First Strike (34 page)

“How long does it take to get stoned?” Jennings enquired.

“Depends on what they’re smoking, sir.”

Cal was amazed he even had to ask. But then Director Jennings was really kinda cute, sort of boyish.

“But whatever it is, I expect these guys have a pretty high threshold.”

“Where’s the device?” said Bowman urgently.

“Probably in the trunk of the limo,” said Cal.

“Can you manipulate the cameras?”

“Sure.”

Cal rotated the remote cameras round the basement, scanning every alcove and corner. The good news was the external garage door was locked and bolted to the floor.

“Hold it, guys,” said Cal. “The devise isn’t in the trunk. It’s right there on the back seat. I guess they musta moved it.”

“Whadaya think, Pat?”

Bowman turned to Hoolahan who was poring over the basement drawings. Hoolahan watched as the cameras panned around the room.

“Doesn’t look too bad,” he coughed. “Multiple points of entry and egress but we have enough men to cover every one. Outside door is shut and bolted, which is great. Stun grenades will have maximum effect. We have the radios and we can eyeball everything that moves from here. Cal can let us know immediately anything down there changes. I say we go in pronto. Just stay well clear of the device, Alex. Don’t want you getting burned.”

“Why not wait a while?” Cal seemed relaxed. “Let the bastards get real high; in half an hour they’ll be legless.”

“Too much at stake.” Bowman touched Hoolahan on the shoulder. “C’mon, Pat. Let’s go.”

Hoolahan assembled a group of Secret Service agents and briefed them quickly, indicating the points of egress on the plan. The men dispersed to take up their positions. Bowman and Hoolahan ran down the staircase to basement level and paused at the internal garage door. Hoolahan began to wheeze. Sweat was pouring off him. Cal confirmed everything was as before except now the martyrs had begun to chant. She thought it was a prayer. Hoolahan checked with the other agents. All exits and entrances were covered.

“OK, guys,” Hoolahan spoke into his radio. “On my count of three I’m gonna lob in a couple of stun grenades. Then Bowman and me will make our play, take the bastards out. Nobody else moves. Don’t want no messy blue on blue. OK, guys. Here we go. This is show-time so let’s boogie. One. Two. Three.”

Hoolahan eased open the door, lobbed two stun grenades into the centre of the basement and closed the steel-clad door immediately. Two deafening explosions followed in rapid succession. Bowman was first through the door, raking the room with rapid fire from the SMG. Three martyrs fell at the first burst. The fourth made it to the limo. He had the rear door open when Bowman dropped him with a single round. Hoolahan rushed to the device, slamming the door of the limo behind him to shield Bowman from any radiation leakage. Bowman watched from as far away as he could get, so he wouldn’t distract the Captain from his task.

“We have control of the devise.” Bowman spoke quietly into his radio. “Four martyrs are already on their way to heaven. Case closed.”

Then Cal heard him say “Oh shit!”

“What?”

“Hoolahan isn’t wearing a protective suit!”

Hoolahan was inside the limo for several minutes before he emerged, sweating and shaking. His hands were trembling and he could hardly speak. At last he managed,

“OK, Alex. Let’s get the fuck out of here before you get irradiated.”

He couldn’t get the trembling under control.

“You OK?” Bowman was concerned. “What happened in there, Pat? And why aren’t you wearing a protective suit?”

“C’mon, Alex; gimme a break will ya? Let’s go.”

Hoolahan made a dash for the stairs. As he entered the lobby a loud cheer went up from the assembled crew. Hoolahan looked down at his trembling hands.

Then Cal’s disembodied voice came over the loudspeakers.

“Steady, guys; I think we might have a problem. The army’s here.”

Cal was looking at the bank of CCTV screens whose cameras scanned the approaches.

“Looks like they have the place surrounded. There’s an armed personnel carrier coming up the drive. Cancel that. There’s more. Dozens of the things. They’re deploying round the grounds.”

Then Colonel Preston and a Special Forces detail burst into the lobby at the double, automatic rifles at the ready. When Preston spotted Hoolahan he froze.

“Hoolahan?”

“Preston!”

“You two know each other?” Jennings peered out from behind the control room door.

