First Strike (30 page)

Cal grabbed her overnight bag, walked across to the terminal building and hailed a cab. She gave the driver the address of SSA Headquarters at 6401 Security Boulevard in the suburb of Rolling Heights. She glanced up into the clear blue sky and waved.

“Bye, guys.”

“Oh shit,” said the Captain.

“Whadaya mean oh shit?” Preston already knew what was coming.

“Lost the bitch.”

“How could you possibly lose her?”

“She disappeared into the multi-storey at BWI. We lost signal contact. Bitch could be on her way to anywhere.”

At eight o’clock that evening Cal Moreno entered the lobby of the huge steel and glass office complex. She checked in at the reception desk, picked up a visitor’s security pass and rode the lift to the ninth floor. As she was ushered into the office of the night-shift data-entry supervisor she felt the irresistible onset of an adrenalin rush.

Cal looked and felt like a tart in her blonde wig, heavy make-up, low cut blouse, tight skirt, fishnets and stilettos. But Cal relished the part as she morphed into the flaky college dropout with great tits, endless legs and a very promising mouth. She knew the effect her body had on men and just stood there while the sweaty little fink took a good long look at what she had to offer.

Through the glass partition Cal surveyed the great array of Cray SV1s and T3Es and let out a low whistle. There was more computing power in that one vast chamber than the whole of FBI headquarters. It made the Hoover Building look like a Boy Scout camp.

Cal sat down and the nasty little putz sifted through her application, her dismal College grades, her patchy employment record, her lack of formal IT training.

As he rambled on she crossed and uncrossed her shapely legs repeatedly while the little runt devoured her piece by piece. It was a strangely enjoyable sensation, almost as pleasing as Coprolalia. She repeated the word to herself Cop-ro-lal-ia. The little man droned on, making copious notes. When Cal confessed she’d been fired from her previous position for misconduct it seemed for one minute like she’d blown it. But when she implied she’d been caught
in flagrante
giving her boss a freebie, it seemed like it didn’t really matter much at all. The fink offered her the position right away.

“Anything you need from me before you start?”

The little man dabbed the perspiration from his upper lip with the thick end of his stained, tattered tie.

“I do have one small request,” Cal blushed demurely.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t work well in open-plan environments.”

She looked out at the serried ranks of data entry clerks beyond the glass partition.

“I’d like to have a little office of my own.”

“An entry level clerk? No way. It would start a riot out there.”

“Nothing fancy. But somewhere without windows would be nice.” Cal uncrossed her legs. A flicker of red silk may have caught his eye.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The fink undid his collar and loosened his tie.

“Matter of fact, my assistant is away on a trip. Maybe you can use her office till we get you settled in. After that, it’ll all depend on your performance.”

“I’m sure you’ll be very satisfied,” Cal smiled. “I’ll certainly give it my best shot, I’m good, I just want to get ahead.”

The fink scribbled an abbreviated note, taking one word from each phrase she had uttered. It came out as ‘gives good head’.

On her way out of the colossal building Cal paused in the lobby to call Bowman, bring him up to speed and check what he was up to. She was still on an adrenalin high but terrified of losing it and in need of another fix. As she dialled Bowman’s cell number she caught sight of her reflected image in the plate glass window by the door. At first she didn’t recognise herself.

Son-of-a-bitch Moreno, that’s one fine ass you got there.

“So you’re here in Baltimore?” Bowman enquired.

“Right. Can’t go back to my apartment till this thing is over.”

“You have somewhere to stay?”

“I’ll find a room out here in the burbs, close to where I work.”

“No you won’t. Come on over. There’s lots of spare rooms here and at least you’ll be secure, Trujillo has this place covered.”

Just say the word, Mr Bond. Just say the fucking word.

When Cal turned up at Trujillo’s apartment Ben and Paco had gone out to grab a bite to eat. Bowman opened the door and looked Moreno up and down.

“Jesus Christ!” His jaw stayed open. “Sorry, Cal, excuse me, but it’s just that…well…frankly my dear…you look like a fucking tramp.” It was all he could do to keep from laughing.

Cal was still in character from her interview.

