First Strike

by Jeremy Rumfitt

  Melanie could not believe her luck, there was enough material here to secure a Pulitzer Prize if she ever had the guts to use it. But she knew she’d have to offer something in return. There was no such thing as a freebie.

  “You said there were two things. What’s the second?”

  “We want you to lighten up on Iraq. After what I’ve just given you it’s a small thing to ask. Your interview with the President was masterly, but you over-egged the case for more time for UN inspections. More time means more delay. Number 10 wasn’t happy about that. I got a nasty email from the Minister of Truth.”

  “The Minister of...?” Melanie’s jaw stayed open.

  “Ooops! Please forget I said that.” Merlyn Stanbridge blushed. “The PM also has a problem with your claim he’s agreed a secret timetable. There is no secret timetable. There is no timetable period. Though of course it’s true he’s keen to get things started.”

  This was more than Melanie could swallow.

  “But you know as well as I do, Washington and London are rife with rumours of a secret start date for the war. Regardless of WMDs or UN resolutions. It stands to reason there has to be a timetable. A military operation on the scale of Desert Storm needs months of planning. It can’t be launched overnight, the logistics are too complex. That’s why the Americans are moving troops into the gulf. The countdown has already begun.” Melanie hesitated. “They have to contend with the heat. Tyres melt in those temperatures. People don’t function too well either, especially if they have to wear protective clothing.”

  “Look, Melanie, I’ve been good to you. Echelon is journalistic gold dust. Maybe you can’t use it but it’ll help you understand how things are done better than any other journalist around. Now let’s see what you can do for me. If you do a good job on this Irish thing and go easy on Iraq I’ll be happy to reciprocate when the time comes. When this war is over I’ve a nasty feeling there’s going to be a public enquiry. Find out how we got ourselves into this bloody mess.”

  “You mean you don’t know?” Melanie was agog.

  Merlyn Stanbridge ignored her.

  “When that happens I can put you on the inside track. All you have to do for now is tow the line on WMDs and secret timetables. After the war you can publish any bloody thing you like. Right now you’re in a very privileged position, here and in the States, but that won’t last forever. There’ll come a time when you’ll appreciate my help.”

  Merlyn Stanbridge paused to light another cigarette.

  “By the way, are you still in touch with Alex Bowman? He seems to have disappeared.”

  “You know about me and Bowman?” Melanie blushed.

  Merlyn Stanbridge laughed.

  “My dear, I am the head of MI6. Matter of fact I’d like to meet him. What happened to Bowman was outrageous. I might be able to help bring him back into the fold. Not officially of course, but people as talented as Bowman shouldn’t be allowed to go to waste.”

  “He’s away in Morocco, visiting a friend.”

  “That’ll be the American, Benjamin Ambrose. Oh dear, I do hope they’re not going to be a nuisance.”

  She saw the amazement in Melanie’s face.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Please forget I did.”

  “He wrote to me. Alex wrote to me.”

  Melanie repeated the phrase, to re-assure herself that it was true. It was something she hadn’t expected. Hadn’t hoped for.

  “He’s coming back to England for the summer, take time off and get some rest before he goes back to Spain. He’s rented a lovely cottage in the country.”

  Merlyn Stanbridge gazed wistfully out of the window and exhaled.

  “Does he like dogs?”

  “Dogs? I’ve no idea. Why?”

  Merlyn Stanbridge blushed.

  “Sorry. Something I was thinking about earlier. Will you call me when he gets here? Perhaps we can have dinner together at my club, just the three of us, talk about your experiences in Morocco.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Melanie wondered if Bowman would accept, he wasn’t much into socialising. But a contact at the top of MI6 could be priceless and maybe now his reputation was restored he could re-join the world of legitimate law enforcement. If that was what he wanted.

  As she rode down in the lift Melanie Drake realised she had not been called in to interview the head of MI6. She’d been summoned to be interviewed by her. And to open up a conduit to Alex Bowman.

  ***

  9

  Pablo Ortega stood on the base line of the tennis court, practising his groundstrokes. On the far side of the net was a former national champion. Pablo was no match for the man but it flattered his ego to train with someone who had once been in the world’s top fifty players and it flattered the athlete to coach Colombia’s most powerful man. As Pablo netted a backhand volley he caught sight of the diminutive figure of Declan O’Brien standing at the side of the court between two of Ortega’s gorillas.

