First Strike

by Jeremy Rumfitt

  “I’m Gerard, by the way. Gerard O’Connell. Which paper did you say you’re with?”

  “Melanie Drake.” She took off her jacket and slid onto the bench beside him. “I didn’t. But I’m with the London Echo.”

  “And a very fine journal it is too. Always puts the Republican view quite fairly. The result of having an Irishman in the editor’s chair, I suppose.” He raised his glass. “The skin off your nose.”

  “Cheers. Jesus, what a bloody waste of time that was.”

  “The press conference?”

  “Is that what it was?” Melanie took a good long pull at her drink. “You have four IRA volunteers caught with their trousers round their ankles and all you can come up with is due process? Sounds a bit lame to me.”

  The schoolboy expression vanished from his face. He looked older and more serious. More wary.

  “Three volunteers.”

  “Excuse me?” Melanie smiled.

  “Three volunteers. You said four.”

  “Did I?”

  She took another swallow of the bitter liquid.

  “Tell me something, Gerard O’Connell. What exactly is your position in the party? How senior are you? I don’t think I’ve come across your name before.”

  “Me? I’m a nobody. Very junior. I work in the press office. How insignificant is that?”

  “Half an hour ago you were sat on a platform with Adams and McGuiness, fielding questions on the biggest PR cock-up in Irish Republican history. Doesn’t sound very junior to me.”

  “I’m a bit of a linguist. I was there to help with translations should the need arise, which thankfully it didn’t.”

  “Yeah, right.” Melanie let her scepticism show. “And what’s your strongest language, Mr O’Connell? Let me guess. Spanish?”

  The schoolboy blushed.

  “Matter of fact yes, I do speak fluent Spanish.”

  “How very convenient for you, Gerard. And I suppose it’s just coincidence the IRA’s two main overseas clients are the FARC and ETA?”

  Melanie finished her pint, aware her tone had become overly aggressive. She put a consoling hand on the young man’s arm.

  “Sorry, Gerard, I got a bit carried away there. Here we are enjoying a nice social drink and I start behaving like a bloody investigative journalist. My shout. Same again?”

  She went to the bar and bought another round, taking time to regain her composure. But she only planned to spend one day in Dublin and she wasn’t going back with nothing. It was time to make a decisive move. She resumed her seat on the bench beside him, placing a hand on his thigh as she adjusted her position.

  “Sorry, Gerard. Slip of the tongue.”

  A moist pink protrusion appeared between her lips.

  “Excuse me?” The schoolboy blushed.

  “The fourth volunteer? I was thinking of Declan O’Brien.”

  O’Connell put his head in his hands.

  “Oh my God. You’re Secret Service!”

  She didn’t confirm it. But she didn’t deny it either.

  “Sorry, Gerard. I realise being seen with me in public places you in danger. I know what the IRA does to traitors and you seem like such a nice young man. Be a pity to see you in a wheelchair, but chances are the lads’ll think you’re just after a damn good lay. I’m not promising anything mind, but if you could make my trip worthwhile I’d be very appreciative. I’m pretty sure my cover’s still intact and I swear I won’t shop you unless I absolutely have to.”

  She moistened her lips and took another drink. Flecks of white froth clung to the corners of her mouth.

  “It’s not your cover I’m worried about.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Nothing.” O’Connell loosened his tie and emptied his glass. The palms of his hands began to sweat. “How much do you know?”

  “I know O’Brien’s out there. And I’ve worked out what he’s up to. A friend of mine is in the States right now, determined to stop him. I’d like to help in any way I can.”

  “What is it you want?” O’Connell looked thoroughly miserable.

  “I need to talk to Declan’s family. Specifically to his younger brother, Liam.”

  “No way. Declan would never forgive me. Poor Liam’s a very sick man. If Declan knew I’d let his brother be exposed he’d slit my throat for sure.”

  “Look, Gerard, I really am a journalist you know. Do you want me to publish everything I know? I don’t think Adams and McGuiness would be best pleased with you if I did. They’re more desperate than anyone to keep this whole terrifying business under wraps. All I’m asking you to do is make one phone call. No one need ever know you did.”

