First Strike

by Jeremy Rumfitt

  Hoolahan choked on his hamburger.

  “Is that what they told you?”

  He never would have thought of it himself.

  “You know it is. Why didn’t you tell me yourself?”

  “You wouldn’t have believed it from me, Terry old son,” Hoolahan chuckled. “You had to hear it from the top.”

  “I’ve already put the word out, Pat. No worries. I’ve got every chapter in the country lookin’ for the bastard. O’Brien so much as talks to an Irishman, he’s nicked. Do you want him turning over to yourself, Pat? Let the Feds take care of him?”

  “I wouldn’t want to go to trial on a sensitive matter like this, Terry, bring the whole movement into disrepute. Best to avoid the publicity. A bullet in the back will do as nicely.”

  “Too good for the traitor, Pat. Much too good for the bastard traitor.”

  ***

  26

  President Santos spent three days briefing his cabinet and the heads of the security agencies one on one. Secretary of Defence Herzfeld was out of the country at this time, lobbying foreign capitals for his pre-emptive strike against Iraq. But the scandal surrounding Saddam’s trumped-up uranium purchase played big in Europe and only the Brits received him with anything other than outright derision. But Herzfeld went on steadfastly repeating his claims. The Iraqi dictator was getting more dangerous by the day, building up his arsenal of weapons of mass destruction and financing terrorism around the globe.

  Karl Herzfeld flew into Andrews Air Force Base, breezed down the aircraft steps at the double, ducked into the waiting limo and was driven at speed to the VIP terminal where members of the adoring media awaited him. Herzfeld entered the pressroom to an explosion of flashlights and thunderous applause. He read a brief statement claiming only modest success for his European tour and said he’d welcome any questions. But time was very short, he had an urgent meeting scheduled with the President.

  “Mr Secretary, would you say our European allies are less than gung-ho for a pre-emptive strike?”

  “I’d say that was a fair assessment,” Herzfeld’s eyes twinkled. “Paris and Berlin don’t have much enthusiasm but I think the Brits are coming round to our way of thinking. Given time they generally do.” He glanced at his watch. “Next question?”

  “Our way of thinking, Mr Secretary? Don’t you mean your way of thinking?” There was gentle laughter. “Or are you saying the Cabinet has come together on this while you’ve been away?”

  More laughter. Everybody knew the Cabinet was deeply divided on the issue. Herzfeld chuckled, along with everybody else.

  “No, so far as I’m aware that didn’t happen. If it had, I might have gotten home a little earlier,” he beamed. “But I live in hope good sense will eventually prevail. The longer America delays the more venomous Saddam becomes. Someday soon the rest of the Cabinet will appreciate that. When they do they’ll find the Department of Defence is combat ready. Next question.”

  “Mr Secretary, do you believe war with Iraq is inevitable?”

  “Yes I do. I also believe it’s desirable. That’s exactly why I’d like to get this thing started.”

  “Would it help your case if we actually found some WMDs?”

  “That’s down to the UN inspectors.”

  “Do you think the French will use their veto?”

  “Pass.”

  Truth was he didn’t give a shit about the French or the UN Security Council. What had those bastards ever done in the defence of freedom?

  “Mr Secretary, according to a recent opinion poll your views are shared by the vast majority of Americans. Your personal approval rating has soared. You’re now more popular than the President himself. Would you care to...?”

  “No comment.” Herzfeld put up his hand. “I never discuss opinion polls. Least of all when they’re favourable. You never know when they’re gonna change.” He looked again at his watch. “That’s it, gentlemen. If you’ll forgive me I have an urgent meeting with the President.”

  Herzfeld hurried out to sustained applause and murmurs of approval.

  “Ask me, he’s the only one with any sense,” said a senior member of the press corps.

  “Only one in tune with the American people, that’s for sure,” added another.

  “The President should let him loose,” replied a third. “Bomb the crap out of Saddam.”

