First Strike (8 page)

“Three members of the Irish Republican Army were arrested yesterday by agents of DAS, the Colombian Secret Service, at El Dorado International airport in Bogotá. The three were travelling on false British passports and are known to have come from the FARC safe-haven in the south of the country. Traces of explosive were detected on their clothing and luggage. Among the Irish nationals was the IRA’s leading explosives engineer and mortar expert. The three claimed they were in Colombia to monitor peace efforts between the government and rebel groups but were later indicted and charged with training FARC terrorists in urban warfare techniques. But if the three Irish nationals were legitimately concerned with the peace process in Colombia, why would they need false passports? And why would the IRA have sent explosives experts? Furthermore in light of strict IRA discipline against freelancing by its members, what did the IRA’s political leadership know about these activities? Meanwhile in Dublin IRA/Sinn Fein denied all knowledge of the detainees.”

When Bowman returned to the cottage he found Melanie sitting in the kitchen drinking tea. He placed the article in front of her on the table.

“There you are,” Bowman grinned contentedly. “It didn’t even make the headlines. And no mention of a Dirty Bomb.”

He dumped the papers on the table and went upstairs to shower and change into dry clothes.

Bowman re-joined Melanie in the kitchen and made fresh coffee.

She said,

“That’s not the article I wrote. It’s been edited to death.”

She was angry.

“OK, so Iraq is more important, it deserves the front page, I accept that. But this was supposed to be a major exclusive. I was expecting a banner headline, not a few column inches lost on an inside page. My lead from MI6 definitely involved a Dirty Bomb. And another thing. There were supposed to be four Irishmen. Not three.”

She crushed the paper in her hands.

“Maybe the facts didn’t check out. Maybe it was all just speculation after all. But I should at least have been consulted before they pulled my stuff. Either way Merlyn Stanbridge owes me.”

Next day after church they rode out to an isolated country pub in the middle of the Downs where Bowman had reserved a table for Sunday lunch. Bowman ordered a pint of London Pride and insisted on a straight thin glass. Melanie quaffed half a pint of draught Guinness. They sat in the cosy bar flicking through the broadsheets. Bowman browsed the Echo while Melanie scrutinised the opposition.

“Oh shit!” said Bowman.

“What?” said Melanie.

Bowman read aloud, “Chief Investigative Reporter Melanie Drake exposes Moroccan Cocaine Plantation on Europe’s Doorstep. See next Saturday’s edition. Order your copy from reputable newsagents now.”

“So? What’s wrong with that?”

Melanie thought it sounded fine.

“Nothing,” Bowman sighed. “I’m sure it’ll be OK.”

***

13

It was years since Frank Willowby had seen action of any kind. But he had kept himself in shape, went to the gym most days and did small arms practice twice a week in the firing range beneath the Embassy in Grosvenor Square. So he reckoned his reactions were still pretty sharp. He flew into Tangier, rented a car, drove three hundred clicks southeast to Fez and checked in to the Palais Jamaî.

“My name’s Willowby.”

He handed the receptionist his diplomatic passport.

“Mr Ambrose reserved a room for me.”

“Welcome to the Palais Jamaî,” said the desk clerk. “I’ve allocated the same accommodation as Mr Ambrose’s English friend. Mr Bowman commented how much he enjoyed the view of the Medina.”

“Bowman was here?” said Willowby. “I didn’t know that. I’d have liked to meet him.”

“He checked out yesterday,” said the clerk.

Alone in his room Willowby unpacked his suitcase, reassembled the sub-compact Beretta semi-automatic and thanked God for diplomatic immunity. He rammed home the clip, checked the safety and tucked the little weapon in his trouser pocket. Then he went down to the terrace overlooking the gardens, ordered tea and waited for Ambrose to get back from his language class. He wasn’t sure exactly how to play it. The revelation the DEA’s top man in Europe was working for the other side would be too much for Ambrose to swallow at one bite. Willowby would have to feed it to his subordinate a morsel at a time. Make it easy to digest. It was only later when they were having dinner on the terrace that Willowby had his first opportunity to plant a seed.

“How was your vacation?” Ambrose enquired.

