First Strike

Jeremy Rumfitt

copyright©JM Rumfitt

The right of JM Rumfitt to be identified as the author

of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998

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may be made without the written permission of the author.

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All characters in this publication are fictitious.

Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Also by Jeremy Rumfitt:-

Snow in the High Atlas

First Strike

Pinocchio and the Bunny –Huggers

The Confessions of Simon Barlow

Whistleblower

Sacred Seed

Inauguration Day

1

The world’s most powerful man went to the window of the Oval Office and gazed out across the barren rose garden at the blue and white February sky. President Michael Santos was halfway through his second year in office. The first Hispanic to occupy the White House and the only President in history for whom English was a second language, he’d been elected by the narrowest majority on record. The President’s rendezvous with history had come out of clear blue sky on September 11th 2001 and in the months that followed the attack he had the highest approval rating of any President in history. The pundits said he was a shoe-in for a second term. But Michael Santos knew political capital could not be set aside for later. You had to spend it while you had it. Sooner or later the polls were going to evaporate. It was only a matter of when and where they stabilised and what the President could accomplish while they were briefly in the stratosphere.

But by late February 2003, some eighteen months after the attack, President Santos could already glimpse on the horizon the dangers that imperilled his position. The economy was heading for recession. The dollar was in free-fall. Unemployment was soaring to record levels. The President’s approval rating had plummeted to a high but assailable sixty-eight percentage points. What President Santos needed was an issue. Something big. Something behind which the American people could unite. To secure his place in history, President Santos needed Saddam Hussein’s scrotum, hanging from his gun belt.

Meanwhile the President’s most pressing problem was holding the hawks in his cabinet in check as Secretary of Defence Karl Herzfeld pushed for a pre-emptive strike against Iraq. Herzfeld went on garnering support as Saddam Hussein obstructed the UN inspectors and the Security Council dithered. The leading hawk in the cabinet, Secretary of Defence Herzfeld was a grey, dull looking man in a dull grey business suit. His skin was sallow but his blue bespectacled eyes held an unexpected hint of humour. For reasons that surprised even him, Herzfeld was the most respected politician in America with the sole exception of the President himself, as he bathed in the afterglow of public adulation that followed 9/11.

The President turned back to the room, silhouetted in the bright light from the window. He stood nearly six feet tall with close-cropped hair, sunken cheeks and the deep-set troubled eyes of office. He spoke with the slightest trace of an accent.

“Where are we on weapons of mass destruction?”

“We’re working on it, Mr President,” said Herzfeld.

“We’ve been working on it for fifteen years.”

“The CIA’s just not coming up with the right intelligence. Looks like Saddam may have the chemicals but not the delivery systems.”

“Did it ever occur to you, Karl, that maybe, just maybe, that’s because there are no WMDs? That perhaps Saddam really did destroy them all, just like he says.”

Herzfeld winced.

“Saddam’s smart. Plus he has a country the size of France to hide them in.”

“Concealing a stockpile of WMDs wouldn’t be his problem, Karl, I understand that. Any cave system in any mountain range would do, so the possibilities inside Iraq are endless. But these things need to be manufactured in modern production plants. How do you hide an entire chemical factory with access roads and secure storage facilities?”

“Trust me, Mr President. I just know they’re out there.”

“If they’re out there, Karl, how come we can’t trace a single sign of them? We have full satellite coverage of the entire Middle East. We can listen to the whole electromagnetic spectrum. We can read the plates on every truck that moves. We monitor every phone call, fax and email. Saddam can’t order a Goddamn pizza unless we know about it.”

“Believe me, Mr President. Weapons of mass destruction will be found.”

“Then we’d better find them quickly. The Security Council meets in a couple of weeks. If we haven’t found them by then the French are going to piss on your parade.”

“That’s exactly why we shouldn’t pussyfoot around. We should launch a pre-emptive strike. Now. While we still have the chance.” Herzfeld made ready to leave. “But it’s not the French I’m worried about, Mr President, it’s the heat. If this thing isn’t over by April the temperatures will make a land war impossible.”

***

Karl Herzfeld returned to his office at the Pentagon overlooking the tree-lined courtyard at the hub of the world’s largest office building where twenty-three thousand employees, military and civilian, occupied four million square feet of space. On the far side of the courtyard gangs of construction workers still toiled day and night to repair the damage done on 9/11. Herzfeld had been at NATO Headquarters in Brussels at the time of the attack and watched the Twin Towers crumble on television. Like millions of his countrymen, Karl Herzfeld had made a vow that day. Whatever the cost, America would be avenged. But to be avenged, America needed an adversary. A target other than Al Qaeda. Al Qaeda was amorphous. You couldn’t nuke it. The most sophisticated missiles, smart bombs, daisy-cutters, were all impotent against it. America was not equipped to fight an idea. The world’s sole superpower was only equipped to fight an army. And Saddam Hussein had an army. But the tectonic plates of global politics were shifting decisively in Herzfeld’s favour. And as American Airlines Flight 77 ploughed into the Pentagon at 9.38 a.m. on 9/11, Secretary of Defence Karl Herzfeld was already formulating plans for a first strike against Iraq.

Herzfeld summoned his most trusted aide. Colonel Arthur Preston of the Joint Special Operations Command wore the ribbon of the Distinguished Service Cross. A livid scar ran the length of his right cheek, a proud reminder of the career-defining moment in Vietnam that had earned him the honour. He’d disarmed one of Charlie’s bombs under persistent enemy fire, saved an entire company of men. Herzfeld envied the Colonel his record. The Secretary of Defence had not fought in any war. Never even donned a uniform.

“I don’t know what those bastards up at Langley think they’re doing,” said Herzfeld. “The CIA has all this fucking equipment, supercomputers, geostatic satellites, spy planes, UAVs. Mossad has people inside the regime. We’ve interrogated dozens of defectors, scientists, technicians, army officers, even Saddam’s son-in-law for Christ sake. So why can’t the CIA come up with the Goddamn goods?”

“If they can’t produce the evidence we need,” Preston mused, “Maybe we should provide some.”

“Have you talked things over with the Brits?”

“The MOD will copy us with anything they get, but I’m not expecting much. The Brits just don’t have the technical resources we do.”

“Of course they don’t. But let’s not underestimate the PR value of having them on board. We need a patsy to take some of the heat and for that the Brits are perfect. But then they’ve had a lot of practice.”

Herzfeld went to the drinks cabinet and helped himself to a chilled Bud.

“Do you think they understand the timescale, the need to get things moving quickly?”

“Yes, sir, I discussed that directly with the PM’s private office. They’ll be ready to roll immediately we give the word.”

“I thought they had a problem with public opinion?” Herzfeld took a swig of beer.

“That’s right, they do. But it’s worse than just public opinion. The PM has a problem with a clutch of rebels in his party. But he’s prepared to tough it out. He’s keen to preserve what he calls the Special Relationship, thinks it gives him some kind of influence over the President.”

“The Special Relationship?” Herzfeld grinned. “That old chestnut? Well who’s arguing, just so long as it works in our favour? Did you get that stuff I asked for?”

Colonel Preston opened his briefcase and placed a manila envelope on the desk between them.

“These should do the trick.”

***

Secretary of Defence Herzfeld and CIA Director William Bradshaw sat at a coffee table in Herzfeld’s spacious office. They removed their jackets and loosened their ties. Herzfeld kicked off his shoes and slouched in an armchair with his feet on the table, a can of ice cold Bud in his hand. He turned to the CIA Director and said,

“OK, Bill, off the record, what’s the worst case scenario?” His manner was dismissive.

Bill Bradshaw was in his early fifties, bald, short and overweight with horn-rimmed glasses worn halfway down his nose. He looked more like a librarian than America’s chief spook.

“Simple. The worst case is that Saddam is telling the truth. There are no weapons of mass destruction.”

This was Herzfeld’s worst unspoken fear. That the UN inspectors should establish beyond doubt there were no WMDs before the war even got started.

“You mean you haven’t found any,” Herzfeld interjected.

Bradshaw ignored him.

“OK, Karl, let’s look at some verifiable facts. We know Saddam had chemical and biological weapons. How could we not know? For Christ sake we supplied him with anthrax, botulin and E.coli, as well as the precursors for chemical agents. Of course back then we thought he was a good guy, fighting a proxy war on our behalf against the Ayatollahs. We also know he never got anywhere near developing a nuclear bomb, though he certainly has the materials to make a radiological device. But then anyone can put together a Dirty Bomb, all it takes is a lot of cash and a small amount of expertise, there’s nuclear waste just lying around all over the Goddamn place. But anyway, all that was way before the last Gulf War. Worst case is cruise missiles destroyed most of his arsenal and now the bastard’s tellin’ us the truth. The shelves are empty. And if cruise missiles didn’t do the job, we’ve had twelve years of crippling sanctions. Saddam’s cash flow dried up to a trickle. Iraq’s annual military expenditure plummeted from twenty-two billion dollars prior to Desert Storm to just over one billion now. That’s barely enough to pay the wages, Karl. Doesn’t leave much for R&D and nothing at all for the purchasing department.”

Bradshaw went to the drinks cabinet, helped himself to a can of Bud and resumed his seat.

“And don’t forget, up until ’98 Saddam did in fact cooperate with the UN inspectors. Half a million tons of chemical agents and thousands more tons of precursors went up in smoke, under UN supervision. Anything he has left now would be way past its use-by date, that stuff doesn’t last forever, it degrades. Saddam openly declared 13,000 artillery shells primed with mustard gas. UN inspectors destroyed them. They also dismantled 6,500 rockets armed with sarin. And if that weren’t enough, UN inspectors closed down all of Iraq’s known chemical and biological production plants. And we know for sure they haven’t been re-activated. These are facts, Karl. Now that’s what I call intelligence.” He took a sip of his Bud. “If we do go back in, our troops will be more exposed to our own depleted uranium shells that anything Saddam can throw at us.”

“What about mobile facilities?” Herzfeld took a drink of beer.

“I’ve never believed in a mobile capability. There are too many technical difficulties.”

“So how come the Brits know mobile labs exist? The PM said as much in Parliament. You can’t go much higher than that, on either side of the pond. The American people think the guy’s a saint.”

“OK, Karl, if the Brits really do know mobile labs exist, let them show us where they are. It simply makes no sense. Chemical labs on the move would shake around like crazy. Bumping along across the desert sealed inside a truckload of lethal chemicals, Jesus, Karl, that’s suicidal. A lab needs a dependable electricity supply - a cooling and ventilation system that’s 100% reliable, 100% of the time, operating in combat conditions. Technically that’s damn near impossible. And anyway, if mobile labs really did exist we’d have spotted one by now. Believe me, Karl, Saddam’s claim he’s clean is perfectly plausible. And anyway there’s been a sea change in Iraq. UN inspectors have unfettered access to sites all over the country now, including Saddam’s palaces. They just need a little more time.”

Herzfeld tried another tack. “What about Saddam’s links to Al Qaeda?”

“Once again, there’s simply no credible evidence. And believe me, we’ve looked hard.”

“So how come all the polls show two thirds of the American people believe those ties exist?”

Herzfeld’s face lit up in an unexpected smile.

“Because they’re still in shock. Because they’re ill-informed. Because they’ve been misled. Hell, Karl, how should I know? Maybe they just want to believe it. Fact is, bin Laden hates Saddam’s guts. Saddam killed more Muslims fighting his neighbours than anybody else in history. And Saddam runs a secular regime. There are Christian churches in Baghdad, even a Synagogue. That’s anathema to bin Laden, in his eyes Saddam is an infidel. Face it, Karl, you have the wrong target in your sights. If you want to hurt Al Qaeda, hurt the Saudis.”

“In my book the Saudis are the good guys.”

“Bin Laden is a Saudi. Saudi money funded 9/11. Fifteen out of nineteen hijackers were Saudis. How many were Iraqi? Not one. Not a single one. For Christ sake, Karl, what more do you want? You and I both know this war is a smoke screen, it won’t help the fight against terrorism one bit. Right now Al Qaeda has no presence in Iraq. They sure as hell will, once we start to bomb the crap out of Baghdad. For every Muslim kid we kill, five will join Al Qaeda.”

Bill Bradshaw took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and yawned.

