“Get Bob Jennings over here right away. And I mean now! Whatever he’s doing, tell him to drop it.”
Director of Counter Terrorism Robert Jennings was an intelligence outsider. Appointed after 9/11 he was an academic, not a spook. The President saw this as a distinct advantage. His overriding concern at this point was total secrecy. A Dirty Bomb posed three immediate dangers, destruction, contamination and panic. And the worst of these was panic. The conventional explosive associated with a Dirty Bomb would kill maybe a couple of thousand people in a built-up area. The contaminated zone could cover several square miles, depending on the toxicity of the radioactive material and the wind conditions at the time of the explosion. But panic would engulf the whole nation. The whole world. Stock exchange and real estate values would plummet, currency markets would be in chaos, the price of gold would soar into the stratosphere, not just in the States, but right across the globe. Capitalism itself might not survive. And the hell of it was, the Dirty Bomb didn’t even need to detonate. The idea of it alone could wreak havoc. And lurking in the background the President perceived an even greater peril. The most terrifying threat of all. That the FARC and Al Qaeda should lock horns in a fearful rivalry, compete to see which one could inflict the greatest damage. For all these reasons secrecy was the President’s sole and overriding priority. Not even his innermost cabinet was summoned.
Bob Jennings ran the few blocks from his office at FBI Headquarters in the Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue, half way between the White House and the Capitol. When he entered the Oval Office he was sweating heavily from the exertion. The President motioned him to a chair and Jennings loosened his tie and dumped his jacket unceremoniously on the floor beside him. Formality was not one of Bob Jennings’ strong points.
The President’s exposition was concise. It covered the Dirty Bomb, its likely tragic effects, and the absolute necessity for total secrecy. The last thing they needed was the intervention of the media. When the President finished Bob Jennings put his head in his hands and said,
“Jesus H. Christ. You don’t think Al Qaeda’s behind this?”
“The Taoiseach says there’s no sign they’re involved.”
The President began to pace about the room.
“For the moment, Bob, you’re one of only two Americans who know. Not even the security chiefs have been told yet. I’ll brief each of them individually as I see them during the normal course of business. But I’m not going to summon them all together at a crisis meeting and draw attention to the fact something serious is going on. The more people hear about this, the greater the chance of a leak. And if the media gets hold of it, we’re finished. There’ll be panic right across America. I want you to deal with the problem, Bob. There’s no indication a strike is imminent. We probably have time on our side. Putting together a Dirty Bomb can’t be done overnight. It’ll take a lot of planning. But until further notice I want you here in my office at eight a.m. each morning for an update, starting tomorrow.”
The President paused and looked the Director of Counter Terrorism squarely in the eye.
“Jennings, did you ever kill a man?”
“No, sir. Never even close.”
“The first thing you’re going to need is a competent pair of hands. Someone you can work with. Preferably someone the media wouldn’t even recognise. We don’t need to mobilise the National Guard to catch one mad Irishman. I want you to do the thinking on this one, Bob. What you need is someone to do the killing. But just don’t tell me who you pick. I need to preserve deniability. As President of the United States I could never sanction an unlawful killing.”
***
17
Merlyn Stanbridge sat in a leather armchair in the smoking room of White’s club in Saint James’s. She was the only woman in the room and the five male members present were either asleep or busy pretending she wasn’t there. She had Alex Bowman’s file in her hand. She re-read his résumé:
1959 Born Wandsworth, London
1978 Graduated Modern Languages, Exeter
1980 Joined Metropolitan Police (Graduate Intake)
1980-1984 Promoted Detective Inspector (Fast Track)
1985 Transferred Serious Crime Squad
1987 Transferred Drug Squad
1988 Seconded National Drugs Intelligence Unit
1990 Convicted Possession/Supplying Cocaine
1994 Released Wormwood Scrubs
2001 Verdict Quashed on Appeal
Her first reaction was a sense of loss that such a promising career had been destroyed. It could be salvaged now, following the successful appeal. But the hole in the middle of Bowman’s life could never be repaired. His career might eventually recover; more quickly and more surely if he accepted the offer she was about to make. But the fact was he’d never be truly accepted again. There’d always be a doubt. He’d always have to work outside the system, never within.