  ***

  Herzfeld listened to the President’s briefing enthralled. Once in a while he smiled enigmatically as some unforeseen idea or angle flashed across his mind. But whatever he was thinking he didn’t share it with the President, he just listened and smiled. As he did so Herzfeld recognised the four criteria of the ultimate terror attack. High symbolic value. Mass casualties. Severe economic disruption. Untold psychological trauma. The complete works.

  When the President concluded all Herzfeld could manage was,

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Karl, I don’t want you spending any time on this,” the President warned. “You have your work cut out with Saddam.”

  “Mr President, you don’t think this guy Jennings is a little…well... inexperienced?”

  “Fact is I can’t spare anyone more senior. We could be at war in a matter of days, you know that better than anybody. I appointed Jennings and I intend to let him do his job. Same way I require you to do yours.”

  Secretary Herzfeld returned to his office at the Pentagon and took time out to call his broker and place a very large order for gold futures at $420 an ounce and exercised his options in Bechtel and Halliburton. Next he summoned his most trusted aide. Colonel Arthur Preston listened in rapt silence as Herzfeld summarized the President’s briefing.

  “I don’t have any faith in this guy Jennings,” Herzfeld concluded. “He’s an outsider and he’s untested. I want you to put together some kind of Special Unit. People who share our way of thinking. Keep the numbers small and security tighter than a rat’s ass. The President insists on total secrecy. So do I. And I intend to find this Irish bastard before young Jennings does. Meantime, we’re going to need some high-grade intelligence of our own. Allocate your best men. Contact your associates across the pond, find out what they know. Put Echelon to work. We need everything we can get on this guy. His personal habits. His sexual tastes. His preferred MO.” Preston made ready to leave. “And one more thing, Arthur,” said Herzfeld. “You didn’t hear it from me but sell everything you can. Get out of stocks and shares and real estate. Bet the whole Goddamn ranch on gold futures.”

  ***

  27

  Bowman rose early, hailed a cab and rode out to Miami International airport. He booked a round trip ticket to DC, paid cash and bought a copy of the London Times and the Echo. He grabbed a coffee, scanned both papers and went through the cursory security check. The superficiality of the procedure amazed him. After 9/11 America was supposed to be on red alert. Bowman had left the Browning in his hotel room but he might just as well have carried it on board, the check was so ineffective.

  Bowman landed at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport just before mid-day and took a cab to the British Embassy at 3100 Massachusetts Avenue. He entered the grand mansion through Lutyens’ fake Queen Anne façade and asked for the Assistant Cultural Attaché. A middle-aged woman in a creased business suit and sensible shoes accompanied him to the communications room in the basement that had been set aside for his use. She talked him through the secure installation, evidently pleased to see him.

  “Not much work for us techno-spooks on this side of the pond,” she enthused. “The natives are mostly friendly.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  A vision of two teen-age hookers flashed across his mind.

  “I don’t suppose you’re free to lunch with Ambassador Brightman?” She made a show of separating the two syllables of the name.

  Bowman looked at his watch.

  “Maybe another time?”

  “He’ll be offended if you don’t at least touch base with him, just as a courte
sy. It’ll make things easier if there’s anything else you need. This is his Embassy after all.”

  Bowman was shown into the Ambassador’s spacious office overlooking the manicured grounds at the rear of the building. Pale winter sunshine flooded the oak-panelled room. The Union Jack stood furled-up in a corner by the window. A full-size replica of Annigone’s formal portrait filled one wall. The leather-topped mahogany bureau was strewn with photographs of Brightman in the company of famous men. An informal shot of the Ambassador and Secretary Herzfeld on the first tee at Augusta was prominent among them.

  The Ambassador was a large, over-weight, pit-bull of a man with jovial cheeks, reddish hair and an oddly simian brow. A half-consumed cigarette was balanced on his nether lip, his shirtfront peppered with ash.

  “Welcome to Washington,” his tone was cordial.

  “Thank you, Ambassador,” said Bowman. “And thanks for all your help. The communications room could come in very useful.”

  “Anything else you need, old boy, you’ve only got to ask. This is sovereign British territory you know, within the grounds we can do what we bloody well like. Don’t need the dear old Yanks’ permission. Even smoke if we want to.”