“What this Administration really needs is a policy based on the intelligence the CIA provides.”

“This Administration already has a policy, Bill. What we need from you is the intelligence to underpin it.”

“Haven’t you got that the wrong way round?”

Herzfeld got up, went to his desk and retrieved the manila envelope from a locked drawer.

“Take a look at these, Bill.”

Bradshaw opened the envelope and pulled out half a dozen black and white eight by ten photographs, some of which were slightly out of focus. The first one showed the Director of the CIA buck naked, fondling the genitals of a young oriental boy. They were kissing. Bradshaw didn’t bother to examine the rest.

“I especially like the shot where he’s sucking your dick, Bill.”

Herzfeld resumed his seat and took another swig of beer.

“OK, Bill, now I have your full attention, I don’t care how you do it but get me some fucking evidence.”

***

2

Since David Frost interviewed Nixon on his resignation the White House had used the British media to address the American people obliquely. And President Santos had reason to be grateful to one particular British journalist. Melanie Drake, Chief Reporter of the London Echo, arrived at the White House punctually at 10.15 a.m. She wore a grey suit, flat shoes, and carried a briefcase but no handbag. Her auburn hair cascaded to her shoulders. Her eyes were green. She went through two security checks, one at the entrance to the White House and one in the antechamber of the Oval Office where a guard removed the scissors and a nail file from her make-up bag.

Melanie felt a little apprehensive as she waited in the outer office. She hadn’t spoken to the President since he’d won the nomination. She’d been there in New Hampshire when he’d snatched the primary against the odds and followed his faltering campaign as he’d eked out a fragile lead in the run-up to November, laboriously assembling a coalition of the poor, the under privileged, the ethnically diverse, as the big money went elsewhere. The White House press secretary opened the door to the Oval Office and motioned Melanie to step inside. President Santos stood up as she entered and offered his hand.

“Miss Drake. Always a pleasure. How long has it been?”

“Not since the night you won the nomination, Mr President.”

Melanie noted how attractive he’d become in office. He’d lost weight and gained authority. He looked sort of...Presidential.

The President smiled.

“You were the only journalist that night who thought I had any chance of winning. Or that maybe I deserved to. It took guts to say that when everybody else was rooting for the opposition. That’s something I’ll never forget, Miss Drake. You’ll always be welcome at the Santos White House.”

“Thank you, Mr President.”

Melanie opened her briefcase, took out her pad and a ballpoint pen. At the top of the sheet she wrote the time, the date and the location. The conversation would be taped but Melanie would note down her impressions; the way the President emphasised a given phrase, the time he took to formulate an answer.

“Shall we make a start?”

The President glanced at his watch.

Melanie finished thumbing through her notes, cleared her throat, pressed the start button on the recorder and got straight down to the nitty gritty. “Mr President, if I can take you back to the weeks leading up to 9/11, there were several indications an attack was planned. You received warnings from a number of foreign intelligence sources, most notably the French and the Israelis. US agencies knew the names of four of the eventual hijackers, yet none of them were questioned. An FBI agent in Arizona reported his suspicions of Arab nationals training at flying schools here in the States. Yet, in spite of all this evidence, no steps were taken to prevent the attacks. How do you explain the incompetence of the intelligence community?

The President frowned.

“There appears to have been a failure of co-ordination among the intelligence agencies. It’s something we’re still looking at. Until that process is complete I can’t really comment.”

Melanie adjusted a setting on the recorder.

“Mr President, the first attack was timed at 8.20 a.m. on 9/11. The third plane ploughed into the Pentagon at 9.38 a.m. In the intervening hour and eighteen minutes no military jets were scramble from Andrews Air Force Base. Not one. Yet this is standard FAA procedure. It’s a legal requirement. It’s also quite routine. Military jets are scrambled every week to investigate commercial flights that stray off course. How do you justify this massive failure to react?”

“I guess the military must have been in shock. The whole nation was in shock.”

Melanie paused.

“Mr President, nothing here reminds you of Pearl Harbour? Reliable intelligence from foreign sources is ignored or buried. American military aircraft remain grounded. A calamitous attack becomes the pretext for a pre-determined war. An American city is sacrificed on the altar of public opinion."

“Miss Drake, I can assure you nothing like that ever happened, either then or now.”

Melanie took a couple of deep yogic breaths.

“Mr President, there’s one question the whole world wants an answer to. Is war with Iraq inevitable?”

“No it’s not.” The President’s smile was reassuring. “All Saddam has to do is comply with the UN resolutions. Problem is he doesn’t have much time.”

“Does that imply you’ve already fixed a timetable? The mid-day temperature in Baghdad at this time of year is in the mid-sixties Fahrenheit. In July it’s way over 120^0. You can’t fight a land war in Iraq in the middle of summer, especially not in protective clothing. It has to be over by April.”

“Time is short but no, there’s no fixed schedule.”

“So you haven’t agreed a timetable with the Prime Minister?”

“A timetable hasn’t even been discussed.”

Melanie noted the President’s hesitation.

“This is a dangerous world we live in, Miss Drake. Not just Saddam. Al Qaeda’s still active. Then there’s the FARC in Colombia, the most dangerous terrorist organisation in the Western Hemisphere, right on America’s doorstep, just a few hundred miles from Miami. Though I’m pleased to see the IRA ceasefire appears to be holding.”

“Mr President, are you suggesting there’s some kind of global network? Are all these organisations linked in any way?”

“There is some evidence of contact, exchanges of expertise, maybe some weapons training. I’d put it no higher than that.”

Melanie made a note to explore this at a later date. The idea there were contacts between the IRA, the FARC and Al Qaeda was explosive but it wasn’t today’s issue.

“With regard to weapons of mass destruction, Mr President, why is Iraq different to India or Pakistan or Israel? Great Britain, France and the USA, come to that?”

Another hesitation.

“Uniquely, Iraq has used WMDs. The others haven’t.”

Uniquely? Melanie was tempted to cite Hiroshima and Nagasaki but she didn’t.

“Mr President, how exactly do you define a weapon of mass destruction? In Rwanda one million people were kill with the machete. Does that make the machete a WMD?”

“No it doesn’t. A weapon of mass destruction is by definition a strategic weapon.”

“So that would specifically exclude battlefield munitions? Artillery shells and the like?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Mr President, UN inspectors have been looking for evidence of WMDs since the end of the last Gulf War. I assume the US intelligence community has been doing the same thing. Mr President, don’t you share your intelligence with the UN inspectors?”

“Yes, we do.”

The President steepled his hands, relieved this wasn’t going out live on television. He could see where the journalist was heading and he didn’t want to go there.

Melanie persisted.

“So you share your intelligence with the UN. The UN has teams of inspectors on the ground. And still no WMDs have been found? Mr President, if you’ll forgive me, something somewhere isn’t working.”

“None have been found yet.”

Melanie noted the President’s emphasis.

“Iraq is a big country, Miss Drake. WMDs aren’t that difficult to hide.”

“And if none were ever found Mr President, would you still go to war?”

This was the one essential question.

“If Saddam refuses to comply we certainly have that option.”

“Mr President, the inspectors are asking for more time. Under the circumstances that doesn’t sound unreasonable. They’re making good progress. The Iraqis seem willing to cooperate at last and the West is under no immediate threat. If there’s no fixed timetable, you have that flexibility. How long will you give them?”

“We’re talking weeks. Not months.”

“So in conclusion, Mr President, the world should prepare itself for war.”

“Ultimately that’s down to Saddam Hussein. The solution is in his hands. But if he doesn’t comply then yes, war is the likely option. The American people understand that. I think they support it.”

This was the positive message he needed to convey. The message he knew the American people wanted to hear.

“One last question, Mr President. Can you assure the world this is not a war against Islam?”

“I most certainly can. This is a war against terror wherever it appears, whether in the Middle East, Colombia or Northern Ireland.”

Again that linkage.

Melanie switched off the recorder, ran her fingers through her auburn hair and gathered up her things.

“Scary stuff, Mr President.”

“If you think that’s scary,” the President laughed, “you should talk to the Secretary of Defence.”

***

3

Deep in the equatorial south of Colombia, in an isolated region of impenetrable rain forest, snow-capped peaks and precipitous ravines, lies the FARC safe-haven; an area the size of Switzerland officially ceded to the narco-terrorists by a government no longer in control of its own territory. Within the safe-haven the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia is the sole authority. The elected government holds no sway at all. The best equipped and by far the richest terrorist group operating in the Western Hemisphere, the FARC was number two on Washington’s hit list, second only to Al Qaeda. But the FARC did not have Al Qaeda’s reach or reputation. The Colombian terrorists had not accomplished anything significant on the international stage. They remained a highly localised phenomenon, though their ambitions as well as their resources were truly global.

The head of FARC, universally known as Tirofijo – Sureshot, in tribute to his skills in marksmanship as a young man was now in his late fifties, overweight, tanned, with thinning hair and a flourishing grey beard. He wore sweat encrusted army fatigues without insignia, dark glasses and a Yankees baseball cap. His lined and pitted face and calloused hands bore the marks of decades of struggle, decades fighting for the dream. The destruction of capitalism. Tirofijo yearned to complete the trinity with Castro and Guevara in the pantheon of the South American revolution. For if Ché outshone him for glamour, and Fidel for achievement, Tirofijo surpassed them both in the purity of his socialist zeal. Late in his career, Tirofijo still ate and slept with his troops, shared their dangers, led them into battle. Above his head turned his only privilege of rank, a whirring fan.

Opposite Tirofijo sat a man of Middle Eastern origin in pressed white linen trousers, short-sleeved cotton shirt and wrap around gold-rimmed shades. Jamal Habib had a bald freckled head, a round jovial face and full luxuriant moustache flecked with grey. His manicured hands were toying with a string of beads. He was sweating. He could hardly breathe. Habib could tolerate the heat but not the fetid, ninety-five per cent humidity of the insect-infested rain forest. This place really was the pits. The slight draught from the overhead fan barely reached him. Habib longed for the air-conditioned sanitation of his home back in the States.

They sat on hard upright wooden chairs without upholstery. Face down on the desk between the two conspirators lay a battered dog-eared manual.

“So, Jamal, is everything prepared?”

Tirofijo emptied his glass and poured himself another Tequila. He waved the bottle at Habib but the Arab shook his head and opted for a can of ice-cold Pepsi.

“We took delivery of the main consignment many months ago.”

Jamal spoke American English with no trace of an accent.

“But we don’t have anyone in place to co-ordinate the project, bring all the elements together and assemble the package. After 9/11 it’s impossible for our people to move about freely in the States. We’re under constant FBI surveillance. We need an outsider to complete the job. Trouble is, we don’t have one.”

The prayer beads rotated slowly in his fingers. Habib pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his sweaty brow.

“What about your own people? Anybody come to mind? It’s your bucks after all.”

Tirofijo shook his head.

“Nobody of the right calibre. We’re used to fighting in the mountains. We’re not ready yet for urban combat. We’re working on it, but we need more time. Bombing cities requires a whole new set of skills… But leave it with me, Jamal. There’s an Irishman I know could do the job.”

***

4

Declan O’Brien lived quietly with his mother and younger brother Liam in a comfortable terraced house just off Dublin’s Parnell Square, though Declan himself was hardly ever there. He moved frequently from one safe house to another, just one step ahead of the murderous Brits. The house was provided rent-free by a wealthy supporter of the Irish Republican movement.

Declan was a hero to those who knew him, and his younger brother, Liam, a victim of one of the worst atrocities of the war. That such a family should receive the financial support it needed was routine. It wasn’t charity. It was recognition. Declan’s mother slept upstairs at the back of the house while the front room on the ground floor had been converted to a bed-sitting-room for Liam, so he wouldn’t need to negotiate the stairs.

Declan O’Brien was a small man in his middle forties, just over five feet tall with straight fair hair, expressionless blue eyes and thin passionless lips. If his facial features were unremarkable his hands were large and strong. They seemed somehow unrelated to the rest of his frame and clearly had a function all their own.

