First Strike

by Jeremy Rumfitt

  “Director of Counter Terrorism at Pennsylvania Avenue. Tell him Alex Bowman made contact. Ask him if it’s OK for you to talk to me. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.”

  Bowman put down the phone and tinkered with the air-conditioning unit to see if he could fix it but no dice. Then he strolled down the corridor and got a chilled Tres Equis from the coin-operated icebox. He sipped the beer from the bottle and re-dialled Special Agent Hoolahan’s direct line at North Miami Beach.

  “Mr Bowman? Sir? How can I help?”

  Hoolahan sounded like he might be standing at attention.

  “Do you know someone who could fix my air-con?”

  “Your air-con? Seriously? What is this? Some kind of…”

  “Sorry. Listen, there’s a couple of things I need done. Can someone in your office make a few enquiries? First, is any liquor store selling an unusual amount of Bushmills?”

  “Bushmills?”

  “Most liquor stores in Miami won’t carry an Irish brand in stock, like they would in Boston or Philly. They’ll sell mainly Scotch, Rums and Tequilas but not much Irish. Second, get someone to do a tour of the S&M clubs and bars. See if any of them has a customer called O’Brien. Declan O’Brien.”

  Pat Hoolahan made notes on a pad but didn’t see any immediate link with the Director of Counter Terrorism. What he did see was the Irish connection. And when he thought Irish he thought IRA. And when he thought IRA he thought what every law enforcement officer across the United States was thinking at that time. The IRA and the guerrilleros were coming to Little Havana. Now it all made perfect sense.

  “How do I reach you, Mr Bowman?”

  “I’m at the Hotel Buena Vista on Calle Ocho.”

  Hoolahan noted Bowman’s crisp Castilian accent. He didn’t much care for spics.

  “You speak Spanish, Mr Bowman?”

  “Yes I do.”

  “Anything else you need from me?”

  “Can you get me a lap-top with all the bells and whistles? Something I can carry with me without a lot of wires.”

  “You got it. I’ll call you immediately I have something to report.”

  ***

  At five thirty-five Ambrose came in from what must have been a mainly liquid lunch. He squeezed past the hookers in the narrow hallway and managed to cop a feel. Bowman got a couple of beers from the icebox and joined Ben in his room, where the air-conditioning worked.

  “Jesus, Ben, you could have picked a hotel where things work. This place is the pits. Even the hookers are jail-bait.”

  “Nice though. Had me a little piece. You should try some. Or is it just your Limey upper lip gets stiff?”

  Ambrose sat up and peered around the room.

  “May not be Tit City but this place ain’t so bad.”

  He touched the side of his nose with his index finger and grinned.

  “Good cover. They won’t come looking for us here, right in the middle of spicsville.”

  “Who won’t come looking for us?”

  Bowman sipped beer from the bottle.

  “Ortega’s people.”

  “Ortega’s people? Why would Ortega’s people come looking for us?”

  “I ran out on Willowby. Set the alarm bells ringing.”

  Bowman hadn’t thought about Ortega till now. Merlyn Stanbridge had mentioned Pablo briefly, something about a contract killing. It probably wasn’t important and had no connection to the matter in hand. But Bowman could see Ambrose was scared. Shit scared. Bowman had never known Ben get loaded in the middle of the day. But if Ambrose was right about Ortega he had every reason to be terrified.

  “What you need, Ben, is something a little more serious to worry about than your own scrawny black arse.”

  “Something more serious than four inches of Colombian steel in the middle of my back? And what would that be, you Limey sonofabitch?”

  His eyes closed and his head fell forward to one side. He looked like a stuffed doll.

  “Tell you what, Ben. Take a nap. When you wake up take a shower. A cold shower. Meet me in the lobby at eight. Then we’ll talk. Give you something else to think about, other than your own lousy black behind.”

  Bowman didn’t want to go through two lots of explanation in one day so he called Special Agent Hoolahan at his office.

  “You free for dinner, Agent Hoolahan?”

  “Sure am.”

  The Director of Counter Terrorism had told Hoolahan to make himself available and besides, he was curious to know what was going on in his own back yard that would merit the attention of a man as senior as Robert Jennings.

