First Strike (32 page)

“Is this going out live?”

“No, sir. It’ll go out with the mid-day news. In case we need to do an edit or a re-take.”

The President sat in an upright chair identical to Melanie’s with a low ornate table between them. He pulled at the cuffs of his shirt, making sure they protruded beyond the sleeves of his jacket by just the right amount. He felt for the knot of his tie to make sure it was exactly centred. Since the broadcast wasn’t live there was no countdown. The President smiled at Melanie to put her at her ease.

“You’ve been adequately briefed?”

Melanie was struck by his absolute calm.

“Yes, sir.”

“So you know the rules?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you comfortable with that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s begin.”

He sat erect and made a final check of his cuffs and tie.

The cameraman made a minor adjustment to the focus and muttered a barely audible “OK.” There was a low whirring noise as the tape began to roll.

Melanie cleared her throat, glanced down at her notes and took a couple of good deep yogic breaths. 

“Mr President, if I may begin on a personal note, I understand you intend to go on residing at the White House during the crisis?”

The President nodded.

“That’s correct. This is my home, for as long as the American people choose to make it so.”

“And the First Lady will remain with you?”

“My wife is a very brave woman.”

“Mr President, if you’ll forgive my being blunt, that might be considered foolhardy. Given the present circumstances. Wouldn’t it be wiser if you flew to the facility in Utah?”

“I have asked the American people to stay calm. Not to panic. To go about their normal daily business in an orderly fashion. The least I can do is to share that burden with them.”

“Mr President, if I may contrast your example with that of some of your subordinates, the Vice President and the Secretary of Defence?”

“The Vice President and Secretary Herzfeld have no choice in the matter. They’re both following my instructions. They will both remain in secure quarters until this clear and present danger has passed.”

The President paused. Melanie noted a subtle change of tone.

“Miss Drake, I do hope you’re not suggesting…”

Melanie referred again to her notes.

“With regard to yesterday’s events, Mr President, I understand your present thinking is that the mortar attack was the work of the IRA and the FARC, acting in unison?”

“Our enquiries are not yet complete, but that seems the most likely explanation, given the provenance of the two prisoners. The IRA and the FARC had the most to gain by silencing them. Mortars are an IRA trademark, and we know they’ve been training the FARC for urban warfare. That’s how they got caught. But all that remains to be confirmed. Military Intelligence is still looking into the matter.”

“Military Intelligence? Not the FBI or CIA?”

“That’s correct. To simplify the chain of command and shorten lines of communication, Military Intelligence has overall responsibility for all security matters.”

“So Secretary Herzfeld has unprecedented powers? He has control of all the Military and Intelligence assets?”

“Secretary Herzfeld has my full confidence.”

“In your address to the American people yesterday you spoke of the likelihood of further violence. Are you able to elucidate further?”

“I wish I could. But there are certain facts…suspicions rather…I’m not yet ready to share with the American people. On grounds of national security. I’m sure the American people will understand that.”

“So you can’t be more specific as to the type of threat? Or where it might occur? Or the scale of the disaster, should it happen?”

Melanie was pushing at the bounds of what was prudent, exploiting her own knowledge of the situation.

“No, Miss Drake; I’m afraid I can’t.”

For the first time the President began to look uncomfortable.

Melanie took a deep yogic breath.

“So the fact the Vice President and the Secretary of Defence are both housed in nuclear shelters has no significance?”

This was an unscripted question. The word “nuclear” was taboo. But it seemed like the natural thing to ask in light of what had gone before.

The President glanced at his Press Secretary who was sitting out of camera shot. There might have been the faintest hint of a smile but there was a distinct hesitation before the President answered.

“No significance. None at all. As I said, they’re both working to my explicit instructions. They have no discretion in the matter whatsoever.”

Melanie was emboldened by his response.

“Mr President, one final question. Can you specifically state that the assault you are expecting is not a nuclear attack?”

Melanie sensed the Press Secretary’s sharp intake of breath. She had gone too far. This would end up on the cutting room floor. They would have to shoot a re-take.

But the President kept his poise.