Declan rose at dawn and hurriedly packed his bag. He planned to be in the tropics no more than a week if he could help it. Conditions in the rain forest were primitive and he didn’t need much kit. A tube of insect repellent, a jar of water purification tablets, a spare pair of jeans, some tee shirts, a good pair of boots and a couple of bottles of Bushmills. Declan had not slept well, he wasn’t looking forward to the trip and his arm was still sore from the top-up jabs. Brother Liam wouldn’t wake for hours, the drugs that helped him through the night were very effective, but Declan’s mother was already up and made him breakfast in the kitchen, a grand fry-up, just the way he liked it.

“Look after yerself, ma.” He kissed her on the cheek. “And look after Liam for me.”

“He’ll miss yer, son.”

“And I’ll miss the both of yer.” Another kiss. “I’ll be back in time for Paddy’s Day.”

“Remember to phone him on his birthday. He’ll be mortified if you forget.”

“Did I ever miss?”

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

She gave him one last hug. She had no idea where he was going or what he was up to. If she had, she wouldn’t have let him go. But there were things it was better for a mother not to know and it had been that way with Declan since a Brit bullet had shattered his brother’s spine on that fateful Bloody Sunday.

There are no direct flights from Dublin to Bogotá. If there had been Declan O’Brien would not have taken one. He also knew better than to make reservations on-line or travel under his own name. Because of his unusual line of work he had a number of identities, some British, some Irish, and a complete set of papers for each; birth certificates, passports, driving licenses, credit cards, national insurance numbers, down to golf club memberships and dry-cleaning receipts. He bought a fly-drive package from a High Street travel agent, paid cash and took the mid-day flight into Miami International Airport. He picked up a convertible at the car rental office, made one local phone call and drove the fifty miles north to Palm Beach where a fully fuelled, twin-engine Learjet 45 was waiting with its engines running. O’Brien had never flown in an executive jet before. He was impressed and he was flattered that someone would think he was that important. But O’Brien knew he’d earned it. Declan O’Brien deserved respect. What he resented most was that in spite of his successes practically nobody knew him, knew what he had done. Within the leadership of the Irish Republican movement his name was widely respected but not outside it, though he was well known to the British Secret Intelligence Service, more popularly known as MI6. But Declan O’Brien could still walk down any street in Dublin and fail to turn a single head. Declan O’Brien yearned to be recognised. To see his name in lights.

The Learjet had a crew of two, pilot and co-pilot, but no other passengers. The aircraft surged forward on the runway, climbed steeply over the blue ocean and up into the clear blue Florida sky, banked to starboard and soon reached cruising height at twenty-eight thousand feet. The captain switched to autopilot, lit a cigarette and opened a pornographic magazine. The co-pilot opted for a nap. O’Brien helped himself to a scotch and soda from the mini-bar. Four and a half hours later they broke cloud cover at fifteen thousand feet, thirty miles north east of Medellin in the foothills of the Colombian Andes. O’Brien gazed out of the window. It looked like any other modern city with its glistening towers of steel and glass, the ribbons of newly constructed highway. Only the vegetation indicated this was not a European city. Tropical rain forest encroached on the outskirts and held the sprawling suburbs in a lush green stranglehold.

Medellin and its surrounding province of Antioquia had always been prosperous, there were steel and textile mills in the outlying suburbs, plantations of coffee and banana on the distant hills. But since the explosion of the cocaine trade in the early 1970s there were now more millionaires in this one small city than anywhere else on the planet.

When O’Brien climbed down the aircraft steps and alighted onto the private airstrip it was nearly dark. A blast of hot, humid air rose up from the tarmac like the backdraught from a steam oven and hit him in the face. He removed his jacket, loosened his tie and watched an open-topped jeep speed across from the small terminal building. It seemed to levitate in the wavering heat. The driver was an attractive, dark complexioned woman in her late twenties in a white loose-fitting cotton blouse and tight crimson linen skirt. O’Brien threw his holdall onto the back seat and climbed in beside her. He smiled but he didn’t speak.

The woman put the jeep in gear, accelerated across the runway and out through the security gate, waving at the guards. There was no customs and no passport check. Twenty minutes later the jeep pulled up at the gates of a large private compound. The woman parked in the full glare of the halogen lights and stepped down onto the road. The guard unhitched his Uzi SMG, checked her photo-ID and the vehicle registration on a list and took a good look at O’Brien, comparing his features to the photograph on the clipboard. The guard motioned the Irishman to step down from the vehicle and frisked him thoroughly. He was clean. Next he checked O’Brien’s bag. It contained only clothing, an open litre of Bushmills and a sheathed Bowie knife. The guard impounded the nine-inch blade with the curved tip that was sharpened on both edges. O’Brien shrugged. The guard saluted and Declan and the woman climbed back into the jeep as the huge wrought iron gate swung open. As they drove into the compound O’Brien noted the electrified fence that stretched away on either side, the watchtowers, the armed guards patrolling the grounds with dogs. Minutes later the jeep pulled up outside one of the many guest cottages. O’Brien got out, retrieved his holdall from the back seat and smiled at the woman.

“Thanks.” It was the first word he had spoken.

“De nada.” She smiled. “You want I come inside?” She was playing with the buttons of her blouse.

“I’ll just wait for Mr Ortega to call. Thanks anyway.”

O’Brien was grateful for the offer. Pablo Ortega’s hospitality was legendary. But after fifteen hours on the move Declan just wanted to sleep and anyway the woman wasn’t his type. Too wholesome. He needed something a little more…special. Tonight he would content himself with the Bushmills.

“My name’s Fernanda,” she turned to go. “If you change your mind just pick up the phone.”

***

5

The most dangerous man in the most treacherous country in the world was not a politician. But he did control an army. He wasn’t an industrialist. But he did control hundreds of processing plants, a fleet of planes, even a couple of submarines. He wasn’t a landowner. But he did control vast tracts of the landmass of Colombia, impenetrable forest and rough mountain terrain. He built roads, bridges, airstrips, hospitals. He gave shelter to the poor.

Pablo Ortega was forty-two years old, a little over five feet tall, solidly built but not fat. His thick black hair fell forward in unruly boyish curls. His hooded eyes masked a fierce animal intelligence. Pablo Ortega had earned his reputation on the streets of Medellin as a boy, starting out with hubcaps and car stereos, working his way up through extortion to kidnapping and murder. He wasn’t smarter or more intelligent than his peers, but he was more ruthless, more brutal. He re-read the report for a third time. He was displeased but he wasn’t angry. At most the incident had cost him maybe seven million dollars in lost market share. Seven million dollars was an important sum, but it wasn’t a fortune. But most of all, Pablo Ortega was intrigued. The idea cocaine could be grown outside of South America, right on Europe’s doorstep, had never occurred to him. He would put a team of specialists on the case immediately; botanists, agronomists, logistics people. If cocaine really could be grown in the High Atlas Mountains of Morocco it could be a valuable opportunity, not a huge opportunity, but an interesting one.

Ortega’s office was on the fifth floor of an ultra-modern, steel and glass climate-controlled building at the hub of the ring fenced compound. The furnishings were ornate gilded French Imperial. The antiques, paintings and ornaments were priceless originals. Aside from the view of the tropical landscaped gardens it might have been the corporate HQ of some vast international conglomerate on Wall Street.

Pablo Ortega looked up from the papers he was reading and addressed Frank Willowby in almost perfect English. Courtesy was one of Ortega’s most exaggerated traits. Willowby was the DEA’s top man in Europe and worked out of the American Embassy in London’s Grosvenor Square. Frank Willowby, grey eyes, grey hair, grey business suit, looked every inch the bureaucrat he was. He seemed nervous. So far he hadn’t been maltreated but he had no idea what to expect. He was in the presence of a man the whole world feared. A man richer than Rockefeller. More powerful and more ruthless than Capone and Dillinger combined.

“I’ve been reading your report, Frank. Most interesting. I shall have the matter looked into right away. See what’s possible and what’s not. Meantime, let’s see if you can flesh things out for me a little. Give me some of the flavour. Who’s this guy Ambrose? How do you rate him?”

“Ben   Ambrose?”

Willowby felt a dryness in his throat. He had expected hostility, threats, but somehow Ortega’s civility was more menacing than these.

“He’s a good operative. Bit of a maverick. Doesn’t respond well to discipline.”

“Ambrose claims he was working alone. You believe that?”

“No, sir, I know for a fact he wasn’t. I’ve had access to the Scotland Yard files. Ambrose was working with a Brit called Bowman.  Alex Bowman.”

“And how do you rate this Mr Bowman?”

“Don’t know much about him, sir. Except he served some time. Claims they were trumped-up charges, but that’s what everybody says.”

“So who else knew about the coca farm?”

“A journalist called Melanie Drake somehow got involved. She had a very rough ride. Bowman was very protective.”

“You have a touching faith in human nature, Frank.”

Willowby noted Ortega’s smile. He didn’t like it. Faith in human nature was not known to be one of Ortega’s favoured characteristics.

“Look, Frank, I have some other stuff to deal with concerning my operations in the States. We’ll talk again tomorrow. Maybe make some decisions.”

As Willowby moved towards the door Ortega touched him on the elbow.

“Nice necktie, by the way. Suits you.”

As they walked back to the cells Willowby turned to his guard. “What was that about a necktie?”

“It’s Señor Ortega’s trademark,” the guard smiled. If Willowby had been Colombian, he wouldn’t have needed to ask. “When Señor Ortega was making his way up he invented the necktie, la corbata. If you didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, or he thought you were lying, he’d slit your throat from bottom to top, right up under the chin. Then he’d insert his fist in the open wound and drag your tongue out through the gap, so it looked like you were wearing a tie. But he wouldn’t kill you. He’d just watch you to die.”

***

It wasn’t till the following afternoon that Ortega had time to spend on the Moroccan project, there were other more pressing matters demanding his attention. But his investment in Willowby was too great to abandon lightly. The American had been recruited years earlier when Frank was a rooky agent working his way up the DEA ladder in Miami. Ortega had fed him a series of minor coups, two or three thousand dollars’ worth of coke at a time. Willowby’s ascent was swift. Now, at the age of only forty-seven, he was the DEA’s top man in Europe. The intelligence he was able to provide was beyond price.

Ortega had Willowby brought to his office and invited O’Brien to join them. He took the Irishman quickly through Willowby’s story, pausing briefly here and there to check a fact or confirm an assumption with Willowby.

“So somewhere up in the High Atlas Mountains,” Ortega concluded, “this guy was growing coca. Sounds like a really good idea to me. I might want to try it myself. We lose a lot of merchandise crossing the Atlantic. But first I need to eliminate anybody who knows it can be done. The only lead we have right now is a DEA agent named Ambrose. Willowby here will give you his details before you leave. Fortunately we know where to find him. We also know Ambrose was working with a Brit called Alex Bowman. Ex-cop with an interesting background. Effective sonofabitch. There was a girl who also got involved. She could be dangerous. She’s a reporter. There’s been nothing in the press so far and I want to keep it that way. This thing leaks out there’ll be FBI all over the goddamn place. Point is, we can’t just blow Ambrose away. We need him alive so we can take care of Bowman and the girl.”

O’Brien flexed his fingers.

“I won’t be able to move for a couple of weeks or more. I have to go south from here, up into the Cordilleras, hook up with three other Paddies. We’re negotiating with a team of people from the FARC. They want to buy some of our expertise.”

Ortega frowned. He didn’t like splitting resources with the FARC. The Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia had a whole different agenda, more akin to Al Qaeda’s than his own. Getting too close to the Marxist guerrillas could be bad for Ortega’s business. He had enough trouble with the CIA and the FBI. He didn’t need to attract the attention of the Pentagon as well.

“Would it speed things up if I helped with transportation?” said Pablo. “This is a big country, as big as France and Spain combined. You can borrow one of the jets if you like.”

“Thanks,” the Irishman smiled, “but there’s no way Tirofijo would let your pilot anywhere near the safe-haven, and besides, they don’t have a landing strip long enough to take a jet. The command centre is constantly on the move and they’d never have the time to build one. You could fly me into Bogotá if you like, but I’ll have to disappear from there. I’ll touch base with you on my way back to Miami.”

***

Declan O’Brien flew into Bogotá’s El Dorado International airport on one of Ortega’s executive jets. The Learjet taxied to the General Aviation terminal reserved for private flights. O’Brien paused at the top of the aircraft’s steps like a sporting hero responding to applause, raising an arm and acknowledging the crowd.

