I never saw him. He never came to the Director’s office.”

“Where’s he staying?”

“One of the safe houses, I should think.”

“Is there a list of safe houses?”

“Shouldn’t think so. That’s what makes them safe.”

“Who else at FBI knows about this guy Bowman?”

“Agents Hoolahan, Moreno, Brown, Sondheim and Wharton.”

“Any of them know exactly what Bowman’s doing in the States?”

“Hoolahan. And probably Moreno.”

“Do you know what he’s up to?”

“I’m just a secretary. I only have entry-level clearance.”

“If you were us, ma’am, trying to find him, what would you do?”

“I’d talk to Agent Moreno.”

“Why Moreno?”

“Moreno’s a girl.”

Next morning they drove mother and child to Ronald Reagan National Airport and put them on a plane to Detroit with onward reservations to Traverse City.

“Let’s not do anything silly now,” said the man with the scar. “Don’t want baby Jack here taking a nasty fall.”

***

Cal Moreno left her office at 8 p.m. that evening and switched the system to automatic. The Cray SV1 supercomputers would go on scanning the airwaves throughout the night. Anything interesting came up, her cell phone would vibrate. She drove across town in her beat-up ’97 Cherokee, parked in the basement of her apartment building overlooking Lincoln Park and rode the elevator to the ninth floor. As she came out of the lift fumbling for her keys, she noticed the faint odour of tobacco. Hers was a non-smoking floor. She put down her bag and pressed the Star of David to her lips. She turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door and stepped silently inside, the Colt Anaconda .44 magnum gripped tightly in both hands. She didn’t switch on the light but the glow from the hallway flooded into the corridor. Cal moved noiselessly to the sitting room. Moonlight shone through the open curtains.

“Put away the shooter, ma’am. It won’t be necessary.”

The voice came from the kitchen hatchway that gave onto the dining area. A tall man in shirtsleeves blocked the kitchen door. An older man with a scar on his right cheek stood behind him. Cal noticed the faint aroma of coffee. Then the nickel barrel of a Schofield .45, holstered under the man’s left shoulder, caught the light.

“And who the fuck are you?”

Cal levelled the Colt at the first man’s chest. At close range the .44 Magnum could drop them both with a single shot, the way they were aligned.

“We’re with Military Intelligence if you want to check us out.”

The man didn’t move, both eyes glued to the four-inch steel barrel of the Anaconda, knowing she would use it if she had to. He’d read Moreno’s file. The agent had killed twice before, claimed self-defence on both occasions. So at least she wasn’t squeamish.

Cal grinned.

“Military Intelligence? That’s an oxymoron. Come on; gimme some ID.”

Her voice was loud but controlled.

“Don’t got none, ma’am.” The big man shrugged. “We’d like to keep this as informal as we can.”

“OK, Mister. Don’t move an inch. I’m going to pick up the phone now, call the cops. Stay still and nobody gets hurt. You make a move I’ll blast ya.”

Cal transferred the piece to her right hand and reached for the phone with her left.
Go for your gun you bastard. Just go for your fuckin’ gun.

“Name of Bowman mean anything to you, ma’am?” It was the second man who spoke, the one with the scar, peering over his colleague’s shoulder. “Alex Bowman?”

Cal replaced the phone in its cradle.

“Not a fucking thing.”

She switched her weight from one leg to the other, the Colt still trained on the intruder.

The man said,

“Bowman’s a foreign national operating on American soil on behalf of a foreign power. That’s illegal. You should know that, Agent Moreno. Aiding and abetting him would be illegal too. Could jeopardise your career.”

“Nothing wrong with my record. Far as I know, my superiors are more than satisfied with my performance.”

“I’m sure they are, mam. But what we need is an accurate description. Better still, you could lead us to him. Set up a honey trap. Good lookin’ kid like you should be easy. And you’d be doing your country a great service. Why don’t you call him?” He pointed to the phone. “Ask him to come over. You don’t have to promise him anything, maybe just some heavy breathing. Let him work it out for himself.”

“Sorry, Mister. No ID. No dice. I take my instructions from the FBI.”

The two men looked at one another, perplexed. They made ready to leave.

“One of two things is going to happen,” said Preston. “Either we find him with your help, or we find him without it. The result is the same. That’s your choice, Agent Moreno. But just don’t think you’re not involved. Don’t think there isn’t a price you’re going to have to pay, somewhere down the line.”

The one thing Cal Moreno was absolutely certain of was the quality of her own work. She’d graduated top of her computer science class at Quantico, second from top in math and cryptology. She retrieved her handbag from the corridor and dialled Bowman on the cell phone she knew was absolutely secure. Please don’t say the words, Alex. Please don’t say those fucking words. The encrypted signal found Bowman at the safe house in Georgetown. She told him what had just happened and gave him an accurate description of the two men.