  “Pick me up at the hotel about eight. Make reservations somewhere we can talk, where the tables are far enough apart. There’ll be three of us.”

  “You got it. Yes, sir, Mr Bowman.”

  There might have been the slightest edge of irritation in his voice. Maybe Special Agent Hoolahan didn’t like to take instructions from a Limey.

  “One more thing,” said Bowman. “Can you check something out for me?”

  “Whatever you say, Mr Bowman.”

  “Colombian Independence Day. Assuming they have one. It’s probably not important but I’d like to know the date.”

  ***

  At eight o’clock precisely Agent Hoolahan pulled up outside the Hotel Buena Vista on Eighth Street in a beat-up Chevy Impala. He refused to think of it as Calle Ocho. It was OK for Hispanics to be here, every American was an immigrant if you went back far enough, but they should leave their language behind and learn to talk American like everybody else. Hoolahan wound down the window and spotted the unmistakable Brit with his ramrod back and jutting jaw, chatting with the dishevelled looking spade. Hoolahan leaned across the car and yelled,

  “You Bowman?”

  Bowman opened the passenger door and climbed in. The spade got in the back. Bowman held out his hand.

  “Alex Bowman. And this is Agent Ambrose. He’s with the DEA.” Bowman saw Ambrose glare at him. “Sorry, was with the DEA. Can you forget I said that?”

  “Whatever you say, Mr Bowman.”

  Hoolahan was considerably over-weight, in his late fifties with slicked-back greying hair and matching steel rimmed glasses. He was sweating heavily and when he breathed he wheezed. Agent Hoolahan was not a healthy man. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. He didn’t check his rear view mirror. He said,

  “We have a sighting of your man,” Hoolahan’s tone was casual.

  “Like you said he showed up at one of the S&M bars a couple of days ago down in the docks area. Paid $350 cash. Even ordered a Bushmills, which they didn’t stock, so he made them send out for some. We traced where he’d been staying but he’d already checked out. The desk clerk remembers him though. Cocky little bastard. Arrived in a rented car but left by taxi. Rental’s still there, if you want to see it. We also traced the cab that dropped your man off at the airport. Could’ve been heading anywhere except none of the airlines has a record of anyone called O’Brien buying a ticket. So either he’s using another identity or he’s still here in Miami. That’s all we know. Except he had a suitcase weighs a ton. Wouldn’t let nobody touch it.”

  Nobody spoke again till they pulled up outside the Blue Door in the art-deco section of South Beach. Hoolahan had always wanted to eat there but was never able to afford it. But tonight was on the Director of Counter Terrorism. “Whatever Bowman wants he gets,” were Robert Jennings words. Hoolahan had never spoken to a Director before. Probably never would again. Whoever this guy Bowman was he had connections at the very top. Hoolahan handed the car keys to the valet and followed Bowman into the restaurant, puffing and wheezing as he climbed the steps.

  They were shown to an isolated table in a far corner of the spacious room. Bowman sat in the middle with the two American’s on either side.

  “You’re sure we can talk here?” he turned to Hoolahan.

  “Place was swept an hour ago. It’s clean. That guy with his back to us at the bar is with bureau, ha
sn’t moved since he checked it.”

  Hoolahan spread his napkin across his lap and loosened his tie in anticipation. “Look, Mr Bowman…sir?”

  “Alex. Call me Alex.”

  “Fine...Alex.” Hoolahan looked decidedly uncomfortable, out of his depth with the stylish Englishman and the scruffy spade, who used to be with the DEA. “Would you mind telling me what I’m doing here?”

  Bowman had memorised the file.

  “You’re an experienced middle ranking officer. But you have the highest possible security rating. That’s unusual for someone of your grade. There are people far senior to you who don’t have your level of clearance.”

  “That’s right,” Hoolahan smiled. It was something he was very proud of.

  “I out-class some of the brass where security’s concerned. ‘Cause of my record in ‘Nam.”

  “On top of that, you’re experienced in bomb disposal.”

  “Right again. I was with Special Forces in ‘Nam. Specialised in bomb disposal. Charlie made some pretty cute devices but I got to know all his little tricks. Got so I could disarm most of his toys blindfold.”