  ***

  When Melanie Drake arrived at the terraced house off Parnell Square the wiretap and audio bugs had already been set up for some days. Two watchers from the Garda Siochana were installed in the upper room in the house across the street. They had listened to Gerard O’Connell’s conversation with Liam O’Brien and knew a visitor was expected. Melanie’s auburn hair caught the eye of one of the observers as she came along the street looking for number seventeen. He held the binoculars with one hand and grabbed his crotch with the other.

  “What about those legs? And will ya just look at those tits.” He put his hands together and raised his eyes to heaven. “Thank you, God.”

  His companion joined him at the window and let out a long low whistle. He almost forgot to take her picture but as Melanie turned to press the bell he got a good shot of her profile. Within the hour that lovely face would be on the desk of Merlyn Stanbridge in London and Robert Jennings in Washington DC. The door opened and Melanie disappeared inside. One watcher stayed by the window, camera in hand, while the other sat by the recorder, rolled the tape and put on his earphones. The transcript of what he heard would read as follows: -

  Woman: “I’m really sorry to disturb you.”

  Liam: “No problem. Gerard O’Connell is a family friend. Besides, I’m always pleased to see a pretty woman. Don’t get out much nowadays the shape I’m in, paralysed from the waist down. Can I get you something to drink?”

  Woman: “I’m fine, thanks, I’ve just come from McDaids.”

  Liam: “So what is it you want?”

  Woman: “Didn’t Gerard explain? I’m a reporter with the London Echo. I came over for this morning’s press conference, but it turned out to be a bit of a non-event. I didn’t want to waste the trip so I thought I’d do some background on Bloody Sunday, what with the new inquiry. I know you were there. That’s where you picked up the bullet in your spine. They say your brother Declan saved your life.”

  Liam: “If he hadn’t dragged me to the ambulance, under fire, I’d have bled to death. He took a bullet in the leg himself that day.”

  Woman (after pause): “You must love him very much.”

  Liam: “I owe Declan my life. What little there is left of it.”

  Woman: “Liam, can I confide in you?”

  Liam: (indistinct reply)

  Woman: “I’m not here as a journalist, Liam. I’m here as Declan’s friend. Can you get a message to him for me?”

  Liam: (softly) “Maybe.”

  Woman: “Tell Declan, if he persists in what he’s doing, then your life, and your mother’s life, will be in very great danger. Please don’t ask me to explain, Liam. Declan will know what I mean.”

  Liam: (after long pause) “Who are you?”

  Woman: “I told you. I’m a friend of Declan’s.”

  Liam: (loud) “No you’re not! You’re Secret Service! If I were a whole man I’d break your bloody neck. ‘Tis a fine thing you’re doing, taking advantage of a paraplegic. This has to do with Colombia, doesn’t it? The lads there, drumming up a little extra income on the side? Maybe I can’t walk but I can still read the sodding papers. Whatever Declan’s up to is fine by me and me mam. We’ve lived with danger all our rotten stinkin’ lives. I’ll not be a messenger boy for the bastard Brits. Now get the fuck out of this house.”

  Wom
an (shouting): “What’s in the papers isn’t it, Liam. There’s worse. Far worse. It could be the end of everything. You have to make him stop!”

  Liam: (yelling) “Just get the fuck out of this house.”

  Tape ends.

  The watchers saw the auburn haired woman hurry to the end of the street and climb into a waiting cab. Behind the taxi a red Ford Fiesta pulled slowly away from the curb. Forty minutes later Melanie Drake checked in for the last London flight. She had time to make one brief phone call to Merlyn Stanbridge’s voice-mail at Vauxhall Cross.

  “Message delivered but not heeded.”

  ***

  21

  Pablo Ortega had known about the arrest of the three Irishmen two days before it happened. Unlike the CIA and the FBI his was not a high-tech operation, the specialised computer expertise the Americans disposed of was not available in Colombia. So instead Ortega had men in place inside every government building and department. He owned the police and the prison service. Customs and Excise were on the payroll. Senior judges accepted payment. Politicians holidayed with their bimbos on Pablo’s private island in the Caribbean.