On the observation deck overlooking the runway two men stood apart from the crowd. One was short and stocky with olive skin and tightly curled black hair, dressed in a tailored business suit. This was Captain Raül Abono of the Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad, the Colombian Secret Service. The other was MI6’s Head of Station at the Embassy in Bogotá. He was tall and blond, in grey flannels and blazer and what looked like a club or regimental tie. He touched his companion on the elbow. Abono peered through the viewfinder of a compact camera, adjusted the zoom and took a couple of headshots of O’Brien. Then they went downstairs to the crowded concourse and watched the Irishman exit onto the pavement.

O’Brien surveyed the line of parked cars, spotted the one he wanted and walked over to a two-tone Honda SUV. The driver wound down his window and exchanged a few words with the Irishman. O’Brien dumped his bag on the back seat and got in. The two observers watched the SUV disappear into traffic. The Brit tried to spot the tail pulling out to take up position behind it. There wasn’t one.

“You’re not having him followed?” The Englishman was stunned.

“Not much point,” said the Colombian, “he’ll be headed for the safe-haven. A tail’s not much use on the open road and anyway I have no jurisdiction there.”

“Then why not arrest him now? While we have him in our sights?”

“And charge him with what exactly? We’ll pick him up on his way back. After we find out what he’s up to.”

It took O’Brien one day and one night to get where he was going.  Dawn broke over the craggy peaks of Cauca province, the early morning heat lifting a dense haze through the triple canopy of jungle. The chorale of birds and insects was shrill.

One hundred and twenty miles south of Calí the road took a couple of sharp hairpin bends. The driver turned off the main road and joined an unmarked track, ascending steeply up into the rain forest. After a couple of hundred yards, out of sight from the highway, the driver parked the car and both men got out, stretched their limbs and peed copiously. Then the driver tied a black bandana over O’Brien’s eyes and resumed the upward

climb. After a few kilometres they came to the first of a series of checkpoints. The driver identified himself and his companion. One of the guards made a call on a WW2 field telephone, obtained approval from the next checkpoint and waved them through.

Two hours and five check points later they arrived at the FARC encampment. O’Brien was shown to a wooden hut equipped with a fold-up bed and little else. He slept for four hours fully clothed and was woken by a young woman in khaki fatigues, toting an Uzi sub-machine gun.

“Venga conmigo.”

The camp consisted of several dozen wooden huts of assorted sizes arranged around a central open space, in the middle of which the embers of an overnight fire still glowed. To one side was a bank of communal latrines. O’Brien estimated the place could accommodate two or three hundred guerrillas. The rain forest would provide all their needs; fruit, game, water, fuel. Men and women in camouflage gear busied themselves with assault drills and target practice. Somewhere in the far distance the staccato of machine gun fire shattered the silence. A flock of startled birds rose squawking from the trees. A cloying heat lay on the jungle like a sodden blanket.

The camp was littered with military equipment of all kinds from rifles to rocket launchers and ground to air missiles, mostly of eastern European or Israeli origin, most of it brand new. The FARC’s problem wasn’t acquiring arms; it was learning how to use them. How to calibrate and maintain them, keep them clean, even how to fire them.

“Holy Mother of God,” thought O’Brien. “If we could spend money like this, we’d have the British out of Ireland in a month.”

O’Brien followed the woman across the clearing to a cabin set apart from the rest at the top of a low rise. The roof of the squat building bristled with antennae. The woman un-slung the SMG and stood guard at the door as O’Brien entered. The walls of the hut were crammed with communications equipment. The system was entirely analogue, though to O’Brien’s well-trained eye it looked primitive but effective.

Tirofijo sat in a swivel chair behind his desk, blowing cigar smoke up into the whirring fan above his head. A hand rolled Cohiba, Castro’s gift, was clamped between his teeth. He shoved the humidor across the desk at Declan.

“Bienvenido, hombre.”

The two war hardened warriors had done business a couple of times before. They respected one another. O’Brien represented Europe’s most feared and most effective terrorist group. Tirofijo commanded the best-equipped and most lavishly financed guerrilleros in the western hemisphere. They thought of themselves as equals.

The Colombian got up, went to a cupboard and extracted the bottle of Bushmills he’d procured especially for his friend. They drank a Cuban toast. “Socialismo o Muerte” – Socialism or Death. Then Tirofijo resumed his seat, opened a draw, pulled out a battered dog-eared manual and slid it across the desk at the Irishman.

O’Brien picked up the document and flicked through its torn and fading pages. His evaluation took several minutes, during which he didn’t utter a single word. Then he put his lips together and let out a long low whistle.

Tirofijo noted the Irishman’s hesitation.

“If you’ll do it, Declan, I’ll let you choose the target and the date. Any place you like. Any day you like. Anything that suits you.”

O’Brien shook his head and placed the manual face down on the desk.

“I don’t think I can do it.”

It wasn’t a moral judgment. O’Brien was concerned about the logistical complexities of the operation.

“Soy viejo, Declan,” Tirofijo explained. “Y soy cansado de la lucha.” He refilled both their glasses. “I’m an old man and I’m tired of fighting. I’ve been fighting all my life. I need to do something big. Now. Before it’s too late.”

Tirofijo unlocked a metal cabinet, pulled out a suitcase, placed it on the desk and opened it. The case was packed with scores of see-through plastic envelopes, each stuffed with half a kilogram of fine white powder. Tirofijo grinned.

“Half a million dollars says you can.”

***

6

In the hills above San Vicente del Caguan, deep inside the FARC safe-haven, four Irishmen sat incongruously around a campfire. O’Brien had linked up with Gerry McGuire, the IRA’s chief engineer, Niall O’Rourke, Sinn Fein’s accredited representative in Cuba and interpreter for the group, and Kevin Kelly, the youngest of the team, who wrote the training manuals. Beneath the triple canopy of jungle the night sky was black. No moon. No stars. All they could see in the flickering flames was their own hands and faces. The dank night air was loud with the chatter of birds and insects. Twenty feet away, unseen, an anaconda slithered by. A group of armed guerrillas watched the four Irishmen from a distance. Declan O’Brien poured the last of the Bushmills.

“You’ve got to admit, Gerry old son, this is a sweetheart deal.”

Gerry McGuire swatted the mosquito on the back of his hand.

“The politicals sure as hell won’t like it.”

“Then we won’t tell them. They say our war is over. But what are we to do, old son? We have to make a living, or the end of the war will be the end of us, and our families. We have all this marketable know-how. The guerrilleros are keen to buy it. All they want from us is training for Christ sake, not direct involvement. They’re used to fighting in the mountains. They have to move on from there, learn to bomb cities and towns. That’s what we’re good at. We have years of experience. We have the ordnance and we have the expertise.”

“It doesn’t bother you?” said Gerry McGuire. “Getting paid in drugs?”

“This is the modern world, old son. Drugs is the new currency.” O’Brien emptied his glass. “And anyway, we’ve always been involved in drugs. You know that as well as I.”

“To finance the war. Not as an end in itself.”

“They say our war is over, Gerry. What do you want me to do? Retire? Not me. I’m in favour of a little private enterprise myself.”

He was thinking of Pablo Ortega and the job he wanted done.

“Sod the politicians. I have a reputation to maintain. And a crippled brother to support.”

“I suppose you’re right, Declan. We can’t live on love and fresh air alone.”

McGuire sat toying with his empty glass.

“Long as we can keep it quiet. If the Yanks get wind of what we’re up to there’ll be hell to pay. They’ll cut off our funding for sure.”

“I keep tellin’ ya, Gerry. Our war is over. We don’t need the Yanks anymore.”

Gerry McGuire gazed across the campfire at his friend. He had known Declan O’Brien all his life. They’d grown up together in the Bog side. Lived through Bloody Sunday. Bombed London and Belfast. Declan O’Brien wouldn’t turn his back on the Americans unless he had good reason. American funds had kept the movement going all these years. Without Noraid the IRA was nothing. McGuire picked up a smouldering stick and threw it on the fire.

“Declan old son, is there something you’re not telling me?”

O’Brien lowered his eyes.

“The guerrilleros want something we don’t have.”

“And what would that be, old son?”

“A Dirty Bomb.”

McGuire gaped at his friend as if he were a total stranger.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“You can’t do that, Declan. It would ruin everything. Make outcasts of us all. What would be the point?”

“I’d be up there, Gerry.” O’Brien gazed into the flames. “Don’t you see? Up there with bin Laden. I’d be part of history. I’ll not be eclipsed by some fuckin’ up-start Arab.”

***

7

Morocco’s Holy City of Fez does not reveal its secrets easily; mysterious, shrouded, they must be uncovered with reverence and patience. The walled medieval capital lies at the eastern edge of the plain of Saïss, bordered to the south by the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. The Medina’s labyrinth of narrow winding alleyways is crammed with stalls and workshops. This is the famed Kissaria, the business and commercial district, where the craftsmen of El Atterine present a vivid spectacle. A dyer stirs his yarns, drenched in rainbow colours. A tanner tramples goatskins under foot, beneath a blistering sky. It is a biblical scene. Nothing much has changed in Fez for over a thousand years.

The Palais Jamaî, transformed from the Vizier’s residence into a luxury hotel in 1930, is an incomparably graceful edifice. Set into the city walls at Bab el Guissa it’s lush gardens and sweeping terraces overlook the teeming Medina. Alex Bowman sat in the warm February sun, savouring a gin and tonic. He watched the black man doing lengths in the pool, wishing it were him. Bowman hadn’t taken any exercise for months. The jagged exit wound in the middle of his chest was almost healed but he wasn’t back to full fitness yet, the movement in his right shoulder still restricted. Bowman had put on several pounds, bringing his prominent nose and jutting jaw into proportion. His thick brown hair was newly cropped, his blue eyes pale and empty of expression. Alex Bowman looked thoroughly drained.

The black man hauled himself out of the pool in the single fluent movement of an athlete and grabbed a towel. His breathing was light and easy. Ben Ambrose stood a little less than six feet tall and weighed about 160 pounds. He looked like a good middleweight boxer in the mould of the great Sugar Ray. A gold chain hung around his neck. Bowman smiled at him and said,

“How was school?”

“School was fine,” Ben Ambrose chuckled. “They say I have a talent.”

“Do you?”

Bowman spoke four languages fluently but had never had a shot at Arabic.

“Don’t think so. But I am having fun. And anyway I owe it to Willowby to give it my best shot.”

Ben Ambrose owed Frank Willowby a bundle and he knew it.

“You’ve heard from Willowby?”

Bowman rattled the ice around in his glass, picked out the slice of lemon and put it in his mouth.

“Not lately. He took off on an extended vacation, disappeared back to the States for a whole month, working on his golf swing.”

“I’d like to meet Willowby.”

Bowman beckoned to the barman and gestured for another round of drinks.

“Sounds like an impressive bloke.”

“Willowby? Willowby’s the best, he has an amazing record, worked his way up from nothing, not like some of the brass got parachuted in. But I told you already, Alex, Willowby doesn’t even know you exist. I’d like to keep it that way. It shouldn’t matter much to you old buddy, you’ve been well paid. For me it’s a career.”

“True, except I took a bullet in the back. Bloodshed wasn’t included in my fee. So you still owe me.”

There was still shrapnel lodged behind Bowman’s sternum, a jagged exit wound in the middle of his chest.

“But at least I have my reputation back. I’ll never be a copper again but I shouldn’t have a problem finding work. It just won’t be official. So play it your way, Ben, take all the credit you want.”

“You’re a star, Alex, always knew you’d see things my way.”

Ambrose stretched, yawned, and put on his gold-rimmed shades.

“You plan to go on living in Spain? Couldn’t you go back to England, now your record’s clean?”

“Spain’s home. I make a decent living and I love my house in San Roque.”

“By the way, what happened to the girl?”

“Melanie? Melanie’s OK.”

“Did she have an abortion?”

“She discussed it with her priest but in the end she couldn’t come to terms with it.”

“So she’s Catholic? I didn’t know that. Jesus. Must have been a real dilemma for the poor kid.”

