First Strike (28 page)

O’Brien idly switched channels and incongruously found himself watching a delayed broadcast from the British House of Commons. The Right Honourable Member for Little Piddlington was on his feet telling an appreciative Prime Minister of his certainty the people of Baghdad would be grateful for having the crap bombed out of them.

“Jesus Christ,” O’Brien muttered. “How do those neo-colonialist bastards think this shit plays in the Middle East? The days of the Empire are long gone, old son.”

***

41

Bowman joined Ambrose at Paco Trujillo’s apartment in Baltimore shortly before midnight. The penthouse was large and ostentatious, garishly furnished in the fake French Imperial style Trujillo had adopted after visiting Ortega’s palatial headquarters in Medellin. Paco lived alone save for the series of transitory companions who shared his bed. He summoned the present incumbent, a feisty sixteen year old imported from the Balkans who was working her apprenticeship before he passed her over to the trade. He stuffed five hundred dollars in her bra, patted her backside and told her to get lost. In the corridor outside a pair of heavies shared the night security duty. Two more were downstairs in the lobby and a couple more across the street watching the outside of the building in case the Feds tried abseiling down.

Trujillo was in a state of outright panic. Henry Libitch’s suicide was the biggest scandal to hit Baltimore since the Howard Street Tunnel fire. It had even made the national TV news and set alarm bells ringing throughout the international drug trafficking community. Now investigators from half a dozen federal agencies were swarming over every aspect of Libitch’s life, his bank accounts, his lavish lifestyle, his business contacts, his friends. Ortega’s entire east coast operation was beginning to unravel. Paco Trujillo knew it was only a matter of time before the Feds finally got to him. Paco was desperate to work out some kind of deal but Ambrose could not guarantee Trujillo immunity, he wasn’t senior enough. What he could offer was advice. Paco could perform one great public service. He could help Ambrose with his enquiries and document everything he knew about Ortega’s operations in the States. That way by the time the Federales finally got to The Caribbean Fine Foods Import/Export Company Trujillo would be ready to cop a plea.

But something else was bothering Ben Ambrose. He had seen the late evening news on television and watched the interview with Libitch’s elderly black maid who reminded Ben so much of his own mother. It was plain Dinah May Jefferson had a clear recollection of the two Middle Eastern dudes who had come to Libitch’s home a year ago and roughed her up. This placed Dinah May in very considerable danger. If the bad guys had seen the broadcast too they’d be out there looking for her now. And Dinah May Jefferson would not be difficult to find.

“Anything you guys need before we turn in?” Trujillo was ready to call it a night.

Bowman tossed him the keys to the pimpmobile.

“There’s a white Vette convertible parked across the street. It’s hot. Have one of your boys get rid of it for me, torch it or drop it in the docks. If you can replace it with something less conspicuous in the morning, I’d be grateful.”

Bowman slept for three hours and woke up in the middle of the night. He found the kitchen, made a cup of instant coffee and sat down to review his situation. He thought he was in pretty good shape. He had somewhere safe to hide. He had Trujillo’s extensive organisation at his disposal. He had Cal Moreno and her communications and surveillance expertise. He had Hoolahan with his Noraid connections and bomb disposal skills. And he had direct access to the President through Jennings. The rest, he thought, was pure detective work.

Ambrose got up about eight followed a little later by Trujillo. Paco made huevos rancheros and fresh Colombian coffee, shipped direct from Ortega’s personal plantation in the hills above Medellin.

“OK, Alex,” said Paco, “you seem to be in charge. What’s our next move?”

“I need to talk to a top Muslim cleric. Any ideas how I can get hold of one?”

“No, none. But there’s bound to be a way. There always is.” Trujillo probed his cavities with a small gold toothpick. “I’ll just need to made a coupla calls.”

Bowman turned to Ambrose. “How about you, Ben? You want to come along?”

“You go, Alex. I’ll drive down to Annapolis and talk to Libitch’s maid.”