  “Take him up to the club house,” Pablo yelled, wiping his face with a towel.

  “Get him a drink. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  He turned to the pro.

  “Vamanos, Juanito. Let’s see if you can return my serve today.”

  An hour later Ortega joined O’Brien and Willowby on the terrace of the clubhouse overlooking his private polo field. He liked to watch his ponies being exercised. He had showered and had his sleek overweight body rubbed with oils by a couple of the young girls reserved exclusively for him. O’Brien and Willowby were drinking San Miguel. A servant brought Ortega a bottle of Krug. He didn’t ask for it, it just came. What Pablo really wanted was a beer like the others, but he was afraid it might look bad if he declined the Krug.

  “How’d things go up in the Cordillera?” Pablo turned to O’Brien.

  “They went OK.”

  O’Brien wasn’t afraid of Ortega. He should have been but he wasn’t. He thought his contacts with the FARC would protect him. He was wrong. What protected him was Ortega’s adherence to the rules of hospitality. He thought of O’Brien as a guest in his house, even if he was a little rude.

  “You’re right. It’s none of my business.”

  Ortega would find out soon enough exactly what was going on. Meantime the situation made him nervous. When it finally dawned on Washington the IRA and Marxist revolutionaries were doing business together it would bring every law enforcement agency out of the woodwork. Not to mention the Pentagon and the CIA. Pablo took a sip of Krug.

  “You all set to go to Morocco?”

  “I have another job to do first, back in the States. I can’t take care of your people for at least a couple of weeks, maybe more.”

  He wanted to tell Ortega about the Dirty Bomb, impress the great man, but he knew that was impossible. If Pablo got to know what he was up to the Irishman was meat.

  “I can live with a small delay,” Ortega shrugged. “Did Willowby give you the details you need?”

  “I have Ambrose’s address. His photograph. The name of his school. He won’t be difficult to find.”

  “Ambrose is going to school?” Ortega turned to Willowby.

  “He’s learning Arabic. I thought it might be useful if we ever turned him.”

  It was something Ortega remembered from Willowby’s report. It hadn’t grabbed his attention till now. Willowby had sent Ambrose on a language course. To get him out of the way. And because…. because Willowby thought Ambrose could be turned.

  “Waddaya think, Frank?” Ortega mused. “Could Ambrose be bought? Might come in useful if we re-establish the coca farm. Maybe you should talk to him before we blow him away?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Willowby. “I’m pretty sure he can be bought. Ambrose is very fond of all the grown up toys, there’s a rumour he even bought himself a Ferrari. If that’s true he must have used Agency funds, though he could certainly claim the car was part of his legend. Problem is, if I’m wrong I’ll have blown my cover.”

/>   “In that case,” Ortega grinned, “you’ll have to kill him yourself. Save O’Brien the trip.”

  He saw the anxious look on Willowby’s face.

  “What’s the matter, Frank? Don’t think you can you handle it?”

  “Sure I can handle it.” Willowby needed to convince himself. “I came up through the ranks, remember. I wasn’t always a bureaucrat.”

  “Hey, Frank, that’s right, I’d forgotten. You worked your way up from the bottom.”

  “What about my fee?”

  O’Brien was kissing goodbye to twenty thousand bucks.

  “Don’t worry about your fee,” Ortega cracked a smile. “There’ll be other work for you to do. Maybe not Ambrose. Maybe just Bowman and the girl.”

  ***

  10

  Alex Bowman arrived at Heathrow airport late on a blustery February morning, loaded his suitcase onto a trolley and walked through the green channel. The Echo’s chauffeur was waiting for him in the arrivals hall. The driver took charge of the trolley and Bowman fell into step beside him as they headed across the walkway to the short-term car park.

  “Miss Drake sends her regards,” the driver spoke over his shoulder. “She asked if you would call her as soon as you’re settled in.”

  “Be glad to.”