  “So how come you left the army, with such a distinguished record?”

  Not everything was on the file and motivation was important.

  “Had a dispute with a superior officer. He got the medal. I got the can. Shoulda been the other way around.”

  Hoolahan didn’t want to discuss this; it had nothing to do with the Limey.

  “Look Mr...Alex, don’t tell me anything I’m not supposed to know, but I’m beginning to get a picture here. The Irish connection. My security clearance. My expertise in bomb disposal. Our friend here, who used to be with the DEA. Even Little Havana. It all adds up to the three IRA guys got caught in Bogotá with their pants around their ankles. Am I right?”

  “Spot on, old chap.” Bowman was impressed.

  “And this Irish guy you’re looking for, cruising the S&M bars? There’s been an APB out for him for the last three or four days. But nobody knows why. Five foot two, short fair hair, clean shaven, blue eyes. Sound like him?”

  “Trouble is, there’s a million others look just like him and anyway he probably doesn’t look like that by now.” Bowman paused while the waiter took the drinks order. “Now let me explain my mission to you, Pat. I haven’t even put Ben in the picture yet, so this will come as a blow to you both.”

  By the time Bowman had finished both Americans were in total shock.

  “Jesus, Alex,” Ben was horror-struck. “How can you be so fucking calm?”

  “I’m calm because I need to be. We all need to stay calm; otherwise we’ll lose the plot. Besides, this isn’t going to happen overnight. Putting together a Dirty Bomb is a very complex proposition. He has to get hold of some explosive. OK, that’s the easy part. Then he has to find someone to make a sophisticated detonator. Apparently he doesn’t have the skills to do it himself. Now I’m no technician but I imagine that’s a pretty complicated piece of engineering. And unless he’s prepared to die in the explosion it has to be triggered by remote control. But the really difficult part is handling the radioactive material. There’s literally tons of it lying about in hospitals, laboratories, power stations. Most of it is under guard and has to be accounted for. But not all. It moves around by truck and on the railways. Sometimes by cargo plane. Some of it goes missing. So procurement isn’t that much of a problem. It’s handling to stuff. How to avoid getting burned.”

  “You mentioned this guy O’Brien mixes with the FARC,” said Hoolahan. “What about the Arabs? Surely this has Al Qaeda written all over it?”

  “That’s what most people would assume, but as far as we know they’re not involved, though of course we can’t be sure of anything.”

  “So what exactly are we looking for?” said Ambrose. “How big does this thing have to be?”

  “Depends on the toxicity of the radioactive material. If he can get his hands on weapons-grade plutonium a small amount will do. If it’s spent fuel from a nuclear reactor he’ll need a whole lot more. How big? Could be anything from a briefcase to a truckload. But even if it’s small it’ll be heavy. The nuclear material will be encased in lead so he doesn’t get radiation poisoning. That stuff is lethal. At close range just a few grams could kill you, if you’re not properly protected. O’Brien has to take precautions, every step of the way. The precautions will slow him down.”

  “What about the target?” said Hoolahan. “Why Miami?”

  “I’ve no idea if it’s Miami. Could be any major city. Denver, Phoenix, maybe even London given the Irish connection. Who knows? I don’t suppose it matters a damn to the FARC which one they destroy. But we have to start somewhere and this is as good a place as any. We know O’Brien was here on his way in and out of Colombia. There’s a strong drugs connection and Miami is a major international hub. O’Brien’s probably getting paid in drugs and that’s how he’ll purchase the explosive and commission the detonator. Also there are more Hispanics in this city than any other place in the States, many of them highly politicised. Chances are O’Brien is liaising with the FARC through someone in Little Havana. Place is crawling with dissident Colombians.”

  Hoolahan frowned and shook his head.

  “If O’Brien needs help he’ll go to his own countrymen, not the Latinos.”

  “I hope you’re right, Pat.”

  Bowman wondered where Hoolahan’s political sympathies might lie. Turning in maverick volunteers was not part of Irish Republican culture.