***

Trujillo made several phone calls before he came up with a contact who knew a man who knew the Imam at Masjid Ul-Haqq Mosque at 514 Islamic Way. Bowman had no idea how to speak to a priest, let alone an Imam, how to approach him, what the proper form of address might be. But Bowman saw no point in faking it. He would go as the uninitiated infidel he was. He took a couple of Trujillo’s heavies along for the ride. They drove him to Islamic Way in an old Dodge station wagon and parked in a side street on a meter with some unexpired time that Bowman took to be an omen. Bowman left the pistoleros in the café across the street where they could keep an eye on the approaches and entered the green and white domed and minareted building. He knew enough to remove his shoes and leave them by the door.

Imam Siddiqui was a second generation native born American of Saudi descent in his mid-forties, five and a half feet tall, with a well-rounded figure and soft feminine hands. He hid the face of a cherub behind an untrimmed luxuriant grey beard. The Imam had a Harvard law degree and a Doctorate in Koranic studies from the Quaraouyine University in Morocco’s Holy City of Fez, the world’s oldest dedicated seat of learning. He was fluent in Arabic and French. He wore a white dishdashha, a taiga covered his head. The Imam reclined on a pile of cushions smoking a hookah, a string of amber prayer beads dangling from

his plump right hand. His English was Boston Brahmin.

“9/11 was an un-Islamic act,” the Imam began. “There can be no treachery in Islam. No war that is not announced. He who kills without permission of the law, it is as if he kills the whole of mankind."

There was no trace of irony in his high-pitched, cultivated voice.

“Nonetheless, it happened,” Bowman countered.

“The holocaust happened. Dresden happened. The people who did those terrible things called themselves Christians. Can you denounce an entire religion if a handful of its supposed adherents act against its creed? I think not. Islam abhors all unlawful killing.
‘He is not a true believer from whose mischief his neighbour does not feel safe.
’” The Imam flicked the prayer beads in his hand. “I repeat. 9/11 was an unlawful act. We condemn it.”

Bowman wondered if the Imam was sincere but at this stage he had nowhere else to go.

“It’s happening again. It will be much worse this time. Infinitely worse. Tens of thousands may die. A whole city could be destroyed.”

“If you know this you must stop it.” The Imam made it sound so easy.

“That’s why I’m here. But I need your help.”

“And what is it you want from me?”

The Imam’s eyes remained impassive but his moist cherubic lips trembled slightly.

“Information. I know Al Qaeda is involved, along with others. There’s a cell right here in Baltimore that was activated over a year ago when a cargo of dangerous material arrived by sea from Lebanon. Some time between then and now at least two martyrs, suicide bombers, will have come here. They’ll have entered the country legally, no point in taking chances with the Immigration Authorities. They’re probably living openly within the Muslim community, possibly married to local girls to secure their immigration status. I need to find them and the material. I don’t have much time.”

Imam Siddiqui rotated the prayer beads in his hands and put aside the hookah.

“There must be scores of young men just like that, even in a small community like ours, right here in Baltimore. Can you give me something more specific? Something that makes them stand out?”

“They’ll be in contact with an Irishman, a man named Declan O’Brien whose job is to co-ordinate the project. But I’m betting O’Brien doesn’t plan to sacrifice his own life, he won’t have that level of commitment. Hence the martyrs. But if we find the Irishman, we’ll find the suicide bombers. We find the bombers, we find the nuclear material.”

“It’s not a lot to go on.” He picked up the hookah and inhaled.

“We also know the Irishman is trafficking drugs to finance the operation. Drugs with a dangerously high purity, marketed by people with little experience dealing coke. A lot of junkies have ODed in this area.”

“The same Declan O’Brien who’s wanted for murder? The one I saw on TV?”

“That’s him. Except he won’t look like that anymore. Somehow all the TV stations managed to screw up the files.”

Bowman pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and produced an up-dated image of O’Brien.

“He’ll have changed his appearance for sure, probably looks something like this by now, dark hair, beard, tanned. Maybe wearing built up shoes, to add a little height.”

Imam Siddiqui scrutinised the drawing and smiled a gentle, knowing smile.

“Funny. He looks more Arab than Irish. Put him in a dishdashha and he’d blend right in.”