“It was. She takes her religion seriously. All that hocus-pocus is way beyond me, but for Mel it’s very real. Anyway, thank God in the end she miscarried.” Bowman frowned. He really didn’t want to talk about this.

“But at least she kicked the habit. Poor kid went cold turkey. Then she got her old job back at the Echo, at twice the pay. Her editor’s been really supportive. I think the old bugger fancies her.”

Bowman sipped his gin and tonic.

“Mel says she’s had enough excitement for one lifetime. Can’t say I blame her. I still worry about her though. She knows too much about the coke plantation up in the Atlas. Knowledge like that could be dangerous.”

“She publish anything about the farm?”

“She’s working on it. I think she has a book in mind. But right now she’s busy with your President and his stupid war.”

“The war may be stupid, Bowman, but the President’s OK. Matter of fact I voted for him. It’s that asshole Herzfeld who’s certifiable. They should lock the bastard up and throw away the key. Does he really think he’ll put a stop to terrorism by bombing the crap out of Baghdad? They’ll be joining Al Qaeda in droves, right across the Middle East.”

“I have an uncle used to be in advertising,” Bowman mused. “He always says ‘son, if you want to sell the cure you must first spread the disease’.”

“Hey, Alex, that’s pretty smart.”

Ambrose climbed into his Calvins, slipped on his Gucci’s and fastened an 18 ct Oyster on his wrist.

“What about you, Alex? You did good work, wouldn’t you like some recognition?”

“I like it here in the shadows, on the outside looking in. But you can do me one small favour.”

“What’s that, Alex?”

“Pick up my hotel bill. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of thousand dollars. Help offset my medical expenses.”

“Sure, Alex, no problem. I’ll wire the London Embassy for funds.”

***

8

The night-duty officer at the Signals Intelligence listening post at Morwenstowe, Cornwall, sat alone in the windowless, air-conditioned chamber. This was the worst part of the night shift when nothing of importance ever happened. She made another mug of the instant coffee she detested, stretched, yawned and lit a cigarette. A buzzer sounded on the Cray SV1 supercomputer that occupied an entire side of the room. It spat out a single A4 page. The duty officer did not immediately grasp the importance of the printout. It recorded the booking of three business class return airfares from Dublin, via Paris, to Bogotá Colombia. The passengers’ names meant nothing and were certainly false. The trigger that alerted the computer to this particular transaction was the credit card number used to pay for the flights. It was a fixed reference on the Echelon watch list and operated a known IRA account. She sat at the keyboard, re-encrypted the message, wrote a brief evaluation and forwarded it to her controller at GCHQ in Cheltenham, Gloucestershire.

***

The rush hour traffic around Vauxhall Cross was one incredible mess. The chauffeur driven Rover 75 pulled swiftly away from the lights, swerved in front of the white van, traversed two lines of cars and vanished down the ramp into the monstrous cream and green headquarters of MI6, affectionately known to its familiars as Legoland.

Merlyn Stanbridge, newly appointed head of the Secret Intelligence Service, more popularly known as MI6, or The Firm to insiders, rode the lift to her twelfth floor office overlooking the Thames and downstream to the Palace of Westminster. The room was large and airy, furnished in the dull utilitarian style that passed for modern in the British Civil Service. No personal memorabilia adorned the uncluttered desk.

Merlyn Stanbridge was well into her fifties, built on a strong but not heavy frame, with the wide astonished eyes and clear skin of a woman with a satisfying sex life. She wore a plain grey worsted suit, woollen stockings and the inelegant flat-heeled shoes of someone who prefers the company of dogs to the company of people. She crossed to the window and glanced furtively at the opposite embankment from where the Irish Republican Army had fired a missile at Legoland three or four years earlier. Merlyn Stanbridge had been in Moscow at the time. She missed Moscow, missed the Cold War. Things were so much simpler then. You knew and respected your enemy. Your enemy knew and respected you. It was like a gentlemen’s club, except that ladies were admitted. There were persistent rumours she’d taken a lover in Moscow, her counterpart in the KGB, but nothing was ever proven and it hadn’t stopped her ascent to the top position. Maybe it had enhanced it. But the Cold War was over. Nowadays she dealt in terrorists, drug traffickers, money launderers. The dross of humankind. Truth was, she wanted to retire. Take a cottage in the country, get a couple of dogs and a nice man to look after.

At 10 a.m. a transcript of the Morwenstowe report was placed before her. Merlyn Stanbridge immediately informed the Foreign Secretary on the secure phone line. At noon she received a summons from the Prime Minister to an urgent meeting in Cabinet Office Briefing Room “A” at Downing Street. At 2 p.m. London time a summary assessment was passed to Bill Bradshaw at CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia. As the meeting came to a close the Prime Minister pulled the head of MI6 to one side.

“Look, Merlyn, I’m getting very concerned about WMDs. Why can’t we find any?”

“We’re doing all we can Prime Minister but it’s beginning to look like WMDs just don’t exist. The Iraqis may be telling us the truth after all, that they really did destroy them after the last Gulf war.”

“And what about the ten thousand litres of anthrax that are unaccounted for?”

“Unaccounted for means just that, Prime Minister. It doesn’t mean it still exists. And even if it does exist it’s probably way passed its sell-by date, these things degrade, they don’t last forever.”

“Look, Merlyn, I’m under colossal pressure from backbenchers and at least two members of the cabinet are threatening to resign. If no weapons of mass destruction are found I might not carry the Commons. My Premiership won’t survive defeat. The stakes are far too high for MI6 to let me down. You’ve just got to come up with something. Anything. After 9/11 the Yanks can go for Regime Change. I can’t. The electorate won’t buy it. I have to have WMDs.”

“Prime Minister, I’m pretty sure there aren’t any.”

“And why don’t they want us to verify that, Merlyn?” the PM smiled his most ingratiating smile. “Given the fact we’re about to bomb the crap out of Baghdad? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Saddam doesn’t want to lose face with his neighbours, Prime Minister. The Arabs are funny like that. Face is very important to them.” She made ready to leave. “But anyway, there’s not much more MI6 can do with limited resources, it’s all down to the cousins and the UN inspectors. All they’re asking for is a little more time.”

“Did you try the Internet?”

The PM flashed his boyish smile. He was only trying to be helpful.

“The Internet, Prime Minister?”

She wasn’t sure if he was joking, sometimes it was hard to tell.

“Sure. There’s loads of stuff on the Internet. My kids use it all the time.”

Merlyn Stanbridge now knew he must be joking.

“We’ll do our best, Prime Minister, but all we can provide you with is inadequate information. Sometimes we get it right. Sometimes we get it wrong. At the end of the day it’s just our best guess at the time, based on incomplete, imperfect data. But the evaluation of the data, the final decision whether or not we should go to war, will always rest with you.”

“Caveats! Caveats! Caveats! Jesus, Merlyn, does everything you give me have to be buried beneath a heap of caveats?” He wasn’t smiling now. “Just get me the data. And leave the politics to me.”

The PM turned abruptly and mounted the staircase to the family flat on the top floor. As he climbed, he passed the portraits of his predecessors. The soon-to-be forgotten bean counters, Callahan, Wilson, and Attlee. His own unforgettable heroes, Wellington, Churchill and Thatcher who had led the country into war. The Prime Minister did not plan to go down in history merely as a competent administrator. This Prime Minister was determined to round off his CV with his very own Falklands Factor. He entered the private apartments and strolled into his eldest boy’s bedroom. The teenager was hunched over his computer.

“Find anything, son?”

“Hi Dad. Yeah, sure. The internet has buckets of the stuff. Come and have a look at this. It’s a complete PhD thesis.”

***

Merlyn Stanbridge did not like being pressured but as she rode back to her office she took comfort in the thought no war had ever been declared based on intelligence alone. Not even the crude Pavlovian groupthink enveloping the intelligence community on both sides of the Atlantic was going to change that. But for now she had a more interesting problem to consider, something worthy of her time and effort, something more rewarding than the hunt for WMDs that intelligence suggested had already been destroyed. Even if unearthing them might secure the PM’s reputation. The FARC, drugs, the IRA; how were these three things related? The cousins were on board at last. It had taken them a while. It was only when the Irish Republican Army started showing up in the Colombian jungles that the Central Intelligence Agency had awoken with a start. The idea the IRA might be training Marxist guerrillas to place bombs in American cities scared them shitless. But what if the FARC wanted to make a major statement, put themselves on the international terrorism map? The whole world had seen what Al Qaeda could accomplish. What if the FARC had ambitions to emulate 9/11?

Merlyn Stanbridge spent the next hour at her desk catching up on overnight dispatches. One particular item caught her eye, a CIA intercept that recorded Declan O’Brien flying in and out of Medellin on one of Pablo Ortega’s private jets. Attached to the memorandum was a report from MI6’s Head of Station in Bogotá, that noted O’Brien travelling south into the safe-haven. The IRA’s contacts with the narco-terrorists weren’t new, they’d been supplying training and expertise to the FARC for three or four years, but as far as Merlyn Stanbridge knew the Irish Republican Army had no dealings with Ortega. The IRA’s criminal fringes had a profitable sideline dealing drugs but they weren’t into mainstream trafficking. So Merlyn deduced O’Brien must be engaged on some private business of his own. And given what she knew about the Irishman that meant a contract killing. A matter too small to interest the head of MI6. Except that nothing that involved Ortega was ever small. As she pondered the significance of these events the inter-com on her desk brought Merlyn Stanbridge back to reality. It was her secretary, Vincent.

“Miss Drake is here for her appointment, ma’am.”

“Show her in.”

The head of MI6 rarely spoke to reporters one on one, but the days when the identity of the country’s top spy was a secret were long gone. And Melanie Drake was not just any journalist. Melanie Drake had knowledge. Melanie Drake had contacts. Direct access to the White House put this journalist in a class of her own. Properly handled, Melanie Drake could be very useful.

The Chief Reporter of the Echo wore a dark blue business suit, no jewellery, and carried a briefcase but no handbag. There was a freshness about her, a frailty almost, that Merlyn Stanbridge found very appealing. They sat together on a sofa near the window. Merlyn Stanbridge handed Melanie a sheaf of papers.

“It’s just a standard press release I’m afraid but I’ve added some handwritten notes, some anecdotes, to make it sound more personal. But I’ll need to see the piece before it’s published. You have any problem with that?”

“None.”

Melanie knew her place. But with luck and a little journalistic licence she could come up with a new and interesting angle, maybe work something in about the rumoured Russian lover.

“In return there’s a couple of things I need from you. First, I want a story planted in the Echo. Front page. Banner headline. Saturday’s paper would be perfect. We think the IRA is up to no good in Colombia, training and equipping the local bad boys. Echelon spotted three of their senior operatives heading for Bogotá.”

“Echelon?”

Melanie grabbed her pad and a ballpoint pen. She’d heard the acronym before but never knew for sure the organization actually existed. The authorities always denied it. This alone would make the interview worthwhile. It could be dynamite.

Merlyn Stanbridge knew the journalist was hooked, which was just what she intended.

“This is not for publication, Miss Drake, but if we’re going to work together you have to understand how these things are done. You just didn’t hear it from me. OK?”

“OK.”

“And if this does leak out, take it from me, you’ll never work in journalism again. And that’s a promise. Got that?”

“Got that.”

Melanie put away her shorthand pad and pocketed her pen.

“Echelon is the secret computer network we share with the cousins, dating all the way back to the Cold War. Echelon straddles the handful of key choke-points that process ninety per cent of the world’s computer traffic.”

She lit a cigarette, exhaling the smoke through her nose.

“Echelon captures staggering volumes of data, randomly harvesting three billion messages a day. We have sniffer devices hooked up to computer systems around the globe that scan the data constantly. Arrays of SV1 supercomputers sift the data, distilling it through artificial intelligence programs like Memex and Dictionary, searching for key words like “Bomb” and “Pope” appearing in the same communication.”

Merlyn Stanbridge paused to check the journalist was suitably impressed.

“Then techno-spooks target locations associated with terrorist activity, a specific house or internet-café, or it could be an entire community or town.”

The UK’s chief spook went to the window and looked downstream to the Palace of Westminster.

“Of course, if any of this did leak out there’ll be an official denial that anything remotely resembling Echelon even exists.”

“I’m impressed. But isn’t it illegal?”

