First Strike (33 page)

“It’s still at the warehouse in Fells Point. It’s probably armed by now. O’Brien’s already delivered the detonator and the explosive.”

“Does this guy O’Brien know of our interest?”

“No, sir.”

“So how the fuck do we facilitate delivery?”

“We have units posted all around the warehouse, sir. Hand-picked men. O’Brien doesn’t know it but the bomb will be escorted into Washington, so it gets past the security cordon. We’ll have armed personnel carriers front and back of their vehicle. Once we get them inside the barricade the rest is up to them. But that part should be easy.”

***

On Tuesday March 17 Saint Patrick’s Day parades across the States were cancelled or abandoned. In Ireland celebrations were muted. Declan O’Brien stood on the mezzanine at the warehouse peering through a small window in the reinforced steel door, sheltered from any risk of radiation leakage He watched the martyrs load the device into the trunk of the vehicle. Stripped of its lead cladding the device was not much bigger than a suitcase and, from the way they handled it, weighed no more than fifty pounds. 

With so much chaos on the roads no one would be looking for a stolen car, not even an Embassy limo, a humorous touch Declan was rather proud of. Jamal gave his final instructions in Arabic and embraced the four young heroes. There were tears in their eyes. The tears of pride. They were about to lay down their lives for the Faith. Their place in heaven was assured. As the limo edged out through the gates Jamal gave a military salute and returned to his office to pray. O’Brien waved. Four hours from now he would be far away in New York City, watching the action on TV.

On the third floor of the building opposite the warehouse entrance an army sergeant spoke into his two-way radio,

“They’re on the move.”

The long black limo climbed away from the docks, travelling at a sedate hearse-like speed. The Ambassador’s Union Jack pennant fluttered from a chrome mast fixed above the left front mudguard. Traffic was light. Nobody was out of doors unless they had to be. It took twelve minutes to reach the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. The limo proceeded south at a steady legal 50mph. North bound traffic on the opposite carriageway was heavy but disciplined as Washingtonians with any sense fled the doomed city. A succession of military vehicles travelling south at breakneck speed overtook the slow-moving vehicle with its diplomatic plates and fluttering pennant. Then an armed personnel carrier pulled into the slow lane and took up a position in front of the limo. One of the martyrs looked out of the rear window and saw another like it, following at a discreet distance.

“We’ve got company,” he said to his companions as they readied their SMGs behind the darkened glass. Then a third personnel carrier appeared alongside the limo, trapping it in the slow lane.

“Is that thing primed?” the driver spoke over his shoulder and gestured towards the trunk.

“Sure is,” said one of the martyrs. “All I have to do is throw this little switch.”

His sweaty hand hovered over the simple firing mechanism.

“If we get stopped, just do it.” said the driver. “Allahu Akbar.”

“Allahu Akbar.”

By now they were well inside the Beltway, moving south at a steady legal 50mph. The lead personnel carrier exited the Parkway onto the John Hanson Highway. The boxed-in limo had no choice but to follow. The little convoy hit an army roadblock at the junction with South Dakota Avenue. The three armed personnel carriers surrounding the limo came to a halt, forcing the martyrs to do the same. The sweaty hand hovered.

Colonel Preston jumped briskly down from the lead vehicle. He was in full dress uniform and made sure the young sergeant got a good look at his badge of rank and the insignia of the Distinguished Service Cross pinned on his chest. The sergeant saluted and clicked his heels, awaiting an instruction. Preston pulled out a bunch of authorisation papers under the seal of the Department of Defence but the sergeant barely even glanced at them.

“We’re escorting the British Ambassador in the limo, sergeant,” said Preston with authority. “As you know, they’re our closest ally. No country’s been more supportive. I’d be glad if you would extend the Ambassador every possible courtesy.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant saluted again and waved the convoy through the barrier.

The martyrs looked at one another and shrugged in disbelief as the three armed personnel carriers peeled away and disappeared.

“Allahu Akbar,” they repeated. “Allahu Akbar.”