  When Ortega received the tape of Gerry McGuire’s conversation with the Consular official he did not immediately understand the significance of what was being said. He had to have the expression “Dirty Bomb” explained to him. When he grasped the concept he froze. Why would Tirofijo be in the market for a Dirty Bomb? Except to destroy a city? Ortega recognized the threat to his own organisation immediately. If the FARC contaminated an American metropolis it would wipe out one of his major markets at a stroke. Worse, the dollar would very likely plummet. The billions he had stashed away in banks around the world, laundered and re-laundered, would be completely worthless. No investment would be safe. The value of his stocks and shares, his real estate holdings, would all be decimated. A lifetime’s work rendered useless overnight.

  Ortega’s first thought was to arrange a meeting with Tirofijo. Reason with him. Dissuade him. Buy him off. But Pablo knew what the terrorist’s response would be. Socialismo o Muerte. Socialism or death. The destruction of the capitalist system was the ageing Marxist’s sole aim. So Ortega could not work with Tirofijo. He had to work against him. Ortega’s problem was he had no cards to play at all. For the first time in his life he was completely out of the loop. He would have to find a way to deal himself back in.

  McGuire, O’Rourke and Kelly lived in constant fear of reprisal. Right-wing paramilitaries had vowed to execute the Irishmen for aiding the Marxist rebels. There had already been several attempted stabbings. The Colombian authorities were concerned for the captives’ safety. The American, Irish and British governments had all made representations on the men’s behalf. Extradition procedures had been set in train. It was vital the men be kept unharmed. So the prisoners were moved to a single windowless cell with a toilet but no beds. They slept by rotation on a single straw-filled mattress on the floor. They were not allowed to leave the cell, not even to take exercise. It was too dangerous. They had no fresh air or sunlight. They had no books or newspapers. They did nothing all day but talk to one another, constantly revisiting the same old familiar ground.

  “What a world class cock-up, lads. Caught red-handed with our dicks up our own arses.”

  “I wish we knew what the fuck is going on. Our mug shots must be all over the world’s press. Can you imagine the reaction in Dublin? In the middle of an election campaign? The politicals must be going ape. Denial. Denial. Denial. Like denying you know your own brother.”

  “And that little prick O’Brien got clean away. How’s that for justice? If he’d stuck with us the bastard would at least be locked up safe. And there’s plenty here would slit his throat for a couple of pesos, save the three of us the trouble. Thank God he’s not an engineer. He’ll never be able to assemble a bomb without technical assistance.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Gerry McGuire was staring at his hands.

  “Whadaya mean, Gerry? You’re not sure?”

  “He’s got an Al Qaeda manual. Detailed drawings, wiring diagrams, the full technical specification. He showed it to me in San Vicente. Anybody working with that amount of information shouldn’t have much of a problem, even if he has no training. Any bright teenager could do it.”

  La Picota was on a knife-edge. Right-wing extremists were baying for the Irishmen’s blood. FARC inmates had sworn to protect them. The two factions were held in separate wings penned in by razor wire but if they got high on drugs they’d still attempt a breakout. The prison governor lived in fear of the international repercussions if the Irishmen came to any harm but the situation was out of control now and he couldn’t guarantee their safety. He appealed to the Minister for reinforcements. A Brigade of riot police was rushed to La Picota. Teargas and stun grenades were issued from the armoury.

  Under cover of darkness the three prisoners were transferred to an isolated high security block by handpicked guards loyal to the prison Governor. The Irishmen were shitless. A riot could erupt at any moment. They could sense it, smell it, taste it. And if armed right-wing paramilitaries broke loose the three of them were meat.

  At 2 a m McGuire, O’Rourke and Kelly were startled by the clatter of helicopter blades directly overhead. They heard the key turn in the lock as the cell door was flung open with a thunderous clang.

  “Vamanos. Let’s go.”