“That’s just the way I feel, Mr Bond. I feel just like a fucking tramp.”

She put her arms around his neck and started murmuring obscenities in his ear.

***

43

Equipped with the diary of Dinah May Jefferson Colonel Preston had no difficulty tracing the car registration number to Jamal Habib, a naturalised American citizen of Saudi origin. Habib had come to the States some ten years earlier and married his native born American cousin, acquiring full citizenship rights. He’d sworn allegiance to the flag and vowed on the Koran to uphold the constitution. Habib was not known to be politically active and had spent the intervening years quietly pursuing his business career and nurturing his growing family. He now lived quietly in a comfortable apartment in downtown Baltimore and worshipped daily at the Masjid Ul-Haqq mosque at 514 Islamic Way.

Preston first traced Jamal’s home address then his place of business to a warehouse in Fells Point near the docks where Habib ran a dealership exporting used agricultural equipment to Eastern Europe and the Middle East. Preston immediately ordered an army AH-IG Cobra equipped with radiation sensors to make a low pass over the single-storey flat-roofed building. The read-out went off the chart. Within the hour Preston had the place surrounded by a detachment of assault troops from the garrison at Fort Meade. Army snipers in camouflage fatigues took up positions on nearby rooftops. Special Forces occupied a row of derelict buildings opposite the warehouse entrance. There was no other means of entry or egress. It was now impossible for anyone to enter or exit the site without Colonel Preston’s specific knowledge and approval. The place was sealed.

 O’Brien delivered the detonator and the Semtex to the warehouse that same evening. In the fading light Preston peered through heat resonance goggles as the Irishman drove up and identified himself to the gook at the outer gate, continued round to the side of the building and climbed the fire escape to the office on the mezzanine floor. At the top of the iron stairway stood two of Habib’s heavies in ski masks toting Mauser SMGs. One of them frisked the Irishman, removed the Bowie taped to his left forearm and opened the door to the office. Jamal sat behind his desk toying with a string of beads. He stood up as O’Brien entered, offered his hand and motioned the Irishman to a straight-backed wooden chair.

“So everything’s in place at last,” Jamal smiled contentedly.

“I’ll be ready to roll in a couple more days,” said O’Brien. “Spot on my chosen schedule. So where’s the nuclear material?”

“Downstairs in the warehouse. One kilogramme of pure weapons grade plutonium.”

“Doesn’t sound like a lot.”

“Enough to contaminate an entire metropolis for a generation. Tirofijo paid a bundle.”

“Where’d you get it from?”

“Ukraine. The place is awash with the stuff. Most of those countries are. This thing goes right, we could start a whole new trend.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“Sure, if you want to. Just don’t spend too much time and don’t get too close. Don’t want you going down with radiation poisoning after all you’ve done for us.” Jamal pressed a button on the intercom. “Switch off the alarm system. We’re coming in.”

He led the way out of his office down a corridor and unlocked a heavy steel-clad door. They stood on an iron platform at mezzanine level looking out over the vast empty space of the warehouse. Two hundred feet away in the middle of the floor was what looked like a large lead coffin. A few yards from each corner of the catafalque a sentry stood toting a Sub-Machine Gun. It looked like a Lying-in-State.

“Won’t those guys get fried?” said O’Brien

“They’re martyrs. Guaranteed a place in heaven.” There was no hint of irony in his smile. “Did you select a target? Tirofijo said he’d leave that choice up to you.”

“The British Embassy has a certain ring to it. At least it does for me. That’s sovereign British territory. Can’t get much more symbolic than that from an Irish point of view.”

Jamal smiled “Yes, I can see that. And the date?”

“Tuesday March 17.”

 “And just how do you propose delivering the package?”

“Till just now I hadn’t figured out a way to do that and be sure to get away.” O’Brien grinned. “But a couple of your martyrs might be useful.”

***

44

When the White House announced the upcoming Press Conference featuring the two Irish prisoners the response varied from quiet satisfaction in London to utter dismay in Dublin. Downing Street saw the chance publicly to discredit the IRA as a very positive outcome. The Irish government and Sinn Fein/IRA dreaded the revelations that were bound to emerge. All hope of a united Ireland would vanish for a generation. But among the ranks of a nebulous coterie of senior officers at the Pentagon the reaction bordered on outright terror. When the two Irishmen revealed the Colombian origins of the Dirty Bomb their attempt to implicate Saddam would fail. There would be no pre-emptive strike against Iraq.