“Great,” said Willowby. “Spent ten days at my ranch in Colorado, which was nice. Don’t get to go there much. You should come visit sometime. I have a three hundred acre spread just outside of Aspen. Great skiing in winter.”

Ambrose wondered what a place like that would cost and how much a guy like Willowby could earn. Certainly not enough to pay for three hundred acres of prime Colorado real estate. Family money, Ambrose surmised. Inherited wealth. Maybe a profitable marriage. Later in his room Ambrose got out his laptop and dialled into the DEA’s website. In seconds he had Frank Willowby’s bio on the screen. Born and raised in a hick town in rural Pennsylvania. Father a mechanic. Educated at the local public school. Scholarship to Penn State. Married a primary school teacher. Family money was definitely not the answer. Nor was a profitable marriage. Next Ambrose scrolled through Willowby’s early career in Miami. He’d made a succession of impressive busts, nothing really major but good solid investigative work, been fast-tracked through the ranks. Frank Willowby was a very competent agent. Or unusually well informed.

“This is really silly,” thought Ambrose. “If Willowby had bought the ranch with illicit funds, he wouldn’t have told me about it, would he? Or would he?”

Next morning Willowby and Ambrose had breakfast together on the terrace by the pool.

“Ben,” said Willowby. “There’s some things we need to discuss, concerning you and this guy Bowman.”

“Bowman? What about Bowman?”

“He was staying here at the hotel just recently. You wired the Embassy for funds, so you could pay his room bill. Am I right?”

“Bowman’s a friend of mine. Did some odd jobs for me on the Costa del Sol.”

“And you used Uncle Sam’s bucks to pay his hotel bill? Do you think that’s an appropriate use of company funds?”

Ambrose began to sweat. He didn’t answer right away. Then he said,

“I’m sorry Sir... I shouldn’t have but...”

Willowby silenced him with a gesture.

“Ben it’s OK, really it is. So you paid your buddy’s bill with company funds. Big deal. I’ve done the same thing myself, many a time.”

“You have?”

Ambrose was dumbstruck.

“Sure I have. DEA’s awash with funds. Nobody keeps track. I found that out years ago.”  Willowby was grinning. “How d’you think I paid for the ranch?”

“The ranch?”

“Only kidding, Ben. Only kidding. Don’t look so shocked. Besides, the ranch cost millions. Can’t get sums like that out of petty cash.”

Ambrose couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

“Anyway, Ben, your friend Bowman, where is he now?”

“Gone back to England to get some a rest. He’s rented a cottage some place in the country. I don’t have an address, just his email.”

“Too bad. I’d really like to meet him. He sounds like an impressive guy.”

Willowby reached into his pocket and pulled out a diamond encrusted, Patek Philippe chronometer in 18ct gold.

“Here, Ben. I have a little something for you.”

“Gee, sir,” said Ambrose. “What’s this?”

He was beaming. Back in the ghetto people killed for watches like this.

“But, sir…really…I can’t…it wouldn’t be….”

“Forget it Ben. You did good work. You deserve it. My people are very grateful.”

“Your people? Sir?”

“I’ll explain it to you later, Ben. Meantime let’s take a walk, I’d like to see the Medina while I’m here, see if there’s anything you’d like. I hear they do a great line in gold jewellery.”

***

14

Secretary of Defence Karl Herzfeld gazed across the vast open courtyard at the gaping hole on the far side of the wounded building where Al Qaeda had devastated on wing of the Pentagon on 9/11.

“Did you see this morning’s New York Times, Arthur? One thousand anti-war protesters on the streets of Manhattan. Can you believe that? Just a few blocks from Ground Zero. What do those lily-livered sons of bitches want? More of the same? What does it take to convince these people? Another three thousand dead and wounded?”

He went to the drinks cabinet and helped himself to a chilled Bud.

“The press coverage we’re getting is outrageous. The article by that English bitch was a complete fucking disaster. She should be taught a lesson. What the hell is Santos up to, schmoozing with all these Goddamn peaceniks?”

Colonel Preston fingered the scar on his right cheek.

“Goddamn liberals deserve everything they get. Nuking’s too good for the bastards.”

“Fact is we’re losing momentum, Colonel. Protest is on the rise, a thousand this week, twenty thousand next. We need to get this war started. Goddamn CIA still can’t come up with the fucking goods.”