“Christ, how he must hate people like me; the judges, the lawyers, his colleagues at Scotland Yard, with our nice safe careers, our cosy pensions, our wretched little gongs.”
A uniformed butler entered through the double doors and approached her.
“Your guest is here, ma’am.”
Something in the servant’s manner said he disapproved of madam’s bit of rough.
“Thank you, Hudson. Show him into the dining room, would you please?”
No gentleman dines at his club on a Friday night. It would suggest one didn’t have a country place to go to at weekends. So Merlyn Stanbridge and her guest had the dining room to themselves. The head of MI6 dispensed with niceties.
“I’m sorry to have got you here is such a hurry, Mr Bowman.”
She motioned Bowman to sit down. A waiter approached to take their orders but she dismissed him.
“The set menu,” she said, not looking at it, “and a couple of bottles of the house claret.”
When the waiter had gone she turned to Bowman.
“You read about our Irish friends in Colombia?”
“I saw the article in the Echo.”
“But the rest of it? The Dirty Bomb? The fourth Irishman? Melanie Drake must have put you in the picture?”
So MI6 knew about the cottage. Bowman wasn’t in the least surprised.
“She mentioned something like that. But there was nothing in the press about a Dirty Bomb. Nor the fourth Irishman.”
“We were going to leak it. Cause maximum embarrassment to the IRA. But when the fourth man disappeared we lost control of the situation. We’ve no idea where he’s gone, precisely what he’s up to or who he’s working with. So we decided to pull that part of the story. To be frank, Mr Bowman, we’re lost. We don’t know what to do next.”
“So it’s true?”
The idea of going back to Spain was getting more and more appealing.
“Oh yes. It’s true all right. The CIA flies AWACs over Colombia all the time. Hardly a word is transmitted in that country without them knowing about it. And now we’ve had confirmation through diplomatic channels. One of the three talked to an Embassy official. Irish Embassy. Naturally. So now we have a mad Irishman out there with unlimited funds, trying to put together a Dirty Bomb.”
The blood drained from Bowman’s face.
“I can see where the FARC is coming from. But what’s in it for the IRA? Sounds like a public relations disaster.”
“Simple. They need the cash. Going legit costs money. Sinn Fein has a nationwide organisation to run, election workers to feed, constituency offices to fund, a national headquarters to finance. Democracy is a very expensive business. Selling the IRA’s specialised expertise on the open market makes perfect sense. The training and equipping element, that is. Not the Dirty Bomb. The Dirty Bomb is O’Brien’s own little bit of private enterprise. IRA/Sinn Fein has nothing to do with that.”
“Target?”
“Any major city. Far as I can see it doesn’t matter which one.”
The waiter arrived with the food but she waved him
away.
“Put everything on the sideboard over there, Hudson,” she gestured, “we’ll help ourselves.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve got a very serious problem on your hands.”
Bowman distanced himself from the predicament she was in. It wasn’t his problem. It was hers.
“It’s not your problem? Is that what you mean? Look, Alex, I’m familiar with your file. I know your history. If you hate the miserable spineless people who run this country, you have every right. What happened to you was truly appalling. But right now I’ve got bigger things to worry about than your bruised ego. And I haven’t got much time. You’re in or you’re out. That’s all I need to know. But I need to know it now.”
Bowman blushed. He should have recognised the strain she
must be under.
“Sorry. That must have sounded pretty flippant. Perhaps you’d better tell me why I’m here.”
Merlyn Stanbridge stood up.
“Let’s get something to eat.”
She strode across to the sideboard, helped herself to food and grabbed both bottles of the house claret.
