First Strike

by Jeremy Rumfitt

  Boss Murphy took off his tool belt and got behind the wheel.

  “Where to, little fella?”

  “Somewhere we can talk. And not so much of the little fella.”

  “My place?”

  Murphy turned the key in the ignition.

  “Your place is fine.”

  In minutes they had left the dingy town behind and the passing foliage progressively assumed its natural colour.

  Murphy said,

  “Eddie at the bar was tellin’ me you came across the water?”

  Boss Murphy looked down at the small man seated beside him and noted the bulge in his shirtsleeve and the large, uncalloused killing hands, lying passive in his lap.

  “I’m from Londonderry,” O’Brien replied, careful to use the full Protestant name, not the shorter, Catholic version. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead.

  Ten miles out of town Murphy turned into the driveway of a small, single storey clapboard house with a neat well-tended garden.

  “I live alone since me mam died,” Murphy explained as he unlocked the door, went in and turned on a light. He led the way into the den that overlooked the yard at the back of the house.

  “Eddie says you’re partial to a drop of Bushmills.”

  He opened a cabinet, poured a couple of drinks and sat in a large comfortable armchair, motioning O’Brien to do the same. He took a good long look at O’Brien before he spoke again.

  “OK, little man, so tell me what it is you’re here for Mr…?”

  “O’Brien. Declan O’Brien.” He flexed his fingers and undid the button of his left shirtsleeve.

  “You might have heard of me?”

  “No; don’t think so.”

  Murphy raised an eyebrow in mock astonishment.

  Should I have?”

  “‘Twas me bombed the chippy in the Shanklin Road, Saturday October 23, 1993. My first big job. Ten Protestants died that night. I blew South Quay in the Docklands, Friday 9 February 1996. Two Brits dead. Scores injured. Millions of pounds worth of damage. On Monday 7 October in the same year ‘twas me did the Thiepval Barracks job.”

  Murphy made a sudden move to get out of his seat, he kept a hunting rifle in a steel gun cabinet by the door, but he decided against it. He wanted to hear what else the repulsive little Papist had to say before he killed him, find out why the fuck he was here.

  “Then I laid low for a while,” O’Brien continued. “I’d become a bit of a celebrity you see; and so valuable the Army Council didn’t want to over-expose my talents. Birmingham and Manchester were my last big achievements before they pensioned me off.”

  O’Brien wasn’t boasting, just recounting the facts the way they were, so Murphy would know who he was. It was important to gain respect, so the bastard Protestant would take him seriously.

  “Takin’ a bit of a risk, aren’t yer?” said Murphy. “We’re all Loyalists here.”

  There was nothing in his tone to indicate his feelings but the horror and revulsion he felt for the little man were real.

  “You’ll be lucky to get out of here alive, Mr O’Brien. All I have to do is pick up that phone and there’ll be a dozen of the boys here in no time. Not that I’ll need ‘em, you Papist piece of shit.”

  “Hear me out, Murph,” said O’Brien quietly. “Then do what you have to do. If you can make it across the room, that is.”

  He rolled up his shirtsleeve and placed the Bowie knife on the armrest of his chair where Murphy could see it.

  “I’ve come about the Peace Process.”

  O’Brien wasn’t smiling.

  “The Peace Process!” Murphy roared. “The Peace Process? Don’t make me laugh. That bunch of garbage isn’t worth the toilet paper it’s written on. You bastards are still in business. What about the three got caught in Bogotá with pants around their ankles? Ornithologists? Ornithologists my ass.”

  “There were four of us in Colombia,” O’Brien explained patiently, not boasting. “You’re lookin’ at the one that got away.”

  Murphy made a move for the gun cabinet where the hunting rifle was. O’Brien grabbed the knife and held it to the big man’s throat, the point of it nicking his Protestant skin.

  “Listen to me, Murphy. Don’t you see? Halting the Peace Process is what we’re both about. What we’re all about.”

  Boss Murphy slumped back in his seat, one hand on his throat, his eyes fixed on the knife.