  Bowman smiled as he climbed into the Daimler’s rear passenger compartment. On the seat beside him were copies of the early editions of the Times and the Echo. The imminent war with Iraq was front-page news. Bowman glanced at the headlines. “US Mulls First Strike – President’s Ratings Soar.” “New Terrorist Plot Uncovered – President Rides High.” The worse the crisis, it seemed, the more popular the US President became. Bowman shuddered. The prospect of war between the West and the Islamic World was terrifying. The arsenals amassed on either side were vile. Both had weapons of mass destruction. Both had already used them.

  Two hours later they pulled up in front of the cottage Bowman had rented outside the village of Petworth on the edge of the South Downs. He had found the place on the internet and fallen in love with it immediately. Early Victorian, red brick, through lounge, modern kitchen, three bedrooms, a couple of bathrooms and best of all, a small, low maintenance garden. It was perfect. The estate agent was there to greet him. Bowman signed the papers, handed over his cheque and shook the woman warmly by the hand. The chauffeur carried Bowman’s bag upstairs to the master bedroom with the en suite shower. Bowman thanked him, tipped him generously, and said goodbye. As soon as the driver was gone Bowman picked up the phone and dialled Melanie Drake’s direct line.

  “Mel? Hi, it’s me, I just got in.”

  “Alex? Hi, how are you?”

  “I’m fine. Could do with some serious exercise, but otherwise I’m good.” He flexed his shoulder. “How about you?”

  “I’m OK. You know? How’s the cottage?”

  “The cottage is great. You’ll love it. How soon can you get down here?”

  “Alex, I don’t know if I should.” She hesitated. “I have a really important piece to get ready for the week-end paper and besides, I’m still working on that exposé about the coke farm in Morocco. I’m supposed to have it finished in a couple of weeks. It’s being trailed in this Sunday’s paper. Watch this space. Sort of like a little teaser.”

  “Come on, Mel. Relax. I could even help with the Moroccan story if you like, fill in some of the detail. There’s lots of stuff you still don’t know. We’re friends for heaven’s sake. I’m not going to seduce you. There’s two spare bedrooms. They both have locks with keys on the inside and the cottage is really cosy. I’ll light a fire. We’ll talk about old times. You’ll be quite safe with me.”

  After everything she’d been through Melanie wanted above all to be safe. Bowman could do that for her, make her feel protected.

  “Will you come to church with me on Sunday?”

  “Church? Sure. If that’s what it takes.”

  “I could get there Friday evening if you like. Take a train. Could you pick me up at Guildford?”

  “Just say a time.”

  Melanie had the timetable ready in her hand but didn’t want to sound too eager.

  “I’ll have to check. Call me Friday morning and we’ll fix a time.”

  “Great.” Bowman grinned. “Speak Friday.” He put down the phone and went in search of the drinks cabinet. He found it in a cupboard under the stairs and there to his delight was an open bottle of Glenlivet, not his favourite single malt but high up on the list. He half filled a tumbler, added a little water from the kitchen tap, no ice, and went outside to inspect the garden at the back of the house. It was perfect, small for a country garden, about one hundred feet square, but it faced southwest into the pale February sun. The property nestled in a bend in the road that wound around the garden and disappeared over the brow of a low hill. Bowman sipped his whiskey. He felt good. His shoulder was still sore from the surgery to remove the bullet but it was getting better by the day and soon he’d be back to a regular exercise routine. He couldn’t wait. He’d start with some serious walking on the Downs and there was probably a gym in Guildford he could join. Maybe there’d even be a pool. This was a break he was really going to enjoy. No work. No clients. No bad guys taking shots at him. Only Mel and Ambrose even knew where he was. As Bowman strolled to the end of the garden, whiskey glass in hand, a car came slowly round the bend from the other side of the property and accelerated slowly up hill. Bowman raised his glass and waved at the unseen driver. The driver smiled and waved back.

  “Welcome to England, Mr Bowman.”

  ***

  11

  Gerry McGuire’s assignment had gone well. He’d completed the training mission and test fired the new mortars he’d developed for use back home. It wasn’t his first mission to Colombia; the IRA had been sending advisors into the safe-haven for the past three or four years. It was a lucrative risk-free business. And brigades of guerrilleros were now ready to move out of their traditional killing fields in the mountains into the cities and towns, where IRA expertise could really be applied. Soon the FARC would be ready to take the fight to the gringos on their own home soil. Just as Al Qaeda had done.