“Let me tell you what my problem is. My problem is too much help. The Americans are desperate to do everything they can. Understandably. Target is probably an American city, nobody knows which one. But even that’s not certain. Given O’Brien’s involvement it could just as well be London. As for the Irish, they’re falling over themselves. Officially and unofficially. The IRA is more concerned than anybody. Publicly they deny all knowledge of the three. Some nonsense about not wanting to prejudice a fair trial. But privately they’ll do anything they can to help. If O’Brien succeeds it’s the end of the road for the IRA/Sinn Fein. It would destroy them.” She filled both their glasses. “So my problem is, I have all these people under my feet. Americans, Irish, our own people. Falling over one another. Getting in the way. What I need is a sweeper. Someone outside the system, working directly to my instructions. No committees. No protocol.” She put down her knife and fork. “Interested?”
Bowman wanted to refuse but knew he couldn’t. If O’Brien could put together a Dirty Bomb it meant the death of an entire city.
“Sounds to me like I don’t have any choice. What about the Yanks? How do they feel about a Brit operating on their territory, outside their chain of command?”
“Look, Alex, you have to understand all Washington’s resources are committed to the war. That’s as true here in London as it is in the States. We’re all way over-stretched, especially the Yanks, and anyway, they’ve always recognised the IRA is our problem not theirs. And don’t forget the drugs angle to this thing. Your access to the DEA through Ambrose could be invaluable.”
She made a note to contact her old friend Frank Willowby at the American Embassy, make sure he was on board.
“If Herzfeld gets his way there could be a first strike within days. One more experienced pair of hands can only be an asset. Especially as you’ll operate outside the system. You’ll just have to win their respect, that’s all. Impress them. I’m sure you’ll manage.” She paused to light a cigarette. “But we do have one major card to play. We have people inside the IRA. The Americans don’t.” She smiled. “Come to that, neither do the Irish.” She poured more wine. “You have to realise, Alex, Washington is in total chaos. The intelligence community above all. The full story why they failed to anticipate 9/11 won’t come out for months but it looks like a massive intelligence failure. Nobody wants to take the fall for O’Brien. Too many senior people already have egg all over their faces. Everyone except Bob Jennings.”
“Who’s Bob Jennings?”
“Director of Counter Terrorism at FBI headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue. He was appointed after 9/11. Drafted in from MIT. He wrote the definitive paper about the mishandling of intelligence at Pearl Harbour.”
“What about my record?”
“Jennings will have to know you’ve done time. If we don’t tell him and he finds out it would be a disaster. But all that’s in the past, Alex, you won the appeal, everybody knows they were trumped-up charges. Far as I’m concerned your record’s clean. All I’m really interested in is your sheer bloody competence. By the way, Alex, how’s your gun arm?”
“Getting there.” Bowman winced as he flexed his right shoulder.
“Good. I’ve a feeling you’re going to need it.” She summoned the waiter and signed the bill with a flourish. “Well, Bowman? Will you help us?”
“I don’t think I have any choice. But in exchange there’s one thing you must do for me.”
“Name it.”
“Keep an eye on Melanie Drake for me. She’s about to publish an article about the coke farm over in Morocco. Somebody out there isn’t going to like that very much. They may try to silence her.”
Merlyn Stanbridge folded her napkin neatly.
“It’s a deal, Bowman. Don’t worry about Melanie Drake, we’ll keep an eye on her.”
She warmed to Bowman. She liked a man who cared about his friends.
They stood together on the steps of White’s club, looking down Saint James’s Street, hoping for a taxi. Merlyn Stanbridge looked Bowman over from head to toe. She evidently liked what she saw.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Alex.”
“What’s that?” Bowman smiled.
“Do you like dogs?”
“Dogs? Not particularly. Why?”
“Nothing. It isn’t important.”
The first taxi came along and Bowman insisted Merlyn Stanbridge should take it. He watched the cab turn left into Piccadilly heading towards Knightsbridge, waited a couple of minutes and went back inside to the porter’s desk.
“I need to make a phone call.”