***

The limo made its way slowly into the centre of the capital. Inside the security cordon Washington was abandoned. In spite of the President’s example hundreds of thousands of its citizens had fled town. Most foreigners had gone days ago. A majority of countries, led by France, had recalled their diplomatic staff as rumours of a nuclear attack persisted. The limo rounded Capitol Hill, turned left into Massachusetts Avenue, cruised past a deserted Union Station and headed away from the centre, out towards the British Embassy at the top of the distant rise. But at Dupont Circle it made a sudden turn onto New Hampshire Avenue and disappeared down the ramp into the basement of the Embassy of Saudi Arabia.

“I thought we were headed for the British Embassy?” said one of the martyrs.

“Jamal changed his mind,” said the driver. “This place is a lot more central, just a few blocks from the White House. And for us it’s more symbolic. Anyway what difference does it make, the whole city is a write-off. Besides, the Brits are still in post while this place is deserted. The Saudis aren’t crazy, they left town days ago. But those gallant Brits are still manning their desks. What’s the point of penetrating their security cordon just to please the Irishman, when this place is abandoned? Let’s face it; O’Brien is never going to know the difference.”

***

49

By mid-afternoon the British Embassy was practically deserted aside from a few key staff. Bowman had insisted on sending everybody home. Ambassador Brightman refused to leave his post and obstinately remained in his office gallantly manning the phones. Intermittently throughout the day he fielded phone calls from the Pentagon, updating them on progress. Each time he reported the same lack of activity. There was no sign of the Dirty Bomb. He refused to acknowledge his Embassy could be a target when so many other iconic buildings were available and began to think the whole thing was a hoax, or another cock-up by those misinformed idiots at Legoland. Out of courtesy he agreed to call the Colonel immediately anything noteworthy happened. But nothing did.

Bowman, Hoolahan and Moreno remained on site not knowing what to do. To fill the time Special Agent Hoolahan pored over the drawings, committing every wire and fastening and switch to memory. He was puzzled by the timer. There seemed to be erasures that indicated Murphy might have made last minute alterations to someone else’s original design. Hoolahan had difficulty deciphering exactly what the quarryman had done. As the hours progressed Hoolahan’s cough got steadily worse. Bowman wondered just how confident Special Agent Hoolahan really was. Cal Moreno kept busy monitoring the secure link she’d set up to the Oval Office and Jennings at the Hoover Building. NEST teams re-commenced their search of the Embassy, knowing there was nothing to be found. Yet another detail of Secret Service agents patrolled the grounds and the approaches. Snipers on rooftops overlooking the Embassy struggled to remain alert. By 6 p.m. Bowman began to wonder if they had got the whole thing wrong, made one assumption too many. He called Jennings at the Hoover Building on the secure phone line.

“How many NEST teams can you muster?”

“Many as you need, Alex. What’s the problem?”

“Nothing’s happening here. There’s no movement. Nothing. There should’ve been some sign by now. Maybe we should look elsewhere.”

“Where, Alex?” There was frustration in the tired voice.

“How the hell should I know? The Washington Monument. The Library of Congress. The Supreme Court. Anywhere else you can think of. You’ve got the manpower. You might as well put them to work.”

At 7 p.m. Bowman was startled by the shrill tone of his cell phone. “Bowman.”

“This is Imam Siddiqui. I have some information for you. I don’t have their names or even a good description, but four men corresponding to your requirements came to the States just over a year ago. Just like you said, they entered into arranged marriages with local girls. They’ve been living quietly in Baltimore ever since.” He paused. “All four are electronics engineers. All four spent time at an Al Qaeda training camp outside of Kandahar.”

“So they’re Afghans?”

“No, sir. I’m ashamed to say they’re Saudis.”

Bowman switched off the phone and called Jennings on the secure line.

“Where’s the Saudi Embassy?”

“What is this, Alex? Another hunch?” Jennings sounded exhausted.

“Hunches is all we’ve got to go on, Bob. There’s nothing happening here.  So where the fuck is it?”

“601 New Hampshire Avenue. That’s right off Dupont Circle.”

“How far from here?”

“Traffic the way it is? Coupla minutes.” 

“The Secret Services guys patrolling the Embassy grounds, how many will have Special Forces training?”

“A lot of them. Maybe most.”