“Illegal? Of course it’s illegal. That’s why it doesn’t exist. Echelon contravenes all sorts of civil and statuary rights. But that’s the world we live in, Miss Drake, and that’s how we spotted our three Paddies. So now we have a unique opportunity to cause maximum embarrassment to the IRA. With luck it’ll be enough to cut off their US funding. After 9/11 the American public suddenly disapproves of terrorists. The Echo would be ideal, it’s always had a republican bias, comes from having an Irish editor I suppose.”

Melanie could not believe her luck, there was enough material here to secure a Pulitzer Prize if she ever had the guts to use it. But she knew she’d have to offer something in return. There was no such thing as a freebie.

“You said there were two things. What’s the second?”

“We want you to lighten up on Iraq. After what I’ve just given you it’s a small thing to ask. Your interview with the President was masterly, but you over-egged the case for more time for UN inspections. More time means more delay. Number 10 wasn’t happy about that. I got a nasty email from the Minister of Truth.”

“The Minister of...?” Melanie’s jaw stayed open.

“Ooops! Please forget I said that.” Merlyn Stanbridge blushed. “The PM also has a problem with your claim he’s agreed a secret timetable. There is no secret timetable. There is no timetable period. Though of course it’s true he’s keen to get things started.”

This was more than Melanie could swallow.

“But you know as well as I do, Washington and London are rife with rumours of a secret start date for the war. Regardless of WMDs or UN resolutions. It stands to reason there has to be a timetable. A military operation on the scale of Desert Storm needs months of planning. It can’t be launched overnight, the logistics are too complex. That’s why the Americans are moving troops into the gulf. The countdown has already begun.” Melanie hesitated. “They have to contend with the heat. Tyres melt in those temperatures. People don’t function too well either, especially if they have to wear protective clothing.”

“Look, Melanie, I’ve been good to you. Echelon is journalistic gold dust. Maybe you can’t use it but it’ll help you understand how things are done better than any other journalist around. Now let’s see what you can do for me. If you do a good job on this Irish thing and go easy on Iraq I’ll be happy to reciprocate when the time comes. When this war is over I’ve a nasty feeling there’s going to be a public enquiry. Find out how we got ourselves into this bloody mess.”

“You mean you don’t know?” Melanie was agog.

Merlyn Stanbridge ignored her.

“When that happens I can put you on the inside track. All you have to do for now is tow the line on WMDs and secret timetables. After the war you can publish any bloody thing you like. Right now you’re in a very privileged position, here and in the States, but that won’t last forever. There’ll come a time when you’ll appreciate my help.”

Merlyn Stanbridge paused to light another cigarette.

“By the way, are you still in touch with Alex Bowman? He seems to have disappeared.”

“You know about me and Bowman?” Melanie blushed.

Merlyn Stanbridge laughed.

“My dear, I am the head of MI6. Matter of fact I’d like to meet him. What happened to Bowman was outrageous. I might be able to help bring him back into the fold. Not officially of course, but people as talented as Bowman shouldn’t be allowed to go to waste.”

“He’s away in Morocco, visiting a friend.”

“That’ll be the American, Benjamin Ambrose. Oh dear, I do hope they’re not going to be a nuisance.”

She saw the amazement in Melanie’s face.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Please forget I did.”

“He wrote to me. Alex wrote to me.”

Melanie repeated the phrase, to re-assure herself that it was true. It was something she hadn’t expected. Hadn’t hoped for.

“He’s coming back to England for the summer, take time off and get some rest before he goes back to Spain. He’s rented a lovely cottage in the country.”

Merlyn Stanbridge gazed wistfully out of the window and exhaled.

“Does he like dogs?”

“Dogs? I’ve no idea. Why?”

Merlyn Stanbridge blushed.

“Sorry. Something I was thinking about earlier. Will you call me when he gets here? Perhaps we can have dinner together at my club, just the three of us, talk about your experiences in Morocco.”

“I’d like that.”

Melanie wondered if Bowman would accept, he wasn’t much into socialising. But a contact at the top of MI6 could be priceless and maybe now his reputation was restored he could re-join the world of legitimate law enforcement. If that was what he wanted.

As she rode down in the lift Melanie Drake realised she had not been called in to interview the head of MI6. She’d been summoned to be interviewed by her. And to open up a conduit to Alex Bowman.

***

9

Pablo Ortega stood on the base line of the tennis court, practising his groundstrokes. On the far side of the net was a former national champion. Pablo was no match for the man but it flattered his ego to train with someone who had once been in the world’s top fifty players and it flattered the athlete to coach Colombia’s most powerful man. As Pablo netted a backhand volley he caught sight of the diminutive figure of Declan O’Brien standing at the side of the court between two of Ortega’s gorillas.

“Take him up to the club house,” Pablo yelled, wiping his face with a towel.

“Get him a drink. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

He turned to the pro.

“Vamanos, Juanito. Let’s see if you can return my serve today.”

An hour later Ortega joined O’Brien and Willowby on the terrace of the clubhouse overlooking his private polo field. He liked to watch his ponies being exercised. He had showered and had his sleek overweight body rubbed with oils by a couple of the young girls reserved exclusively for him. O’Brien and Willowby were drinking San Miguel. A servant brought Ortega a bottle of Krug. He didn’t ask for it, it just came. What Pablo really wanted was a beer like the others, but he was afraid it might look bad if he declined the Krug.

“How’d things go up in the Cordillera?” Pablo turned to O’Brien.

“They went OK.”

O’Brien wasn’t afraid of Ortega. He should have been but he wasn’t. He thought his contacts with the FARC would protect him. He was wrong. What protected him was Ortega’s adherence to the rules of hospitality. He thought of O’Brien as a guest in his house, even if he was a little rude.

“You’re right. It’s none of my business.”

Ortega would find out soon enough exactly what was going on. Meantime the situation made him nervous. When it finally dawned on Washington the IRA and Marxist revolutionaries were doing business together it would bring every law enforcement agency out of the woodwork. Not to mention the Pentagon and the CIA. Pablo took a sip of Krug.

“You all set to go to Morocco?”

“I have another job to do first, back in the States. I can’t take care of your people for at least a couple of weeks, maybe more.”

He wanted to tell Ortega about the Dirty Bomb, impress the great man, but he knew that was impossible. If Pablo got to know what he was up to the Irishman was meat.

“I can live with a small delay,” Ortega shrugged. “Did Willowby give you the details you need?”

“I have Ambrose’s address. His photograph. The name of his school. He won’t be difficult to find.”

“Ambrose is going to school?” Ortega turned to Willowby.

“He’s learning Arabic. I thought it might be useful if we ever turned him.”

It was something Ortega remembered from Willowby’s report. It hadn’t grabbed his attention till now. Willowby had sent Ambrose on a language course. To get him out of the way. And because…. because Willowby thought Ambrose could be turned.

“Waddaya think, Frank?” Ortega mused. “Could Ambrose be bought? Might come in useful if we re-establish the coca farm. Maybe you should talk to him before we blow him away?”

“Yes, sir,” said Willowby. “I’m pretty sure he can be bought. Ambrose is very fond of all the grown up toys, there’s a rumour he even bought himself a Ferrari. If that’s true he must have used Agency funds, though he could certainly claim the car was part of his legend. Problem is, if I’m wrong I’ll have blown my cover.”

“In that case,” Ortega grinned, “you’ll have to kill him yourself. Save O’Brien the trip.”

He saw the anxious look on Willowby’s face.

“What’s the matter, Frank? Don’t think you can you handle it?”

“Sure I can handle it.” Willowby needed to convince himself. “I came up through the ranks, remember. I wasn’t always a bureaucrat.”

“Hey, Frank, that’s right, I’d forgotten. You worked your way up from the bottom.”

“What about my fee?”

O’Brien was kissing goodbye to twenty thousand bucks.

“Don’t worry about your fee,” Ortega cracked a smile. “There’ll be other work for you to do. Maybe not Ambrose. Maybe just Bowman and the girl.”

***

10

Alex Bowman arrived at Heathrow airport late on a blustery February morning, loaded his suitcase onto a trolley and walked through the green channel. The Echo’s chauffeur was waiting for him in the arrivals hall. The driver took charge of the trolley and Bowman fell into step beside him as they headed across the walkway to the short-term car park.

“Miss Drake sends her regards,” the driver spoke over his shoulder. “She asked if you would call her as soon as you’re settled in.”

“Be glad to.”

Bowman smiled as he climbed into the Daimler’s rear passenger compartment. On the seat beside him were copies of the early editions of the Times and the Echo. The imminent war with Iraq was front-page news. Bowman glanced at the headlines. “US Mulls First Strike – President’s Ratings Soar.” “New Terrorist Plot Uncovered – President Rides High.” The worse the crisis, it seemed, the more popular the US President became. Bowman shuddered. The prospect of war between the West and the Islamic World was terrifying. The arsenals amassed on either side were vile. Both had weapons of mass destruction. Both had already used them.

Two hours later they pulled up in front of the cottage Bowman had rented outside the village of Petworth on the edge of the South Downs. He had found the place on the internet and fallen in love with it immediately. Early Victorian, red brick, through lounge, modern kitchen, three bedrooms, a couple of bathrooms and best of all, a small, low maintenance garden. It was perfect. The estate agent was there to greet him. Bowman signed the papers, handed over his cheque and shook the woman warmly by the hand. The chauffeur carried Bowman’s bag upstairs to the master bedroom with the en suite shower. Bowman thanked him, tipped him generously, and said goodbye. As soon as the driver was gone Bowman picked up the phone and dialled Melanie Drake’s direct line.

“Mel? Hi, it’s me, I just got in.”

“Alex? Hi, how are you?”

“I’m fine. Could do with some serious exercise, but otherwise I’m good.” He flexed his shoulder. “How about you?”

“I’m OK. You know? How’s the cottage?”

“The cottage is great. You’ll love it. How soon can you get down here?”

“Alex, I don’t know if I should.” She hesitated. “I have a really important piece to get ready for the week-end paper and besides, I’m still working on that exposé about the coke farm in Morocco. I’m supposed to have it finished in a couple of weeks. It’s being trailed in this Sunday’s paper. Watch this space. Sort of like a little teaser.”

“Come on, Mel. Relax. I could even help with the Moroccan story if you like, fill in some of the detail. There’s lots of stuff you still don’t know. We’re friends for heaven’s sake. I’m not going to seduce you. There’s two spare bedrooms. They both have locks with keys on the inside and the cottage is really cosy. I’ll light a fire. We’ll talk about old times. You’ll be quite safe with me.”

After everything she’d been through Melanie wanted above all to be safe. Bowman could do that for her, make her feel protected.

“Will you come to church with me on Sunday?”

“Church? Sure. If that’s what it takes.”

“I could get there Friday evening if you like. Take a train. Could you pick me up at Guildford?”

“Just say a time.”

Melanie had the timetable ready in her hand but didn’t want to sound too eager.

“I’ll have to check. Call me Friday morning and we’ll fix a time.”

“Great.” Bowman grinned. “Speak Friday.” He put down the phone and went in search of the drinks cabinet. He found it in a cupboard under the stairs and there to his delight was an open bottle of Glenlivet, not his favourite single malt but high up on the list. He half filled a tumbler, added a little water from the kitchen tap, no ice, and went outside to inspect the garden at the back of the house. It was perfect, small for a country garden, about one hundred feet square, but it faced southwest into the pale February sun. The property nestled in a bend in the road that wound around the garden and disappeared over the brow of a low hill. Bowman sipped his whiskey. He felt good. His shoulder was still sore from the surgery to remove the bullet but it was getting better by the day and soon he’d be back to a regular exercise routine. He couldn’t wait. He’d start with some serious walking on the Downs and there was probably a gym in Guildford he could join. Maybe there’d even be a pool. This was a break he was really going to enjoy. No work. No clients. No bad guys taking shots at him. Only Mel and Ambrose even knew where he was. As Bowman strolled to the end of the garden, whiskey glass in hand, a car came slowly round the bend from the other side of the property and accelerated slowly up hill. Bowman raised his glass and waved at the unseen driver. The driver smiled and waved back.

“Welcome to England, Mr Bowman.”