“They’re pissed off at you, Alex, cos you’re a Brit operating on American soil. They say that’s illegal. And I guess they’re right.”

Bowman was not surprised, his meeting with Jennings that morning had alerted him that something was awry. He just couldn’t figure out what it was. The most likely explanation was an inter-agency jurisdictional dispute, and the advent of Military Intelligence confirmed that.

“Do something for me, Cal. Phone Jennings at his home, put him in the picture. I know it’s late, but this could be important. He’ll understand what’s going on much better than you or me.”

Bowman hung up, pocketed the cell phone and holstered the Browning, wondering just how safe an FBI safe house could be. The pimpmobile was parked in the street below. Using an FBI registered vehicle he’d signed for was a risk, but one worth taking. He could be in Baltimore within the hour.

***

40

As Bowman drove north on the Parkway Declan O’Brien checked in to a cheap motel just inside the Beltway. He went to his room, showered, saved and changed his clothes. Then he went to the dimly light bar and ordered neat whiskey and a soda water on the side. The hooker sat on a stool further along the bar. She was about forty, past her prime but still attractive with jet-black hair, ebony skin, good legs and tits that were probably enhanced. Declan made eye contact in the mirror that lined the back of the bar. O’Brien grinned. The hooker lowered her eyes and smiled demurely. O’Brien told the barman loudly to charge the whiskey to room 118 and brushed against the hooker as he squeezed past behind her. Back in his room O’Brien went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth with mouthwash. When he came back into the bedroom the hooker was framed in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the hall. She looked good. O’Brien already had a hard-on.

“So what’s the deal?” he grinned.

“Depends on what you want.”

She walked in and closed the door behind her.

O’Brien opened his overnight bag and showed her some of his equipment. The mask. The knuckle-duster. The leather thongs.

The hooker shook her head and moved back towards the door.

“I don’t do kinky. I just fuck. BJ if you want but not bareback. I don’t do the full GFE and definitely no anal. But if just a fuck is what you want it’ll cost you a hundred bucks; but that’s all I do. Take it or leave it.”

She didn’t seem very enthusiastic.

O’Brien’s wondered what was left but his hard-on already had control of his brains so he said,

 “OK, we’ll kick off with a face fuck. See how we go from there.”

He took a $100 bill from his wallet and added an extra $20 to generate a little enthusiasm. He thought of offering her a line of coke but the stuff he had was so damn pure she’d probably OD. The hooker took her handbag to the bathroom and did whatever hookers do in there. O’Brien stripped, unstrapped the Bowie from his left forearm and placed it on the floor on his side the bed. Then he flicked on the TV in case she was a moaner. When the hooker came back into the bedroom she was naked. O’Brien was impressed. The surgeons had done a pretty good job. Nice taut thighs. Great hubcaps. The hooker knelt on the bed beside him, put a condom in her mouth and slid it onto his rigid dick. Then she began to drill for oil. O’Brien closed his eyes and tried to think of something else. He didn’t want to come too soon, he wanted his full money’s worth. He was trying hard to listen to the late night news on television. The desensitising condom was working in his favour. The main news item was an inquiry into the apparent suicide of a senior customs official in Annapolis. The hooker came up for air, brushed the hair from her face and adjusted her position. The coda to the news piece was an appeal for the public to look out for a container with a serial number O’Brien didn’t catch. The hooker began to wonder if there was something wrong with her technique, any normal john would have come by now. The news segment closed with an interview with a black maid, something about an incident a year ago when two foreign gentlemen had forced their way into the house and roughed her up. She was helping the authorities with their enquiries. But all this meant nothing to O’Brien, he’d never even heard of Henry Libitch. The hooker moaned. She could tell O’Brien was about to come. Declan put his hand behind her head so she could springboard on the down stroke.

“Come on baby,” she moaned some more, “come for momma.”

Declan came.

“Jesus baby, what took you so fucking long?”

She got up and went to the bathroom to rinse her mouth and dispose of the soiled condom.

O’Brien was about to flip channels when his own face filled the TV screen. A body had been fished out of the Potomac. An Irish national was the only suspect in what was presumed to be a sexually motivated killing. There was a warning the man should not be approached by members of the public, he was a psychopath, armed and extremely dangerous. O’Brien saw the hooker framed in the bathroom doorway staring at the TV screen. His hand dropped to the floor and made a grab for his silent friend, the gleaming Bowie.

The hooker continued gazing at the screen. Then she said,

“Just look at that fucking creep. Ain’t nobody safe.”

For those were not O’Brien’s features on the screen. The man on TV had short fair hair. O’Brien’s was long and dark. The man on TV was clean-shaven. O’Brien had a full luxuriant black beard. The man on TV was described as short. With his built up shoes and Cuban heels, O’Brien stood over five feet seven inches tall. The man on TV didn’t resemble O’Brien at all. For reasons Declan did not begin to understand somebody somewhere had tampered with the TV station’s archives.