***

The maid’s quarters at the Libitch mansion were surprisingly comfortable. Dinah May Jefferson lived alone above a converted timber-frame boathouse looking out across the water. The sitting room was small but well furnished with a stunning view of the icy Chesapeake Bay. Dinah May was already getting used to receiving company. She wore her best Sunday outfit with a freshly starched apron and insisted on making tea.

“Mr Libitch always treat me with respek. I knows now he was a bad man. Didn’t know that when he was alive. But he always treat me right.”

Dinah May wore her uniform with pride. She sat bolt upright, her withered hands resting in her spotless apron.

Ambrose sipped tea from a china cup.

“Miss Jefferson, a little over a year ago two gentlemen came to the house. Two Arab gentlemen. Mr Libitch said they roughed you up a bit. Any chance you might remember them?”

“Sure do. Weren’t no gentlemen though. Wouldn’t give no name. Just barged right into the house. Shoved me on the floor.” She made a tight little fist with each hand. “Ain’t nobody push ole Dinah May around. No, sir. When I was just a little bitty girl I done march with Dr King.”

Pride shone from those weary, wise old eyes.

“Mr Libitch gave me a good description, Dinah May,” Ambrose continued. “You remember anything else about these men? Other than the way they looked?”

“Done took the number of their car.”

“You did?” Ambrose beamed.

“I was madder ‘n hell. I woulda preferred charges ‘cept Mr Libitch didn’t want me to.”

Ambrose held his breath.

“Dinah May, do you still have the number of the car?”

“I keeps a diary. Always did. Since my time with Dr King.” She looked down at her hands. “Already gave it to the man.”

“What man?”

“Man came here las’ evenin’. Done seen me on TV.”

She ran a finger down the length of her right cheek.

“Scar down the side of his face. Was wounded in Vietnam. Said he knew my nephew Bobby got killed out there, fighting’ for his country.”

“Did he give a name?”

“No, sir. But I knows he was a Colonel. Ribbons all over his chest. Musta bin a very gallant man. Served with my nephew Bobby.”

“So you gave him the diary?” Ambrose recalled the description of the heavies who’d been to Moreno’s apartment. “Dinah May, you sure about that scar?”

“Yes, sir”

“An’ you ain’t got no other copy of that number?”

“No, sir.” Dinah May could see Ambrose was upset. “What’s the matter, son? Didn’ I do right?”

“You did fine, Dinah May. You did just fine.”

***

42

The President of the United States sat in the Oval Office contemplating the morning’s dismal headlines. Every newspaper on the eastern seaboard led on the same bleak, dispiriting story. A Committee of Congress had been formed to investigate the massive intelligence failures that preceded 9/11. The concerns of FBI field agents about foreign nationals training at US flying schools had gone unheeded. The movement of significant Saudi funds into suspect bank accounts was undetected. The failure to scramble military jets unexplained. The FBI, the CIA and the Immigration Service were all under sustained media attack. Only Military Intelligence was in the clear. The Pentagon, it seemed, was above reproach. Most damaging of all was the re-emergence of that old Watergate refrain,

“What did the President know? And when did he know it?”

On that bright March morning Robert Jennings was shown into the Oval Office and sat at his usual chair facing toward the window. President Santos sat with his back to the light, making it difficult to discern his features clearly. When he spoke his voice had an icy metallic quality Jennings hadn’t been subjected to before.

“Director Jennings, it has been brought to my attention,” the President steepled his hands, “that you have taken it upon yourself to collaborate with a foreign national acting on behalf of a foreign power on American soil, thereby placing me, personally, in a very difficult position.” He paused. “You’ve seen the morning papers? The American people are losing faith in some of their most cherished institutions. I cannot allow that to happen. For Christsake, Jennings, what the hell were you thinking of? This isn’t a game. This country is about to go to war!” The President got up and began to pace about the room. “Well, Jennings? Would you care to comment at this point?”

Jennings reddened. He didn’t answer right away. Then he said,

“Mr President, I understood I’d been given a free hand. I chose the best available man. You instructed me specifically not to tell you who I picked, to protect your own position. Resources, as you know, are limited. Secrecy is paramount. Someone from outside the loop seemed the most appropriate choice.”

Jennings didn’t really feel he needed to defend himself. He knew for sure he’d made the right decision.