Melanie Drake flew in to Dulles International Airport on British Airways flight 0223 and checked in to the Four Seasons Hotel on the fringes of DC and Georgetown. It was two days before the press conference was due and her first thought was to contact Alex Bowman. She hadn’t heard from him in weeks. But Melanie had no idea where Bowman was or how to reach him. So she sent an email to his UK address on the off chance he might pick it up and contact her. Then she phoned down to the concierge and had him send a copy of every available newspaper and magazine to her room.

Melanie speed-read through the pile of journals. It seemed every broadsheet in America had but one preoccupation. The imminent revelations of the two IRA volunteers had relegated even Saddam to the inside pages. But not a single paper even hinted at the fourth Irishman, or the Dirty Bomb. Melanie Drake, it seemed, was in a very privileged position. Knowledge is power. She just didn’t know how to use it. Melanie needed guidance. Come on Alex, for Christ sake call me. I need to talk to you. She looked at her watch. It was well past midnight, London time. She took a shower and ordered a tray in her room in case he called. She spent an hour flicking from one news channel to another before she fell asleep.

The phone woke her in the middle of the night. It rang several times before she worked out what it was. “Alex?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Melanie, it’s Merlyn Stanbridge. Did I wake you?”

“You did. But it isn’t a problem.”

Her journalistic instincts shifted into overdrive.

“The PM has been in discussion with the President. There’s been a bit of a re-think. The President wants you to ask a question about the fourth Irishman. He plans to turn this into a major intelligence triumph. It’s up to you to get the ball rolling. The rest of the media will follow.”

“And I can ask anything I like?”

“Anything. Including the Dirty Bomb. Call the President’s press secretary and set up an appointment. She’ll brief you. But as far as we’re concerned it’s no holds barred. We’re going to nail the IRA.”

Melanie grabbed a pen. “You have a phone number?”

“Just dial the White House switchboard on 202-456-1414 and they’ll put you through.”

Melanie scribbled down the number and scratched out the area code.

“Great. Now, while you’re on the line, do you have any idea how I can contact Alex Bowman? I’d like to see him while I’m here.”

“Bowman? Bowman’s busy.” The line went dead.

When Melanie put the phone down there was no way she could get back to sleep. She was too excited. She was about to pull off the biggest scoop in the history of journalism, dwarfing Woodward and Bernstein. She would become a Fleet Street legend overnight. The Pulitzer was as good as in her pocket.

***

On the afternoon of Friday March 12th every TV channel in America was set to broadcast the same shattering event. Signals were transmitted by satellite around the globe. The worldwide audience was huge, the largest ever recorded for a non-sports event. In the entire history of news broadcasting only Watergate and 9/11 even came close. In Washington London and Dublin politicians of every persuasion were glued to their television sets. The President, the Prime Minister and the Taoiseach cancelled their appointments for the day. A dedicated Satcom link was kept open between the White House, Downing Street and Government Buildings. The Taoiseach had reluctantly agreed to make a conference room available at the Irish Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue. Agents Brown, Sondheim and Wharton shared the security duty at the safe house on 9
^th
Street. McGuire and O’Rourke spent the whole morning playing cards and sipping whiskey in their windowless basement room.

“So this is when the brown stuff finally hits the fan.” McGuire poured them each a final glass of Bushmills. “I wonder what that prick O’Brien is up to now.”

O’Rourke emptied his glass. “Do you think they’ll question us about the Dirty Bomb?”

“I doubt it. The Yanks will want to keep that under wraps. Remember what Hoolahan said? Keep schtum. Besides, there’s enough swill in this pigsty for the media to chew on for a month. Don’t know who’ll come off worse, our lads or Tirofijo. One thing’s for sure, that cosy little relationship will have to end. The Yanks will see to that. Pity. There was lots of money to be made. Bastard Brits will have a field day.”