  “Of course the IRA’s still active,” O’Brien resumed. “Of course we are. It’s the politicals who sold us out.”

  “Go on. I’m listening”

  Boss Murphy’s eyes moved from the knife to the gun cabinet and back again.

  “If we’re going to put paid to the Peace Process we have to do something new. Something dramatic. Raise the stakes to a whole new level. Another bomb in Belfast or the mainland won’t suffice. The Governments in Dublin and London are too spineless to react. They just roll over, every time we breach the agreement. I want to start a fire they can’t put out. Here in the States.”

  Boss Murphy was outraged.

  “Here in the States? No way! We may be Loyalists, but we’re all American citizens on this side of the water.”

  “Doesn’t need to be Americans get burned.”

  O’Brien looked round the room at the white supremacist banners and KKK insignia that lined the walls.

  “Hispanics will do very nicely. I was thinkin’ of Little Havana.”

  Boss Murphy was impressed.

  “So you set off a bomb in the States, fry some spics. The IRA claims credit and bingo, end of the Peace Process for a generation. No Peace Process, no Unification.” He was smiling broadly.

  “You got it in one, Murphy. What do you think? Will you sell me the equipment?”

  “What’s in it for you, O’Brien? I thought you wanted a United Ireland.”

  “I’m in this for profit, Murphy. A United Ireland would put me out of business.”

  “So what is it you need?”

  “Explosives, nothing special; some TNT or dynamite. I’m used to handling Semtex but it doesn’t matter, so long as it’s stable. Whatever you can get your hands on at the quarry without it being missed will do fine. And a detonator. I’ll need a detonator.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a drawing, a single page he’d photocopied from the Al Qaeda manual. He slid it across the table.

  “Do you think you can build me one of these?”

  Boss Murphy picked up the drawing and scratched his head thoughtfully.

  “Bit fancy, isn’t it? Just to light up some TNT?”

  “It’s a signature,” O’Brien explained. “So they’ll be sure to know it was me. How long will it take to build?”

  “If you want exactly what’s on the drawing it’ll take a few days. There’s some parts here I don’t carry in stock, I’ll have to order them in. This baby has remote control. My stuff is mostly hard wired.”

  “A few days is fine.”

  O’Brien was well within his self-imposed schedule and didn’t want the design modified in any way. He wasn’t sure of the technical implications any change might have.

  “I just want exactly what’s on that drawing. Don’t alter a single thing, Murphy. Just build me exactly what’s on the drawing.”

  “You got it.”

  But forget about remote control or a timer, my friend. You’re going to get fried when you set this baby off. Which is fine by me, you Papist piece of shit.

  ***

  29

  Ben Ambrose flew into the private airstrip at Medellin on one of Ortega’s twin-engine Learjet 45s. He was picked up in a jeep by an attractive, dark haired woman in a white blouse and tight-fitting crimson skirt and driven the short distance to Ortega’s secure compound. Ambrose was subjected to a rigorous security procedure and shown into Pablo’s inner sanctum. Ortega rose when he entered and held out his hand.

  “Agent Ambrose?”

  “That’s my name.”

  Ambrose s
at down without waiting to be asked.

  “It’s not unfamiliar to me, Agent Ambrose.”

  Ortega smiled and offered Ambrose a cigar. So this was the man Frank Willowby believed could be bought, but who’d disappeared just when Willowby thought he had him on the hook. Ortega slid the humidor across the desk. Ambrose shoved a fistful of hand-rolled Cohibas into his top pocket.

  “I didn’t know I was that famous.”

  Ambrose was intrigued to know the most powerful drugs baron on the planet would even have heard of him. He was flattered.

  “That Moroccan business?” Ortega explained. “I think you were involved? You and another man… a Brit… let me see… Bowman? Alex Bowman?”

  “You know about that?”

  It felt weird chatting with the world’s most powerful criminal as if they were old friends reminiscing.

  “I just like to keep abreast of what the competition’s up to,” Ortega smiled. “And you’re working with this guy Bowman again now? On this little Irish matter?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Is Bowman with you in Florida?”