***

11

Gerry McGuire’s assignment had gone well. He’d completed the training mission and test fired the new mortars he’d developed for use back home. It wasn’t his first mission to Colombia; the IRA had been sending advisors into the safe-haven for the past three or four years. It was a lucrative risk-free business. And brigades of guerrilleros were now ready to move out of their traditional killing fields in the mountains into the cities and towns, where IRA expertise could really be applied. Soon the FARC would be ready to take the fight to the gringos on their own home soil. Just as Al Qaeda had done.

The three Irishmen were woken at 5 a.m. by a small contingent of armed guerrillas. They loaded their meagre belongings into the rear of a jeep and set off down the mountainside on the unmade track. Two hours later they checked in at the rundown terminal at Pasto domestic airport and boarded the internal flight to Bogotá. It was a rough uncomfortable ride. None of them spoke for the entire journey. They kept thinking about O’Brien and his Dirty Bomb. They were terrified. They knew O’Brien was unhinged enough to bring it off. He would not be able to resist the glory. The chance to secure his name in history.

It was raining hard as they descended through heavy cloud into the capital’s El Dorado International Airport. As flight 194 from Pasto taxied across the tarmac four companies of military police and a team of plain-clothes intelligence agents – one hundred and fifty men in all - took up positions in and around the terminal. If their information was correct, on board were four senior members of the Irish Republican Army, heading home after two weeks training Marxist guerrillas in the tactics of urban warfare. Among the disembarking passengers three unkempt fair-skinned men stood out. The intelligence agents had their quarry squarely in their sights. Or most of it. But where the hell was the fourth Irishman?

Captain Raül Abono of the Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad waited till the last passenger had exited the plane, muttered an expletive and followed the three men to the international check-in desk in the hope the missing Irishman might show up. But he didn’t. Abono watched the trio check in for the Air France flight to Paris with a growing sense of unease. Their boarding passes in hand the three men climbed the stairs to the first floor departure lounge, an airless hall lined with cafés, newsagents and tacky souvenir shops. They were heading for passport control, technically leaving Captain Abono’s jurisdiction. Abono scanned the crowd in panic, searching for the missing fourth Irishman. But he wasn’t there. Just as the three approached the departure gate, on a signal from Abono, they were surrounded by a group of plain-clothes DAS agents who asked to see their travel documents. Their fake passports matched the names supplied by MI6 exactly. The three men were stunned. They looked at one another in amazement. But they didn’t speak. It was too late now to concoct a credible cover story.

Captain Abono formally arrested the three suspects on provisional charges of travelling on false British passports. They were hustled into separate cars and driven to the headquarters of the army's notorious 13th Brigade for questioning by seasoned hands-on professionals. Under independent interrogation one man claimed to be a botanist on a specimen-hunting trip. A second asserted he was in Colombia to advise the FARC on the intricacies of the peace process. McGuire told them nothing. He demanded to see a lawyer. The one point on which all three agreed was that they had no knowledge of anyone named Declan O’Brien.

Back in his office Captain Abono made a call to his local MI6 contact at the British Embassy. Declan O’Brien might be missing but nonetheless the operation was a considerable triumph. The DAS, the CIA and MI6 now had a rich vein of intelligence into the IRA/FARC connection and the Colombian authorities would not be squeamish about how they milked it. The notorious 13th Brigade would see to that.

Within an hour of the arrests a dedicated hot line was set up between the White House, Downing Street and Government Buildings. The Satcom link was kept open twenty-four hours a day and used exclusively for the case of the three men and the resulting intelligence fallout.

Washington, Dublin and London each had a different perspective on what they all recognised as a potentially explosive situation. In London it was regarded as a triumph to have fingered the IRA selling expertise and material to a rich and dangerous client. In Dublin it was a public relations disaster, calling the good faith of both wings of the Republican movement into question and jeopardising the peace process. The Irish government immediately went on the offensive and sought undertakings their citizens’ human rights would not be violated. In Washington the menace was taken far more seriously. The FARC was acknowledged as second only to Al Qaeda in the threat it posed to the United States. Yet the FARC’s potential was infinitely greater than Al Qaeda’s. With an income of two million dollars a day from narco-trafficking the FARC could buy anything or anyone they wanted. Once they mastered the techniques of urban warfare, they could surely surpass Al Qaeda, America was on their very doorstep. Washington demanded the immediate extradition of the three men but their appeal failed at the first hurdle. The three Irishmen had not yet been found guilty of a crime.

***

12

At seven twenty five on a bitterly cold February evening the train pulled into Guildford station. It was only fifteen minutes late. Bowman stood at the head of the platform and spotted Melanie heading towards him from thirty yards away. She moved like a young girl, a dancer. She wore jeans and a long flowing Nicole Farhi overcoat. Her large green eyes were framed in wire-rimmed glasses. Her auburn hair was tied back in an unfashionable bun and her nose and cheeks were pink. If she was wearing make-up it didn't show. She looked as fresh as if she’d just stepped out of the shower.

Melanie put down her case and held out her hand. Bowman leaned forward, held her by the shoulders, kissed her on both cheeks and stepped back to look her over. She was thinner than he remembered. More delicate. More fragile. But then Melanie Drake had suffered more traumas in the last eighteen months than most people went through in a lifetime.

“Hi, Alex,” Melanie grinned. “How’s the wound?” She tapped him gently on the shoulder.

“Pretty much healed,” Bowman beamed. “The specialist says I’ll be swimming again by April.”

He picked up her case with his good hand and headed for the car park. Melanie took hold of his free arm and wondered if she was right to come. Seeing Alex again brought back too many painful memories. But there were good ones too. Comforting ones.

Back at the cottage Melanie disappeared upstairs to bathe and change while Bowman stoked the fire and prepared a simple supper of Gazpacho, which he made himself, cold ham, chorizo and an aged manchego he’d bought from the deli in the village, washed down with an outstanding Tempranillo from the north bank of the Duero, he’d found at the local off-license. When Melanie came downstairs she had changed into a simple white shift dress, no make-up or jewellery, no other adornment was needed. They ate in the sitting room picnic style, enjoying the warmth of the log fire. Melanie felt truly contented. The shitty part of her life was over. This was a new beginning. She hoped it was the same for him.

“So when do you plan on going back to Spain, Alex?”

“In a couple of months. The specialist still wants to tweak my shoulder, but the security business will go down the tube if I don’t get back there soon, I still have to make a living and right now I’ve no idea where the next job is coming from.”

“Don’t you miss it?”

“Spain? Sure. I miss the farmhouse in San Roque. And I miss being busy.” Bowman poured the last of the Tempranillo. “How about you, Mel? Happy to be back at the Echo?”

“Very.” Melanie savoured the wine. “I need some stability back in my life. The Echo’s been really good to me, Alex, taking me back on the payroll. I have my old job back. Chief Investigative Reporter. They even gave me a raise.”

“You don’t find it dull? After going freelance?”

“Dull is great, Alex. Dull is what I need. Besides, it’s not that dull. Guess who I interviewed last week?”

“After the President of the United States, nothing would surprise me.”

“Just the new head of MI6,” Melanie beamed. “She told me some amazing stuff.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“The sort of stuff I can’t repeat, but let’s say some very useful background.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Matter of fact she asked after you.”

“Merlyn Stanbridge asked after me?”

Bowman was genuinely surprised.

“How come she knows about me?”

“Come on, Alex,” Melanie laughed. “She is the head of MI6. And don’t you be so modest. She knows what you did in Morocco. She knows about Ambrose too. She said something really odd, as a matter of fact. About the two of you.”

“And what was that?” Bowman’s brow was furrowed.

“I told her you’d gone to Fez to spend some time with Ambrose. She said ‘Oh dear, I do hope they’re not going to be a nuisance.’ Something like that. I thought it was really strange.”

“Strange? I’ll say it was strange. I wonder what she meant by that?”

“She wants to meet you.”

“Merlyn Stanbridge wants to meet me?”

Bowman emptied his glass. He had a sinking sensation in his stomach. The wound in his shoulder began to ache. Maybe he should have gone straight back to Spain. He had a business to run. Clients to look after.

“I don’t think I was there to interview her, Alex. I think I was there so she could interview me. But maybe I was just the decoy. I think it’s you she really wants to meet. She wants us all to have supper at her club. Would you like to?”

“No way, Mel. I’ve had enough for now. I’m tired. I need some time to myself.”

“Wouldn’t it be good for your career? It isn’t every gumshoe gets to dine with the head of MI6.”

“Some other time, Mel. Just not now. Just not this year.”

Bowman cleared the table and stacked the dishes in the sink, ready for the morning when the cleaner would come from the village. It was good to be with Melanie again. Of all the women he knew she was the one he most admired. It wasn’t a sexual thing. It was more than that. He admired her guts. Her independence. After everything she’d been through Melanie Drake had kept her self-esteem intact. And then there were the things they had in common. Hitchcock in black and white, Almódovar in colour. Ellington and Lester Young, Telemann and Tallis. Turner and Goya. Nielsen and The Beachboys.

Bowman made coffee, joined Melanie in the sitting room, and scanned the collection of CD’s the cottage owner had thoughtfully left on the shelves along with some old vinyls. One or two choice items caught Bowman’s eye. He slotted a copy of Oscar Brown Jr’s ‘Sin and Soul and Then Some.’ in the CD player and sat down to listen to the lyrics. Melanie was stretched out on the sofa flicking through a glossy magazine. Reflections from the fire danced on her auburn hair. She had taken off her shoes and her legs had disappeared inside her dress. Bowman went to the drinks cabinet, poured neat Glenlivet into a shot glass and took a little sip. It was a perfect moment. Talk would spoil it. Neither of them spoke for quite a while. Then Melanie stretched, yawned, looked up from her magazine and said,

“Alex, what exactly is a Dirty Bomb?”

“A Dirty Bomb?” Bowman froze. “How did we get to Dirty Bombs?”

“Merlyn Stanbridge passed me a lead for a story in the Echo. There’s a rumour the IRA could be in the market for a Dirty Bomb. We’re running a major piece in tomorrow morning’s paper.”

Alex Bowman went to the window and looked out over the illuminated garden. It was an idyllic, peaceful scene. It resembled his life the way he wanted it to be. Quiet. Well ordered. A little past its best. He spoke with his back to her.

“A Dirty Bomb has three components. A conventional explosive, like Semtex or TNT. A detonator, which is the only tricky part, and some nuclear waste. Strontium 90. Iridium 192. Cobalt 60. There may be others. I’m no expert. There’s hundreds of places you can get the stuff. Russia. China. Israel. The Ukraine. Right here in the UK. Sellafield’s awash with it. You set off an explosion with the TNT and disperse wind-born nuclear waste over as large an area as possible.”

“But it’s not a nuclear bomb?”

“That’s right. But it is the ultimate terror weapon. It’s called a weapon of mass disruption, not destruction. The killing zone may be no more than a square mile, so it wouldn’t wipe out that many people, say several thousand in a densely populated area. But it would cause massive panic and the entire site would be contaminated for years, probably decades. The explosion would disperse the nuclear waste for miles around. The place would be uninhabitable. The real estate market would collapse. So if we’re talking about the centre of a major city the clean-up cost would be enormous. Meantime a whole city would be paralysed. If it happened on Wall Street or the City of London worldwide financial markets would implode. There’d be total chaos.”

“Jesus,” said Melanie. “Has one ever been set off?”

“Not yet. But it has been tried. The Chechens came very close. Planted a bomb in a Moscow park a couple of years ago. But it failed to detonate, thank God.”

“You think the IRA would do that?”

Melanie had gone white, the colour drained from her face.

“What would happen to the peace process?”

“I’m a copper, Not a politician.” Bowman turned to face her. “But if Merlyn Stanbridge still wants that meeting, tell her I’d be happy to accept.”