  His lips parted in a genial grin to expose the tombstones of his stained and rotten teeth. A wave of halitosis eddied through the room. Half an inch of cigarette ash meandered slowly to the floor.

  “I appreciate that very much, sir.”

  All Bowman could think of was a shooter to replace the Browning he’d left behind in Little Havana, but he didn’t think the Ambassador was the appropriate man to ask.

  “Here on a special assignment for Legoland are you, old boy?” the Ambassador winked knowingly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thought so. And what might that be?”

  “Afraid I can’t say, sir. Official Secrets Act and all that. Need-to-know basis.”

  Bowman placed an index finger on the side of his nose.

  “Say n’more, old boy. Say n’more. But if things get hairy out there remember this is sovereign British territory. Queensbury rules apply.”

  Bowman made an excuse and hurried out, leaving the diplomat to wonder who he was and what the hell was his mission. Bowman refused the offer of a ride in the Embassy limo flying the Union Jack pennant, he thought that might be a little too conspicuous and grabbed a cab on Massachusetts Avenue instead. Twenty minutes later he stood on the third floor of the Hirshhorn Museum on Washington’s famed National Mall contemplating Dalí’s “Skull of Zurbaran”. Two London newspapers were displayed prominently under his left elbow.

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

  Bowman turned to see a tall fair-haired man in a grey Brooks Brothers herringbone suit and blue button-down shirt but no tie. Robert Jennings wore half-moon glasses that somehow made him look younger than his forty-seven years.

  “I come here at least twice a month, just to look at this one painting. It’s so clever. So accomplished. I can’t figure out how he does it. If you stand over there on the far side of the room it looks like a Death’s Head. But from here, up close, you can see what it really is, see all the fascinating detail. Do you paint?”

  “I’d like to but I’ve never had the time,” was the prearranged reply.

  Jennings kept staring at the canvass.

  “I think of it as a metaphor. The skull is the Pentagon and those six figures in the foreground represent the Office of Special Plans, feeding the military-industrial complex with contaminated intelligence.”

  “The Office of...?”

  “Secretary Herzfeld’s own personal intelligence resource. So he can bypass all the other agencies and cherry pick the stuff he wants.” Jennings seemed to be talking to himself. “Hungry? They do a very nice Caesar Salad in the cafeteria.”

  They took the lift down to the ground floor and ordered lunch at an isolated corner table overlooking the sculpture garden.

  “Thanks for coming, Alex. This place is really convenient for me, just a short detour on my way from FBI Headquarters to the White House. Matter of fact, I’ve just come from the Oval Office. It was a very difficult meeting. If word of this gets out the whole population will panic. The President has ordered nothing be changed. He hasn’t even summoned the full cabinet. He’ll brief everyone individually as he sees them in the normal course of business. So everything appears perfectly normal. Even nuclear waste is still being shipped around the country on a daily basis. No additional security precautions are being taken. Do you have any idea how much radioactive material we have just lying about in this country?”

  “Not the slightest.”

  “Neither did I. So I checked. Apparently there’s about seventy thousand tons. I can’t even envisage what seventy thousand tons would look like. And don’t ask me how many locations the stuff is stored in. I haven’t been able to find out. Seems nobody knows. Let alone how secure the storage facilities are. Jesus, Bowman, if we even knew which city he’s aiming at we could at least draw up contingency plans to evacuate the place. Give us something to work on. As it is the President can’t address the nation, or even talk to the press. He won’t even convene a meeting of the Intelligence Chiefs, in case there’s a leak and the media smells a rat.” Jennings took a sip of wine. “The President has put me in charge of this operation, Bowman. The rest of Government is tied up with Saddam, whether or not to launch the pre-emptive strike Herzfeld’s pushing for. The guy’s the most respected politician in America right now. The President’s reputation took a real knock when that garbage about the Yellowcake transaction got included in his speech. But if you ask me, Herzfeld flipped on 9/11. The man’s unhinged.” Jennings refilled both their glasses. “But getting back to our problem, Bowman, everything will go through me to the Oval Office. The President won’t even maintain direct contact with CIA or the FBI. Aside from our problems with Iraq, after 9/11 the whole security establishment is far too concerned with covering its own ass. Then there’s a problem with inter-service rivalry. The FBI won’t talk to the CIA. The CIA won’t talk to the National Security Council. The NSC won’t talk to Military Intelligence. But because I’m new to the game I don’t have a Washington profile. I can come and go as I please without causing any excitement. Which is where you come in, Bowman. You’re more of an unknown than I am. That’s a big advantage. More importantly you have direct access to the head of MI6. They have agents inside the IRA. We don’t. But as long as you’re in the States, Bowman, I want you to report to me. And when you find O’Brien I want you to kill him. No arrest. No trial. Just a nice neat execution.”