  “He moves around a lot.”

  “Yes, I suppose he has to,” Ortega nodded. “Look, Ben, when this thing is over I’d really like to meet him. Spend some time chatting with the two of you. Host a little celebration for you both.”

  Ortega was famous for his parties. He was the most generous of hosts. Nothing was too much trouble. And nothing was too extravagant.

  “Meantime stopping this guy O’Brien is really important to me, Agent Ambrose. You can understand that. That asshole could wipe out everything I’ve worked for. So if there’s anything I can do to help you’ve only got to ask.”

  “Just keep your ear to the ground. We’re pretty sure Tirofijo supplied O’Brien with a major stash of high-grade coke to use as currency. When that shit hits the street we need to know immediately. It’ll help us pinpoint where he’s at. Aside from that it’s hard to say, but maybe we could use a little muscle when the right time comes.”

  “My people are already out there asking questions. Any significant new source of coke comes to market I’ll be the first to know about it. Now, what about my two Irish guys? You want to talk to them now?”

  “Might as well. That’s why I’m here.”

  Ortega summoned an aide and Ambrose was driven to one of the guest cottages within the secure compound. He found McGuire and O’Rourke in the sitting room playing cards, an empty bottle of Bushmills on the table.

  “Can you get us the fuck out of here?”

  Gerry McGuire was a very frightened man. His skin was pale and he’d hardly eaten for a week. Food was brought three times a day but somehow he just couldn’t swallow. Images of Kevin Kelly kept flashing through his mind. Kelly had hung there for three days waiting to die. The stench was bad enough but the worst thing was the sounds he made, the soft, gurgling meaningless squeals of an incontinent child.

  “Give me something to bargain with,” said Ambrose.

  “We know Declan,” O’Rourke pleaded. “And not just what he looks like. We know his habits, his foibles, how he spends his time. Who his friends are. If anyone can find the bastard, we can. We’re no use to anyone just sitting here going crazy.”

  “Makes sense to me,” said Ambrose. “I’ll talk to Ortega, see what I can do.”

  “No need. He’s listening to every word.” O’Rourke pointed at the CCTV camera suspended from the ceiling. “He thinks we know stuff but we don’t. If we did we’d certainly have told him by now. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing we can do.”

  The speakers set in the wall crackled into life.

  “Take them,” said Ortega’s disembodied voice. “He’s right, there’s no point me keeping them here, they don’t know anything. Nada.”

  ***

  30

  Declan O’Brien gazed at his reflection in the speckled mirror. Dark hair suited him. It made his blue eyes more striking. His hair was long, black and wavy now and his week-old beard was filling out. His own mother wouldn’t recognise him. He looked more Levantine than Irish. He even wore built-up heels, to add a little height. He stood on a chair, reached into the suitcase on top of the wardrobe and pulled out four half-kilo bags of pure cocaine hydrochloride. He placed them in a briefcase, taking care not to puncture the plastic. Then he washed his hands, soaping and rinsing them several times before he was satisfied. He took a nip of Bushmills and looked out over Baltimore harbour. He picked up the briefcase, went downstairs and hailed a cab. Fifteen minutes later he stood at the corner of Laurens Street and Druid Hill watching the taxi re-join the heavy city traffic. When it had gone he walked one block south to the corner of Islamic Way, turned left into the side street and walked along till he came to the Masjid Ul-Haqq mosque at number 514. Then he crossed the street to the café on the other side, ordered tea and sat down to wait. A few minutes later four young men of Middle Eastern origin in western dress entered the café. Everybody else got up and left without saying a word. Then an older looking Arab in pressed cotton trousers, short-sleeved shirt and wrap-around shades came in and sat opposite O’Brien. Jamal Habib had a bald freckled head and full luxuriant moustache flecked with grey. His manicured fingers were toying with a string of beads. He held out his hand.

  “My name’s Jamal.”

  There was no trace of an accent. Jamal beckoned to one of the younger men who picked up O’Brien’s briefcase and disappeared into the back room to check the weight and purity of the contents. Moments later he re-appeared and nodded to Jamal. Jamal turned to O’Brien, nodded, smiled and resumed fingering his prayer beads.