  The three Irishmen were woken at 5 a.m. by a small contingent of armed guerrillas. They loaded their meagre belongings into the rear of a jeep and set off down the mountainside on the unmade track. Two hours later they checked in at the rundown terminal at Pasto domestic airport and boarded the internal flight to Bogotá. It was a rough uncomfortable ride. None of them spoke for the entire journey. They kept thinking about O’Brien and his Dirty Bomb. They were terrified. They knew O’Brien was unhinged enough to bring it off. He would not be able to resist the glory. The chance to secure his name in history.

  It was raining hard as they descended through heavy cloud into the capital’s El Dorado International Airport. As flight 194 from Pasto taxied across the tarmac four companies of military police and a team of plain-clothes intelligence agents – one hundred and fifty men in all - took up positions in and around the terminal. If their information was correct, on board were four senior members of the Irish Republican Army, heading home after two weeks training Marxist guerrillas in the tactics of urban warfare. Among the disembarking passengers three unkempt fair-skinned men stood out. The intelligence agents had their quarry squarely in their sights. Or most of it. But where the hell was the fourth Irishman?

  Captain Raül Abono of the Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad waited till the last passenger had exited the plane, muttered an expletive and followed the three men to the international check-in desk in the hope the missing Irishman might show up. But he didn’t. Abono watched the trio check in for the Air France flight to Paris with a growing sense of unease. Their boarding passes in hand the three men climbed the stairs to the first floor departure lounge, an airless hall lined with cafés, newsagents and tacky souvenir shops. They were heading for passport control, technically leaving Captain Abono’s jurisdiction. Abono scanned the crowd in panic,
searching for the missing fourth Irishman. But he wasn’t there. Just as the three approached the departure gate, on a signal from Abono, they were surrounded by a group of plain-clothes DAS agents who asked to see their travel documents. Their fake passports matched the names supplied by MI6 exactly. The three men were stunned. They looked at one another in amazement. But they didn’t speak. It was too late now to concoct a credible cover story.

  Captain Abono formally arrested the three suspects on provisional charges of travelling on false British passports. They were hustled into separate cars and driven to the headquarters of the army's notorious 13th Brigade for questioning by seasoned hands-on professionals. Under independent interrogation one man claimed to be a botanist on a specimen-hunting trip. A second asserted he was in Colombia to advise the FARC on the intricacies of the peace process. McGuire told them nothing. He demanded to see a lawyer. The one point on which all three agreed was that they had no knowledge of anyone named Declan O’Brien.

  Back in his office Captain Abono made a call to his local MI6 contact at the British Embassy. Declan O’Brien might be missing but nonetheless the operation was a considerable triumph. The DAS, the CIA and MI6 now had a rich vein of intelligence into the IRA/FARC connection and the Colombian authorities would not be squeamish about how they milked it. The notorious 13th Brigade would see to that.

  Within an hour of the arrests a dedicated hot line was set up between the White House, Downing Street and Government Buildings. The Satcom link was kept open twenty-four hours a day and used exclusively for the case of the three men and the resulting intelligence fallout.

  Washington, Dublin and London each had a different perspective on what they all recognised as a potentially explosive situation. In London it was regarded as a triumph to have fingered the IRA selling expertise and material to a rich and dangerous client. In Dublin it was a public relations disaster, calling the good faith of both wings of the Republican movement into question and jeopardising the peace process. The Irish government immediately went on the offensive and sought undertakings their citizens’ human rights would not be violated. In Washington the menace was taken far more seriously. The FARC was acknowledged as second only to Al Qaeda in the threat it posed to the United States. Yet the FARC’s potential was infinitely greater than Al Qaeda’s. With an income of two million dollars a day from narco-trafficking the FARC could buy anything or anyone they wanted. Once they mastered the techniques of urban warfare, they could surely surpass Al Qaeda, America was on their very doorstep. Washington demanded the immediate extradition of the three men but their appeal failed at the first hurdle. The three Irishmen had not yet been found guilty of a crime.