“The Brits have gotten hold of something new,” Preston beamed. “Could be just the evidence we need. They have a source who claims Iraq can launch a chemical attack within forty-five minutes of Saddam’s order.”

Herzfeld turned to face into the room. He was grinning.

“Forty-five minutes? You gotta be kidding, right? That bunch of Bedouins couldn’t fix breakfast in forty-five minutes, let alone ship the munitions, select a target and calibrate the ordnance.”

He checked his appearance in the long mirror and centred his tie.

“Besides, what we need Saddam to have is long range capability. If all he has is battlefield chemical weapons why would we move our troops from safe out-of-range positions to exposed in-range positions?”

“The Brits claim they’re not just talking about battlefield artillery. They say they’re strategic weapons. That puts the Brit bases on Cyprus within range. Not to mention Israel and Iran. It’s made headline news right across the UK.”

“So who’s their source? Some save-my-ass defector?”

“They didn’t say. But MI6 maintains he’s a reliable informer with an established track record. A senior officer inside the regime.”

“Then the Brits are just plain crazy. All those guys are trying to do is ingratiate themselves so they can get on board with us once we’ve gotten control of their country. Meantime we all know Saddam may have the chemicals but he sure as hell doesn’t have the delivery systems. The Brits know that as well as we do.”

He took another peek in the mirror and seemed satisfied with what he saw.

"There’s just the one source, right? No corroboration?”

“That’s right, sir. But the Brits insist their guy’s reliable.”

“I don’t think we can use it, Arthur, it’s just too Goddamn dramatic. It lacks... what’s the word I’m looking for… verisimilitude? That’s it. It lacks verisimilitude. If they had more than one verifiable source I might run with it, it’s so fucking crazy it might work. But if it goes pear shaped we’d end up with egg all over our face. We can’t risk the trust of the American people. Once we lose credibility it’s gone for ever.”

Preston persisted. “The Brits are going to chance it anyway, so they must be pretty sure of their source. It’s already been cleared by their Joint Intelligence Committee. The PM is going to publish the claim in an intelligence dossier, along with some other stuff they’ve gotten off the Internet. Then he plans to alert the House of Commons. There’s no higher accolade than that, on either side of the pond.”

“They’re getting their intelligence off the Internet? Jesus those guys really are crazy! Or maybe they’re just desperate. I suppose it’s all part of their old world charm. It’s fine for the Brits, Colonel, long as they can get away with it, but you and me both know it’s just plain foolish. And anyway the American people aren’t that gullible. We need something a lot more concrete. Something we can back up with hard copy documentation. Preferably something with Saddam Hussein’s fingerprints all over it.”

“That isn’t going to be easy, sir.”

“There has to be a way, Arthur. There just has to be a way.”

***

At 10 o’clock that evening, Colonel Preston changed into civilian clothes, left his Georgetown apartment and walked the few blocks to the house on Canal Street. There was no sign outside the place, you either knew it was there or you didn’t, but the plain white door was decorated with the stencilled outline of a small black rose. As Preston approached the porticoed entrance he paused to check he wasn’t being followed, pressed the bell and looked up into the CCTV camera. There was a buzzing sound as the door clicked open and Preston stepped into what looked like the parlour of an elegant family home. The room was dimly lit by a fake Tiffany light suspended from the ceiling. The walls were padded. Bach’s B Minor Mass played softly in the background. There was a strong smell of embrocation. A big muscular man built like a bear, with shaven head and rings in his ears, nose and tongue got up from an armchair. He was dressed entirely in black, a studded leather collar round his neck. The livid scars of shrapnel wounds peppered his abdomen. The crest of the 202nd Explosive Ordnance Disposal Company was tattooed on his right forearm.

“Good evening, Colonel.”

He had the voice of a castrato.

Preston reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. His hands were trembling. “How much?” He knew the answer but he didn’t know what else to say.

“Same as always, Colonel. Three hundred fifty. Head is extra. Head is five hundred.”

Preston counted out five hundred dollars in fifties and added an extra twenty.

“I need a bottle of Bourbon.”

“We don’t got no Bourbon, Colonel. Alcohol is strictly off limits.”

The Bear shrugged. Something in his manner suggested he held the Colonel in less than the highest regard.