  “So where’s the nuclear material?” said O’Brien.

  “Right here in Baltimore. Down in the docks area.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  “You can if you want, it’s yours after all, but I wouldn’t advise it.”

  Jamal shook his head and continued toying with his beads.

  “I don’t want you going down with radiation poisoning while you still have work to do. Maybe next time, when you hand over the detonator and the explosive.”

  “I just need a few more days.”

  O’Brien was determined to keep to his personal schedule. He’d be devastated if he missed the date. He’d made a promise to himself and he intended to keep it.

  “Soon as you deliver them we’ll be ready to roll. But take all the time you need, we don’t want any screw-ups at this stage.” He looked at the scruffy Irishman. “It must be tough, being an outsider. We’d have organised the whole thing ourselves, me and Tirofijo, but it’s impossible for our people to move about freely in the States since 9/11. They watch us the whole time. It doesn’t matter if you’re a citizen or not, if you look like an Arab you’re suspect. And if you have a name like mine it’s even worse.”

  O’Brien made his way back to the seedy rooming house overlooking the harbour, no longer carrying the briefcase. He stopped in at the Ukrainian liquor store at the corner of Division and Manse and asked for a bottle of Bushmills.

  “Buzzmills?” The young assistant looked puzzled.

  “Whiskey. Irish Whiskey,” O’Brien explained.

  The salesman put a bottle of Bells on the counter.

  O’Brien picked up a pencil and wrote the word “Bushmills” in upper case on a scrap of wrapping paper.

  “Show that to your supplier, order me a couple of bottles. I’ll pick them up in a couple of days.”

  He left a fifty-dollar bill on the counter, so the assistant would not forget to place the order.

  There was no phone in O’Brien’s room so he went to the payphone at the end of the street. He was out of change and inserted a credit card into the slot before dialling the twelve-digit, long distance number. It took ninety seconds to get an answer.

  “Is that you, Ma?”

  “Who else would it be, son?”

  “Can I have a word with Liam?”

  “I’ll get him for you.”

  D
eclan heard the click on the line and checked his watch. He would allow himself another minute and a half. By the time they worked out where he was he’d be long gone.

  “Are you there, Declan? Liam’s still sleeping. The nurse just left him. They’re trying out some new kind of drug.”

  “Don’t wake him, Ma. I’ll call again on his birthday.”

  “He’ll be mortified if you forget.”

  “Did I ever miss, Ma?”

  “No, son, never once. You’re a good boy, Declan.”

  O’Brien went back up to his room and collected the large suitcase from the top of the wardrobe. He took one last look out over the Marine Terminal at Locust Point with its thousands of waiting containers that stretched as far as the eye could see. The queue of trucks heading for Interstate 95 was nearly a mile long. Then O’Brien went downstairs, paid his bill and checked out. An hour later he was aboard a train, heading south through the Howard Street Tunnel.

  ***

  31

  Special Agent Hoolahan drove to Palm Beach and picked up Ambrose, McGuire and O’Rourke from the airport. The Irishmen were overjoyed to be out of Ortega’s clutches and insisted on buying Ambrose a drink at the nearest bar. They ordered Bushmills all round.

  “Listen up, lads,” said Hoolahan. “You may be heroes back in the old country, but here in the States you’re not worth shite. There’s one thing I have to make absolutely clear. You’re not to mention the Dirty Bomb to anyone. Got that? Not to anyone. Not your mothers. Not your fathers. Not your wives or girlfriends. If word of it gets out there’ll be massive panic right across the States. So let’s all keep schtum. One word from either of ya and I’ll have you up on Federal charges. Or better still, I’ll hand you over to the bastard Brits. There’s still space in the Maze for the likes of you lads.”

  An hour later they pulled up outside the Noraid office in Miami Beach where Terry Cosgrave was waiting to welcome them. Ambrose made an excuse, grabbed a cab and returned to Little Havana. Hoolahan paused as they crossed the car park.