The uniformed flunky pointed to a phone box in the far corner. Bowman fumbled through his wallet and found the card he’d picked up at the reception desk at the Palais Jamaî. A minute later he had Ben Ambrose on the line.
“Ben? It’s me, Bowman. How quickly can you get to London?”
“Shit man, I was sleeping.”
“Christ, Ben, this is important, more than important, it’s a fucking world class emergency.”
“London? I can’t come to London, man, Willowby’s here. Acting kinda strange as a matter of fact.”
“Strange? What sort of strange?”
“It’s weird, Alex. I think he’s trying to entrap me. Keeps offering me stuff. Watches. Money. Jewellery. It’s like he’s one of the bad guys. Scares the shit out of me, Alex.”
“Look, Ben, forget about London. Get yourself to the States. Miami if you can, but anywhere will do. Email me when you get there with a contact number. Don’t talk to anyone. Just do it.”
“Alex? This has to do with Willowby, doesn’t it? He is one of the bad guys, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Ben. He’s one of the bad guys,”
Bowman lied. Or so he thought.
***
At 8 a m next morning Alex Bowman was shown into Merlyn Stanbridge’s office on the twelfth floor at Vauxhall Cross. He signed receipts for two credit cards, ten thousand dollars in cash, one airline ticket to Miami, business class, and a diplomatic passport. Merlyn Stanbridge handed him a sheaf of papers.
“Something for you to study on the plane. There are two distinct lines of enquiry you should follow. The explosive itself won’t lead us anywhere, it’s far too commonplace. The radioactive material and the detonator are how we’ll catch him. The file contains likely sources of nuclear waste; power stations, hospitals, laboratories. I’m afraid it’s a very long list. And there’s a directory of people who might help him with the detonator, just a couple of hundred engineers with known IRA sympathies. Provided he doesn’t tell them what he’s up to, he won’t have much difficulty getting help. I’ve also included a list of useful contacts in all the major cities. FBI, CIA, NEST.”
“NEST? What’s NEST?”
“Nuclear Emergency Search Teams. Since 9/11 they routinely hunt for bombs in DC and oth
er major cities. The whole thing is completely hit and miss but the FBI will randomly select a city, then a team of scientists will prowl the area; docks, airports, railway sidings. They just drive around in unmarked vans, packed with sophisticated sniffing equipment, searching for radiation emissions. Sometimes they’ll move about on foot with detectors concealed in briefcases and backpacks. The technology is very advanced. But so far they’ve failed to turn up anything suspicious. Sending NEST teams out is a shot in the dark, but it's better than sitting around doing nothing.”
“How do we stay in touch?”
“Video link and the web. A communications room has been set up for you at the Embassy in Washington, in case you need it. An operations base where local rules and regulations don’t apply could be useful. Ambassador Brightman will provide anything else you need. But don’t be misled by his name. The Ambassador is very much old school.” She smiled a cryptic smile. “You’ll find the access codes in the file and a CD of our encryption software you can load on any PC anywhere. Memorise the codes and torch the copy. Soon as I have something, anything, I’ll post it on the web. You do the same. Everything will be perfectly secure. There’s no chance of an intercept.” She paused. “Anything else I can help with?”
“O’Brien’s bio would be useful.”
She passed a photograph across the desk.
“That’s him on the left, with his friend McGuire when we released them both from the Maze. There’s a full biography in the file but briefly, Declan was born in the Bogside in 1954 into a known IRA family. We first became aware of him in the early seventies. We have film of him on Bloody Sunday chatting with Martin McGuiness. He was eighteen at the time. His younger brother, Liam was wounded that day. Never fully recovered. So Declan learned to hate us at a young age. He ran a cell on the mainland for several years and may have been involved in the Docklands and Manchester bombs but there’s no proof. Then we lost sight of him for a while, but at some point his family moved south to Dublin. Last week the CIA picked up some radio traffic in Colombia and spotted Declan flying in and out of Ortega’s private airstrip. From there he travelled south into the safe-haven and met up with the others.”
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