“I can confirm I have no intelligence whatsoever to suggest a nuclear attack. If any such intelligence did exist, you can rest assured Secretary Herzfeld would have brought it to my attention. As I’ve said before, Secretary Herzfeld has my complete confidence. The American people can rely on his good judgement.”

The camera stopped rolling. The Press Secretary was on her feet.

“That’s it. Cut.”

She glared across at Melanie.

“You’re out of line. The word “nuclear” was forbidden. You knew that. We’ll have to do a complete re-take.”

“It’s OK. It’s OK,” The President interjected. “Let’s just run the tape and assess the damage. It’ll only take a few minutes. We can always re-shoot if we have to.”

He turned to the cameraman, looking at his watch.

“Do you mind waiting outside while we discuss this?”

The President resumed his seat and watched the tape in silence.

Then he turned to his Press Secretary and said,

“It’s fine. Let it go the way it is. Except there’s one brief moment when I lose eye contact with Miss Drake and smile inappropriately. Cut that footage out. It’s no more than a few seconds, but it doesn’t look right. Otherwise I’m happy.”

The President had achieved the only thing he wanted - to position Herzfeld to take the fall if things went disastrously wrong. He stood up, shook hands with Melanie and left the room, surrounded by his Secret Service guards.

***

47

In Trujillo’s apartment in Baltimore Bowman, Ambrose, Hoolahan and Jennings watched the interview on television. Agent Moreno slept late after the night shift at Social Security.

“Hey,” Ambrose punched Bowman playfully on the shoulder. “That your girlfriend?”

“She’s a girl and she’s a friend.” Bowman looked over his shoulder towards the room where Cal was sleeping. “It’s not the same thing.”

“She done good,” Ambrose beamed.

“She sure did,” Jennings confirmed. “Made the President look great and painted that bastard Herzfeld right into a corner, hunkered down in his nice safe nuclear bunker underneath the Pentagon while the President and the rest of us stay above ground with our families.”

“I don’t give much for our chances,” said Bowman. “Not with Herzfeld controlling all the assets. He’ll be in contact with O’Brien by now. They’ll have worked out a plan.”

“The President still has the Secret Service,” said Jennings. “They’ll always stay loyal to him. They won’t take any orders from the military.”

Cal Moreno breezed into the room, dressed in her usual tee shirt and chinos but no shoes. Her hair was still wet from the shower. She sat on the couch between Hoolahan and Jennings, directly opposite Bowman.

“So how’d the President do?”

“He did great.” Jennings turned to Moreno. “Anything happen on the night shift?”

“I have my sniffer system all set up. I’ve hacked into the Pentagon mainframe. Herzfeld’s home and private office are covered. But so far nothing. They must have imposed radio silence. Can’t say I blame them. They’ll expect us to monitor the airwaves.” Cal stretched and yawned. “The most exciting thing I’ve picked up so far is a load of garbage about some black-tie function at the British Embassy that Herzfeld is supposed to attend.” She smiled at Bowman. “How come you’re not invited?”

“Forgot to bring my tux.” Bowman looked apologetic. “Otherwise we could go together, Cal. You could wear your Pashtu.”

“You mean my Pashmina, Alex,” Cal laughed. “Pashtu’s a language. I know that.”

“That’s it? Nothing else?” said Jennings.

“The Ambassador reported his limo’s been stolen,” Cal yawned.

“Jesus!” said Bowman. “With everything that’s going on we have to worry about a stolen limo?”

Hoolahan cleared his throat.

“What’s the date?”

“Excuse me?”

Cal looked at him as if he were demented.

“What date is the function?”

Hoolahan coughed blood into a soiled handkerchief.

“March 17. Why?”

Cal remembered the date exactly, it coincided with her grandma’s birthday.

“That gives you a couple of days, Alex; you’ve got time to rent a tux.”

Hoolahan looked across at Bowman.

“And since when did the Brits start to celebrate Saint Paddy’s Day?”

“Saint Patrick’s Day?” said Jennings. “Jesus. I can see that. But why the British Embassy? Not much symbolism in that.”

“There is for Declan O’Brien,” said Bowman.