  “That’s why I want you to ask around among the Irish community. The clubs, the cultural societies, the churches, and above all Noraid.” He turned to Ambrose. “As for you, Ben, I want you to infiltrate the lowlife, the drug traffickers and arms dealers. O’Brien probably has a stash of top grade cocaine hydrochloride to use as currency. One suitcase of the pure stuff would be worth millions. If significant amounts of cocaine hydrochloride hit the market I want to know about it right away. Understood?”

  “You got it,” said Ambrose,

  Bowman turned again to Hoolahan.

  “You have any problems? You’re sure you’re comfortable dealing with Noraid and the rest?”

  “I’ll go talk with them in the morning. First thing. I don’t anticipate a problem.”

  ***

  20

  When Sinn Fein organised a press conference in Dublin it was accepted Melanie Drake should represent the Echo. Editor Sean Flaherty could not; he might be accused of bias. But Melanie Drake had no Irish baggage one way or the other, her religion didn’t even count. But what separated her from the other scribblers present was that she knew about the fourth man, understood what he as up to. So she found Sinn Fein’s presentation unutterably dull. Yes, they knew about the three men. Yes, they now admitted, one of the trio had been Sinn Fein’s accredited representative in Cuba. Yes, the other two were thought to be members of the IRA. But Sinn Fein righteously insisted on due process. They would not be drawn on further questions till the law had run its full and proper course. They didn’t want to prejudice a fair trial. That’s all very well, thought Melanie, but it doesn’t exactly make exciting copy. She wanted desperately to intervene, stand up and challenge them about O’Brien and the Dirty Bomb. But she had given undertakings to Merlyn Stanbridge, agreed to sign the Official Secrets Act.

  Melanie’s thoughts drifted off to other things, to Bowman and what he might up to. She hadn’t heard from him since he went to the States, which was odd since he’d promised to stay in touch and Bowman always kept a promise. Perhaps he was just too busy. Maybe even in danger. But she wasn’t worried about him. Bowman knew how to look after himself. Her only concern was she wanted to get involved. There must be something she could do.

  Melanie sat in the front row surrounded by eager journos, sucking unselfconsciously on the top of her ballpoint pen. Her auburn hair stood out from the crowd. Her legs were crossed and her skirt had ridden half way up her thigh. She felt hot. She undid the top two bu
ttons of her blouse, faintly aware she was being watched. Her eyes travelled left to right across the podium. He was seated three from the end, a nice looking man in his early thirties with fair hair and pale blue eyes behind wire-framed NHS glasses. He looked like a schoolboy. She caught his eye, blushed, re-buttoned her blouse, uncrossed her shapely legs and blushed again, hesitantly extracting the pen from between her lips. He smiled a boyish smile. Melanie sat up straight, turned her attention back to the droning speaker and made a mental note to email Bowman to check he was OK. But she knew the schoolboy was still watching her.

  When the presentation was over the other journalists rushed out to submit copy to their papers. They thought the whole thing was sensational. Melanie Drake knew it was not. She lingered politely at the door to let the others through. As she waited to go out she felt a hand brush lightly against her elbow.

  “You weren’t too impressed with that, were you?”

  The schoolboy nodded towards the podium where Gerry Adams and Martin McGuiness were gathering up their things, pleased with the uneventful outcome.

  “A little predictable, wouldn’t you say?”

  Melanie smiled and ran a hand through her hair, her ample breasts rising against the tight fitting blouse.

  “Not bad if all you’re after is damage limitation but I came over from London especially to listen to this junk. That’s a long way to be told absolutely nothing new.”

  She pulled the door and went out into the lobby, the schoolboy tagging along behind.

  “Would it make things any better if I bought you coffee?” The offer sounded innocent enough.

  Melanie looked at her watch. “I’d rather have a Guinness.”

  “A Guinness it is then.”

  They went out into the sunshine and walked the short distance to McDaids, a dimly lit spit and sawdust pub off Grafton Street. The schoolboy looked her over as they stood at the bar and came to a rapid judgment.

  “Half?”

  “Pint.”

  Melanie withdrew to the ladies room to repair her make-up. When she returned the schoolboy was sitting at a table in a dark secluded corner. The place was crowded with locals, no tourists, and the din was loud. They could talk without fear of being overheard. He stood up and held out his hand.