  They were ushered rapidly along the corridor and out into the exercise yard. Minutes later they were strapped-in aboard a Bell 430, watching the lights of Bogotá spread out beneath them like an inverted pool of stars as they climbed into the black enfolding sky.

  An hour later they descended through low cloud onto a wide expanse of lawn. At the top of a low rise sat an elegant villa ablaze with light. Below the house an illuminated swimming pool glowed turquoise in the dark. As the three Irishmen clambered down from the chopper a short over-weight figure in tee shirt, chinos and sandals stood unseen, observing them from the shadows.

  “Bienvenidos, Señores,” Ortega whispered. “Mi casa es su casa.”

  “Where the fuck do you think we are, lads? Back in the safe-haven?”

  McGuire watched wide-eyed as the ’copter lift off into the darkness.

  “They don’t have villas with swimming pools in the safe-haven,” said O’Rourke. “Besides, we weren’t airborne long enough. But wherever we are, it sure beats where we’ve been.”

  He put his arms around his two companions and began to laugh. The exhilaration of the unplanned escape was beginning to hit home.

  “Free at last, free at last, Lord God A’mighty we’re free at last,” O’Rourke intoned. “Or words to that effect.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Kelly pointed at the house. The silhouetted figure of a woman stood waiving at them from the terrace.

  “Looks like a girl. I think she wants us to go up there.”

  “Then let’s go. She looks friendly enough.”

  McGuire set off up the incline. When they reached the terrace the woman had disappeared inside. The three Irishman stood in the light and looked at one another. They hadn’t shaved or washed for over a week. Their clothes were filthy and torn. None of them was wearing shoes.

  “Christ, Gerry, you look awful.” Kelly cocked his head to one side. “And you stink.”

  “We all bloody stink.”

  McGuire slid open the door to the house and stepped inside. As he did so three fine looking women arose from the couch and stepped forward to greet them. They were dressed identically in loose fitting white blouses and tight crimson skirts. They were giggling. Each of the women took an Irishman by the hand and led him off to a bathroom to shave him, bathe him, and get him ready for bed. Forty minutes later the trio gathered in the sitting room for a nightcap of straight Bushmills.

  “What do you make of all this, lads?”

  Kelly looked around the elegantly furnished room. He was wearing a clean white towelling robe, sipping whiskey, grinning. One of the wome
n held him by the hand.

  “Did I die and go the heaven?” He rubbed his crotch.

  “Like pigs in shit, old son,” McGuire replied. “Just like pigs in shit.”

  “Who do you think laid on the party?”

  “The British Embassy,” O’Rourke laughed. “But whoever it is, I’d certainly like to thank them.”

  “Where d’you think they got the Bushmills?” said Kelly, idly savouring his favourite tipple. “It’s not exactly your typical local brand.”

  “You don’t think Declan’s been through here?” O’Rourke looked puzzled. “Nah. That’s impossible. Too much of a coincidence, I’d say.”

  The thought of O’Brien troubled all three of them. “You don’t think all this has anything to do with Declan, do you?” said McGuire. “What would be the connection?”

  “Bugger O’Brien,” said Kelly, wrapping his arm around one of the women and fondling her breasts. “Let’s enjoy ourselves while we can.”

  He felt better than he had in weeks, since before they went into the rain forest. The last time he’d had a woman as good as this one it had cost him a bloody fortune. It seemed like all their problems were over.

  ***

  Next morning the contentedly exhausted trio slept late. Their companions of the night had risen at nine and disappeared without waiting for breakfast. The three Irishmen gathered in the sitting room to compare notes on the night’s activities.

  “Mine was fucking fabulous,” said O’Rourke, fondling his crotch. “Just wish I hadn’t been so bloody tired. Fell asleep half way through the second blowjob. You think they’ll be back tonight? My mother disapproves of one-night-stands.”

  “What was that?” Kelly cocked his head to one side. “Sounded like a car.”

  “Two cars,” said O’Rourke. “Maybe we’ll get to meet our host at last. I’d certainly like to thank him.”