“We knew each other in ‘Nam.” Hoolahan spat on the ground between them. “That ribbon on his chest shoulda been mine.”

“Where’s the device, Captain?” Preston bellowed, pulling rank on his subordinate.

“In the basement,” Hoolahan coughed. “Back seat of the limo.”

“Let’s go.”

Preston rushed towards the stairwell, followed by his troop of men.

“Oh, Arthur...” Hoolahan’s voice was flat and without expression.

Preston paused at the top of the basement stairs.

“I wasn’t able to disarm her.”

The room went deathly still.

“You what?”

Preston walked back into the centre of the lobby.

“That’s right, Arthur.” Hoolahan looked at his watch. “Thing’s set to go off about ten minutes from now. Timer looks real complicated. Cross wires all over the place. I’m just not up with the technology anymore. The whole damn world’s gone digital.”

He looked suddenly very tired.

“Things have moved on a lot since ‘Nam, Arthur.”

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Nobody knew what to say. Nobody knew where to go. Nowhere was safe.

“You’re lying,” Preston whispered. The two men were eyeball to eyeball.

“Am I, Arthur? Maybe. Maybe I am lying.”

Hoolahan looked again at his watch.

“I reckon you have about seven minutes left, if you’d like to take a crack at her yourself. Then you’ll know for sure. But if I can’t fix her, Arthur, I very much doubt you can. You never were much good at the practical stuff. You were always too darned jumpy.”

Hoolahan dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief.

“But with traffic the way it is, seven minutes should just about get you back to the Pentagon in time to catch the show on TV. You’ll be nice and safe in your bunker, Arthur. Just like you were in ‘Nam.”

“Oh yeah!” Preston began fingering his scar. “So how come you’re so fuckin’ calm?”

Hoolahan spat into his handkerchief and showed Preston the blood.

“Fact is, Arthur, I don’t have a problem. What I have is terminal cancer. I’ll be gone in a couple of months anyway, whatever happens now.  I gonna die anyway; here with my friends is as good a place as any.”

A murmur of agreement echoed around the room.

Preston was out the door in seconds, heading for the safety of the bunker.

Bowman breathed for the first time in minutes.

“Jesus, Pat, how much of that was true?”

“None of it. The device is safe. But I couldn’t have done it without these.”

Hoolahan waved the sheaf of fax paper at Moreno.

“Just the bit about Vietnam was true. And the cancer. I do have terminal cancer.”

The whole room froze.

“Come on, guys,” Hoolahan continued, “you don’t think I’m dumb enough to sit in the back of a limo with that thing without protective clothing, unless I had terminal cancer. You guys think I’m crazy?”

Jennings was eager to report personally to the President but first he hurried to his office to oversee the nationwide hunt for O’Brien. The arrest of the Irishman was still the FBI’s number one priority. And through him the destruction of the Al Qaeda network in the States. Jennings didn’t rate his chances very highly. O’Brien had a head start and access to considerable funds. He could buy himself a new identity, new life. Maybe he’d already gone back to Colombia to continue working with the FARC. Tirofijo would be itching for another shot.

Echelon was put back to work. Every super-computer at the FBI’s disposal was enlisted. Security at airports and train stations was re-doubled. Car rental companies were continuously checked, roadblocks erected on every major highway. O’Brien’s face as it probably looked now appeared on television screens across America. The National Enquirer offered a reward of five million dollars.

Back at the Saudi Embassy Agent Hoolahan disappeared down to the basement and took charge of the safe removal of the device. Bowman and Moreno found themselves alone in the CCTV control room. Bowman could tell Cal was on a high. So was he. He looked her in the eye.

“Your place or mine?”

“Yours is closer.” 

They grabbed one of the Secret Service cars and were in Georgetown in minutes. Power had been cut off in the building and the lift didn’t work. They ran up to the penthouse. Bowman couldn’t find his keys, pulled out the Browning and shot off the lock. 

Cal was stripped to the waist in seconds.

“Talk to me, Alex, talk to me. Just say those fucking words.”