“This is a whole new situation, Bob. We’re going to have to storm the Saudi Embassy. We’ll need some kit. Stun grenades. EMOE charges. Metal jackets. Two-way radios. And protective clothing. We must have some protective clothing. Don’t know why Hoolahan didn’t think of that before. And we’ll need a set of plans of the Saudi Embassy. Whatever else you can think of, bring. How long with all that take?”

“Everything you need is right here at the Hoover Building, Alex, except maybe the plans. I’ll have the check the archives but it’s possible they’re on file, a lot of sensitive buildings are. I just need time to get it all together.”

“Be here in an hour. What you haven’t got by then, we’ll do without.”

Bowman shook Hoolahan awake.

“Pat, what rank did you hold?”

Hoolahan didn’t stir. Bowman slapped him gently around the face. “What rank, Pat? What rank did you hold in Special Forces?”

“Captain,” Hoolahan coughed. “The bastards finally made me a Captain.”

Ambassador Brightman peered around the door, looking for an update. Bowman waved him away and summoned the Secret Service detail patrolling the grounds outside. He singled out a dozen men with Special Forces backgrounds and sent the remainder back outside.

“Any of you men out-rank a Captain?”

Bowman addressed the room. None of them did.

“Then I guess you’re in command, Captain Hoolahan.”

“In command of what?”

“I’ll explain,” said Bowman, “soon as Jennings gets here with the kit.”

The Ambassador re-appeared, still in a foul mood. His cherished limo hadn’t turned up yet. But he’d improvised a rudimentary supper for the men and sat at the back of the room following developments closely. Bowman politely ignored him. So Brightman withdrew to his office where he called the Colonel at the Pentagon to bring him up to speed.

Jennings arrived with the equipment Bowman had requested plus some other stuff he’d thought about himself. Most importantly, he had a complete set of plans of the Saudi Embassy. Jennings had also contacted the security firm that installed the electronic surveillance systems at the Saudi Embassy. He’d even got hold of a copy of the CCTV tape that showed the British Ambassador’s limo entering the basement car park.

“You mean the CCTV system’s still live?”

Bowman could not believe their luck.

“Seems so,” Jennings replied. “The security firm can monitor the whole building remotely from their offices in Arlington. Right down to the temperature in the Ambassador’s private john.”

“Jesus Christ.” Bowman was elated. “And I’d stopped believing in the tooth fairy.”

“Could be a problem here,” Moreno cut in.

“How come?” Bowman frowned. Things were going so well.

“If the bad guys find the control room they’ll have an eyeball on the approaches and the grounds. They’ll see us coming.”

“Shit.” Bowman was deflated. “Any way we can check?”

“Security company might help.”

Jennings called the number and established that at that precise moment the control room at the Saudi Embassy was unattended. The limo was still in the basement car park. The four martyrs were at evening prayers, their Mausers laid out on the ground beside them. Anything changed, the security company would be sure to call Jennings right away.

Secret Service agents began loading the assault equipment into unmarked cars. Bowman picked out a 9mm Colt SMG that was light, compact, and ideal for close quarter combat. A single clip held thirty-two rounds and it fired one thousand rounds per minute. Bowman, Jennings, Hoolahan and Moreno took the lead in Jennings’ car, sped down Massachusetts Avenue to Dupont Circle and came to a halt fifty yards from the Saudi Embassy at 601 New Hampshire Avenue. Jennings called the security company’s HQ in Arlington. Nothing had changed. The control room was unattended. The martyrs were still at prayer. Bowman checked the plans of the building. The CCTV control room was a small office off the main lobby to the right of the reception desk. Access to the basement car park was via a narrow staircase wrapped around the lift shaft.

Jennings drove through the Embassy gates and sped up to the main doors. In the rush to get away Embassy personnel had left them unlocked. Bowman and Hoolahan were first into the lobby. A bunch of Secret Service agents followed.

“OK, guys,” Hoolahan bellowed, “you know the procedure. Secure this floor.”

A group of agents dispersed to cover all exits and entrances. Bowman and Hoolahan made for the control room to find Moreno and Jennings already there.

Cal was looking at a TV screen that showed the four martyrs standing about smoking.

“My God. See that?” She pointed at the dude passing a joint around between them. “They’re getting stoned. Give the bastards enough guts to throw the Goddamn switch.”