It took just one phone call to establish all social functions at the British Embassy had been cancelled until further notice. Bowman was confident his job was almost done. With the date and precise location of the attack now pinned down beyond doubt there was no way they could fail to prevent it.

Within the hour Secret Service Agents under direct instructions from the White House had taken up positions surrounding the British Embassy and its approaches. No one considered the question of jurisdiction or thought to brief the Ambassador. There simply wasn’t time. Brightman was completely out of the loop. All exits and entrances were covered. Snipers were positioned on nearby rooftops. NEST teams searched every corner of the grounds and buildings. Nothing and nobody moved in or out of the Embassy without being intercepted and examined.

Shortly after 5p.m. Bowman, Hoolahan and Moreno were admitted to the Embassy past the Secret Service security check. Jennings and Ambrose remained at FBI Headquarters in the Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue as backup, in case things went disastrously wrong. Hoolahan carried a battered metal case with the insignia of the 202
^nd
Explosive Ordnance Disposal Company emblazoned on its lid. He was sweating and when he breathed he wheezed. They made straight for the communications room in the basement reserved for Bowman’s use. There was nothing to do now but wait. Bowman did a tour of the grounds and buildings, searching for some loophole in the Secret Service’s defences. He found none. They had every angle covered. Bowman just didn’t see how the bomb could be delivered without him spotting it. On his way back through the lobby he bumped into Ambassador Brightman.

“Would you kindly tell me what the hell is going on?”

Brightman snapped. There was still no news yet of his stolen limo.

Bowman brushed past him and headed for the basement stairs. He found Hoolahan checking the contents of his toolbox.

“How confident are you, Pat?”

Bowman placed an encouraging hand on Agent Hoolahan’s shoulder.

“I haven’t done anything like this since ‘Nam,”

Hoolahan coughed nervously.

“And I’ve never even seen a nuclear device. Thing’s bound to be booby-trapped and I’m way behind with the technology. Everything’s gone digital now.”

He wiped the sweat from his face and hands with his handkerchief and began coughing violently.

“Maybe we should use a robot. Trouble is, I don’t know how to drive one. Sure wish I had some drawings.”

“Drawings?” Moreno was on her feet. “Bet I can get you drawings. Bound to be a fax machine around here some place.”

She ran along the corridor and disappeared back up to the ground floor. It was almost an hour before she returned, triumphantly brandishing a sheaf of fax paper.

“You wanted drawings? I got you drawings!”

“Where the…?” Bowman looked at her in amazement.

“You’re a smart man, Mr Bond,” Moreno grinned. “It’s just that I’m quicker than you are. I called the Sheriff’s office in Warm Springs Ridge. Had them do a search of Murphy’s place. They came up with his working drawings.”

Cal slumped into a chair and closed her eyes so Bowman wouldn’t recognise she was already on a high.

***

48

Five floors below the Pentagon, in the air-conditioned situation room at the hub of the nuclear bunker, Herzfeld and Preston met to re-assess the damage of the President’s two broadcasts, his address to the nation and the televised interview with the British bitch.

The extensive suite of rooms could accommodate a hundred men in luxury. The food supply could last a year, more if they were careful. Limitless fresh water was available through boreholes that pierced the bedrock beneath the water table of the Potomac that would be contaminated by a nuclear attack. There was a gym, a poolroom and a cinema. The greatest threat to the inmates was boredom and the scarcity of sexual partners. The situation room was linked by satellite to capitals across the world and by landline to the underground facility in Nebraska where the President should be but wasn’t. A bank of plasma screens covering one entire wall scanned the eerie streets of the deserted capital. Nothing out there moved. It looked like nuclear contamination had already taken hold.

“That bastard Santos made me look like a fucking coward.”

Herzfeld thumped the table with his fist.

“Why not call his bluff, sir? Move about above ground. Be seen on TV talking to the troops.”

Preston wasn’t hopeful. The Secretary of Defence had not seen active service. Never even donned a uniform.

“Let me think about that,” was the best Herzfeld could manage. “Where are we with the Dirty Bomb?”