***

50

Declan O’Brien had never reached Manhattan. The weight of traffic on the roads was such he only made it to Philly. But Philly was far enough. Philly was safe. He sat drinking Bushmills in a crowded Irish bar on Chestnut Street watching Old Glory flutter on the TV screen. Remotely controlled cameras scanned the capital’s most emblematic monuments and buildings. The streets were deserted save for a sparse military presence. Anyone with any sense had left town days ago. Nothing seemed to be happening out there. The same dreary martial music played in the background. The mood in the bar was solemn. Rumours of an IRA/Sinn Fein involvement had swept America, leaving the Irish community with a profound sense of shame. Fears of a backlash were rife.

O’Brien looked at his watch. It was way past time. What are those bloody Arabs up to? What the fuck are they waiting for? It should have been done by now! O’Brien’s nerves were fraying. He began to sweat. He hadn’t showered for days and thought he probably stank. He sensed the rest of the bar examining him. In a pub patronised exclusively by locals nobody knew him.

“Who is this asshole? Looks like that guy’s picture on TV. Yeah. That’s him. The one who cut off his victim’s dick”

A White House spokesman appeared on the TV screen. The President of the United States was about to address the nation. There was no hint of what he might say. Speculation in the bar reached fever pitch. Washington was ashes. Washington was safe.

Hail to the Chief filled the airwaves. Immediately the President appeared, smiling broadly, it was evident things had gone badly wrong. Fuckin’ Arabs. How could they cock up a simple delivery?

President Santos stood in the March sunshine in the middle of the White House rose garden. He was dressed in casual grey flannels, open-necked button down shirt and an Air Force bomber jacket. Members of the world’s press were hemmed in behind a security cordon, jostling for position, desperate to catch the President’s eye. The mood was jubilant as President Santos smiled into the TV cameras.

“My fellow Americans,” he began, “our clear and present danger has passed. Your capital is safe. I can report that in the early hours of this morning agents of the Secret Service and the FBI foiled a plot to cause severe damage to this city. For their own protection and wellbeing, the identities of the individuals involved and other details concerning this operation must remain secret. But the American people owe these anonymous men and women an enormous debt. I am happy to report there were no casualties on the American side. Four foreign nationals were killed.”

Secret Service agents moved forward to surround the President as he stepped back from the microphones. A cacophony of journalists’ questions ensued. It was impossible to tell one voice from another. The President walked back to the mikes and held up his hand for silence.

“I’ll take one question only.”

He surveyed the ranks of baying reporters, American and foreign. This was a career defining moment. Someone’s reputation was about to be made or shattered. A blaze of auburn hair caught the President’s eye.

“Miss Drake,” he smiled in recognition, “to you falls the honour.”

Melanie was unprepared.

“Mr President,” she paused, “did British intelligence play any part in these events?”

She’d still heard nothing from Bowman. She was hopeful the President might pay him a brief tribute.

“Yes, Miss Drake, the Brits did provide some useful intelligence and support. As always our gratitude to our British friends is immeasurable. Your country’s support has been invaluable.”

The President’s warm feelings towards the Brits were palpable. Melanie decided to press her advantage.

“One last question, Mr President. Was there ever a nuclear threat? There’s been persistent rumours?”

The President’s tone changed subtly. He sounded irritated.

“Conventional explosives were involved. Never nuclear. That’s all, gentlemen. I’ll be making further announcements over the course of the next few days.”

He disappeared into the knot of Secret Service agents and was gone.

***

51

O’Brien recognised the British journalist. The same woman had interviewed the President before. The same auburn haired bitch who’d paid a visit to brother Liam. Journalism might be the bitch’s day job. But she was moonlighting for British Intelligence.

The change of mood in the bar was as complete as it was sudden. The oddball in the corner was forgotten. Washington was saved. They cheered the President loudly. Drinks were on the house. Someone started up a chorus of The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Some drunk responded with Danny Boy. It was impossible for O’Brien to match their mood. Those fucking Arabs had deprived him of his place in history. Everything he’d worked for was destroyed. If this bunch knew who he was, they’d lynch him. And it was all the fault of the bastard Brits, the President had said so. That red-headed bitch for a start. It was then he remembered Ortega’s fee. He hadn’t thought of it for weeks. Ten thousand bucks for each of them. The girl, Bowman and Ambrose. Thirty grand in total. Enough to kit Liam out with the special equipment he needed.