  “I’ll need to clear that with Merlyn Stanbridge.”

  “I’ve already talked to her, Bowman. She doesn’t have a problem. Her main concern is the Irish dimension to this thing. This is London’s big chance to discredit the IRA. Cause them maximum embarrassment. Talking of which, how are you making out with Special Agent Hoolahan?”

  “It’s early days, I’ve only just met him, but he seems OK. Except he obviously isn’t very fit, puffing and wheezing the whole time. That could make a difference in a tight corner. You know anything about his political affiliations?”

  “You mean is he an Irish Republican? Most Irish Americans are. But there’s not much on his file to indicate one way or the other. He has made regular donations to Noraid over the years but that isn’t necessarily significant, most Irish Americans have at one time or another. It could be just a social thing, keeping up with friends and family. It doesn’t make him political. One thing’s for sure. He is a patriot. Did splendid service in ‘Nam with Special Forces. Judging from his record he should have gotten decorated, but he never did. Word is he disarmed one of Charlie’s bombs under enemy fire but his superior officer stole the credit and picked up the Distinguished Service Cross. Hoolahan never forgave him. And he never forgave the army.”

  “Were his Noraid contributions significant amounts?”

  “Two or three hundred dollars at a time. Just petty cash. But his Noraid conne
ctions could be useful. The IRA wants to stop this just as much as we do. If O’Brien succeeds it’s curtains for the IRA and Noraid in the States. They’d never raise another dime. They realise that. So I want Hoolahan to milk his Noraid contacts for all they’re worth. They have representation in every major US city, especially on the eastern seaboard. If O’Brien makes contact with the Irish community Noraid is sure to know about it.”

  Jennings gestured for the check.

  “Which leaves us with the Colombians. MI6 have opened up a channel to Ortega. Merlyn Stanbridge thinks he could be useful. The President isn’t happy about using him, but he’ll go along. Under the circumstances, he doesn’t have much choice. So the drugs angle is covered. Now it’s pretty much up to you, Bowman. We’re in your hands. Anything comes up my end, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  Jennings downed the dregs of his wine.

  “One last thing. I’ve arranged a safe-house for you over in Georgetown, so you can come and go as you please.”

  He placed a set of keys on the table and scribbled an address on the back of his business card.

  “This has all my contact details, Bowman. Home number. Direct line. Email. You’re to phone me every morning at eight o’clock precisely on my cell phone. I’ll be with the President in the Oval Office at that time. So if you need a decision you can have one. Likewise, I can put you in the picture if my people have turned up anything new. If you get over to the apartment right away, you’ll find Agent Moreno waiting there to brief you on the bureau’s communications protocols. We’ve installed secure voice and data lines, a computer and some other technical gadgetry. That way we can stay in touch.”

  Jennings stood up and held out his hand.

  “Good luck, Bowman. The President of the United States is counting on you. We all are.”

  ***

  Bowman went outside and took a cab to the end of the Mall and north on Ohio Drive. He found the address on the fringes of Georgetown and Foggy Bottom, overlooking a bend in the Potomac. He took the lift to the penthouse floor and let himself in to the apartment. Agent Moreno was seated at the computer, back to the room, finalising the installation of the encryption software. She was wearing headphones and didn’t hear him come in.