Next morning Bowman rose early, made himself coffee, and walked three miles in freezing rain to the village, leaving Melanie asleep in the spare room. When he got there Petworth was just beginning its day. Bowman bought the Times and the Echo at the station and found a café that was serving breakfast. He ordered the full English and scanned the Times. Emblazoned above the smiling face of the Secretary of Defence the banner headline proclaimed “Weapons of Mass Destruction – Search Goes On”. There were further revelations of terrorist plots in America but nothing about a Dirty Bomb. With each new threat the President’s popularity soared. The Echo’s front page was again devoted to reports America was preparing a first strike against Saddam Hussein. Hawks in the Pentagon, led by the Secretary of Defence, asserted war with Iraq was inevitable and now was as good a time as any to launch a pre-emptive attack. The longer they waited the stronger the Iraqi dictator became. Bowman eventually spotted Melanie’s brief piece tucked away on page four between a cabinet minister’s infidelities and an archbishop’s endorsement of extra-marital sex. Bowman read the article while he waited for his coffee.

“Three members of the Irish Republican Army were arrested yesterday by agents of DAS, the Colombian Secret Service, at El Dorado International airport in Bogotá. The three were travelling on false British passports and are known to have come from the FARC safe-haven in the south of the country. Traces of explosive were detected on their clothing and luggage. Among the Irish nationals was the IRA’s leading explosives engineer and mortar expert. The three claimed they were in Colombia to monitor peace efforts between the government and rebel groups but were later indicted and charged with training FARC terrorists in urban warfare techniques. But if the three Irish nationals were legitimately concerned with the peace process in Colombia, why would they need false passports? And why would the IRA have sent explosives experts? Furthermore in light of strict IRA discipline against freelancing by its members, what did the IRA’s political leadership know about these activities? Meanwhile in Dublin IRA/Sinn Fein denied all knowledge of the detainees.”

When Bowman returned to the cottage he found Melanie sitting in the kitchen drinking tea. He placed the article in front of her on the table.

“There you are,” Bowman grinned contentedly. “It didn’t even make the headlines. And no mention of a Dirty Bomb.”

He dumped the papers on the table and went upstairs to shower and change into dry clothes.

Bowman re-joined Melanie in the kitchen and made fresh coffee.

She said,

“That’s not the article I wrote. It’s been edited to death.”

She was angry.

“OK, so Iraq is more important, it deserves the front page, I accept that. But this was supposed to be a major exclusive. I was expecting a banner headline, not a few column inches lost on an inside page. My lead from MI6 definitely involved a Dirty Bomb. And another thing. There were supposed to be four Irishmen. Not three.”

She crushed the paper in her hands.

“Maybe the facts didn’t check out. Maybe it was all just speculation after all. But I should at least have been consulted before they pulled my stuff. Either way Merlyn Stanbridge owes me.”

Next day after church they rode out to an isolated country pub in the middle of the Downs where Bowman had reserved a table for Sunday lunch. Bowman ordered a pint of London Pride and insisted on a straight thin glass. Melanie quaffed half a pint of draught Guinness. They sat in the cosy bar flicking through the broadsheets. Bowman browsed the Echo while Melanie scrutinised the opposition.

“Oh shit!” said Bowman.

“What?” said Melanie.

Bowman read aloud, “Chief Investigative Reporter Melanie Drake exposes Moroccan Cocaine Plantation on Europe’s Doorstep. See next Saturday’s edition. Order your copy from reputable newsagents now.”

“So? What’s wrong with that?”

Melanie thought it sounded fine.

“Nothing,” Bowman sighed. “I’m sure it’ll be OK.”

***

13

It was years since Frank Willowby had seen action of any kind. But he had kept himself in shape, went to the gym most days and did small arms practice twice a week in the firing range beneath the Embassy in Grosvenor Square. So he reckoned his reactions were still pretty sharp. He flew into Tangier, rented a car, drove three hundred clicks southeast to Fez and checked in to the Palais Jamaî.

“My name’s Willowby.”

He handed the receptionist his diplomatic passport.

“Mr Ambrose reserved a room for me.”

“Welcome to the Palais Jamaî,” said the desk clerk. “I’ve allocated the same accommodation as Mr Ambrose’s English friend. Mr Bowman commented how much he enjoyed the view of the Medina.”

“Bowman was here?” said Willowby. “I didn’t know that. I’d have liked to meet him.”

“He checked out yesterday,” said the clerk.

Alone in his room Willowby unpacked his suitcase, reassembled the sub-compact Beretta semi-automatic and thanked God for diplomatic immunity. He rammed home the clip, checked the safety and tucked the little weapon in his trouser pocket. Then he went down to the terrace overlooking the gardens, ordered tea and waited for Ambrose to get back from his language class. He wasn’t sure exactly how to play it. The revelation the DEA’s top man in Europe was working for the other side would be too much for Ambrose to swallow at one bite. Willowby would have to feed it to his subordinate a morsel at a time. Make it easy to digest. It was only later when they were having dinner on the terrace that Willowby had his first opportunity to plant a seed.

“How was your vacation?” Ambrose enquired.

“Great,” said Willowby. “Spent ten days at my ranch in Colorado, which was nice. Don’t get to go there much. You should come visit sometime. I have a three hundred acre spread just outside of Aspen. Great skiing in winter.”

Ambrose wondered what a place like that would cost and how much a guy like Willowby could earn. Certainly not enough to pay for three hundred acres of prime Colorado real estate. Family money, Ambrose surmised. Inherited wealth. Maybe a profitable marriage. Later in his room Ambrose got out his laptop and dialled into the DEA’s website. In seconds he had Frank Willowby’s bio on the screen. Born and raised in a hick town in rural Pennsylvania. Father a mechanic. Educated at the local public school. Scholarship to Penn State. Married a primary school teacher. Family money was definitely not the answer. Nor was a profitable marriage. Next Ambrose scrolled through Willowby’s early career in Miami. He’d made a succession of impressive busts, nothing really major but good solid investigative work, been fast-tracked through the ranks. Frank Willowby was a very competent agent. Or unusually well informed.

“This is really silly,” thought Ambrose. “If Willowby had bought the ranch with illicit funds, he wouldn’t have told me about it, would he? Or would he?”

Next morning Willowby and Ambrose had breakfast together on the terrace by the pool.

“Ben,” said Willowby. “There’s some things we need to discuss, concerning you and this guy Bowman.”

“Bowman? What about Bowman?”

“He was staying here at the hotel just recently. You wired the Embassy for funds, so you could pay his room bill. Am I right?”

“Bowman’s a friend of mine. Did some odd jobs for me on the Costa del Sol.”

“And you used Uncle Sam’s bucks to pay his hotel bill? Do you think that’s an appropriate use of company funds?”

Ambrose began to sweat. He didn’t answer right away. Then he said,

“I’m sorry Sir... I shouldn’t have but...”

Willowby silenced him with a gesture.

“Ben it’s OK, really it is. So you paid your buddy’s bill with company funds. Big deal. I’ve done the same thing myself, many a time.”

“You have?”

Ambrose was dumbstruck.

“Sure I have. DEA’s awash with funds. Nobody keeps track. I found that out years ago.”  Willowby was grinning. “How d’you think I paid for the ranch?”

“The ranch?”

“Only kidding, Ben. Only kidding. Don’t look so shocked. Besides, the ranch cost millions. Can’t get sums like that out of petty cash.”

Ambrose couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

“Anyway, Ben, your friend Bowman, where is he now?”

“Gone back to England to get some a rest. He’s rented a cottage some place in the country. I don’t have an address, just his email.”

“Too bad. I’d really like to meet him. He sounds like an impressive guy.”

Willowby reached into his pocket and pulled out a diamond encrusted, Patek Philippe chronometer in 18ct gold.

“Here, Ben. I have a little something for you.”

“Gee, sir,” said Ambrose. “What’s this?”

He was beaming. Back in the ghetto people killed for watches like this.

“But, sir…really…I can’t…it wouldn’t be….”

“Forget it Ben. You did good work. You deserve it. My people are very grateful.”

“Your people? Sir?”

“I’ll explain it to you later, Ben. Meantime let’s take a walk, I’d like to see the Medina while I’m here, see if there’s anything you’d like. I hear they do a great line in gold jewellery.”

***

14

Secretary of Defence Karl Herzfeld gazed across the vast open courtyard at the gaping hole on the far side of the wounded building where Al Qaeda had devastated on wing of the Pentagon on 9/11.

“Did you see this morning’s New York Times, Arthur? One thousand anti-war protesters on the streets of Manhattan. Can you believe that? Just a few blocks from Ground Zero. What do those lily-livered sons of bitches want? More of the same? What does it take to convince these people? Another three thousand dead and wounded?”

He went to the drinks cabinet and helped himself to a chilled Bud.

“The press coverage we’re getting is outrageous. The article by that English bitch was a complete fucking disaster. She should be taught a lesson. What the hell is Santos up to, schmoozing with all these Goddamn peaceniks?”

Colonel Preston fingered the scar on his right cheek.

“Goddamn liberals deserve everything they get. Nuking’s too good for the bastards.”

“Fact is we’re losing momentum, Colonel. Protest is on the rise, a thousand this week, twenty thousand next. We need to get this war started. Goddamn CIA still can’t come up with the fucking goods.”

“The Brits have gotten hold of something new,” Preston beamed. “Could be just the evidence we need. They have a source who claims Iraq can launch a chemical attack within forty-five minutes of Saddam’s order.”

Herzfeld turned to face into the room. He was grinning.

“Forty-five minutes? You gotta be kidding, right? That bunch of Bedouins couldn’t fix breakfast in forty-five minutes, let alone ship the munitions, select a target and calibrate the ordnance.”

He checked his appearance in the long mirror and centred his tie.

“Besides, what we need Saddam to have is long range capability. If all he has is battlefield chemical weapons why would we move our troops from safe out-of-range positions to exposed in-range positions?”

“The Brits claim they’re not just talking about battlefield artillery. They say they’re strategic weapons. That puts the Brit bases on Cyprus within range. Not to mention Israel and Iran. It’s made headline news right across the UK.”

“So who’s their source? Some save-my-ass defector?”

“They didn’t say. But MI6 maintains he’s a reliable informer with an established track record. A senior officer inside the regime.”

“Then the Brits are just plain crazy. All those guys are trying to do is ingratiate themselves so they can get on board with us once we’ve gotten control of their country. Meantime we all know Saddam may have the chemicals but he sure as hell doesn’t have the delivery systems. The Brits know that as well as we do.”

He took another peek in the mirror and seemed satisfied with what he saw.

"There’s just the one source, right? No corroboration?”

“That’s right, sir. But the Brits insist their guy’s reliable.”

“I don’t think we can use it, Arthur, it’s just too Goddamn dramatic. It lacks... what’s the word I’m looking for… verisimilitude? That’s it. It lacks verisimilitude. If they had more than one verifiable source I might run with it, it’s so fucking crazy it might work. But if it goes pear shaped we’d end up with egg all over our face. We can’t risk the trust of the American people. Once we lose credibility it’s gone for ever.”

Preston persisted. “The Brits are going to chance it anyway, so they must be pretty sure of their source. It’s already been cleared by their Joint Intelligence Committee. The PM is going to publish the claim in an intelligence dossier, along with some other stuff they’ve gotten off the Internet. Then he plans to alert the House of Commons. There’s no higher accolade than that, on either side of the pond.”

“They’re getting their intelligence off the Internet? Jesus those guys really are crazy! Or maybe they’re just desperate. I suppose it’s all part of their old world charm. It’s fine for the Brits, Colonel, long as they can get away with it, but you and me both know it’s just plain foolish. And anyway the American people aren’t that gullible. We need something a lot more concrete. Something we can back up with hard copy documentation. Preferably something with Saddam Hussein’s fingerprints all over it.”

“That isn’t going to be easy, sir.”

“There has to be a way, Arthur. There just has to be a way.”

***

At 10 o’clock that evening, Colonel Preston changed into civilian clothes, left his Georgetown apartment and walked the few blocks to the house on Canal Street. There was no sign outside the place, you either knew it was there or you didn’t, but the plain white door was decorated with the stencilled outline of a small black rose. As Preston approached the porticoed entrance he paused to check he wasn’t being followed, pressed the bell and looked up into the CCTV camera. There was a buzzing sound as the door clicked open and Preston stepped into what looked like the parlour of an elegant family home. The room was dimly lit by a fake Tiffany light suspended from the ceiling. The walls were padded. Bach’s B Minor Mass played softly in the background. There was a strong smell of embrocation. A big muscular man built like a bear, with shaven head and rings in his ears, nose and tongue got up from an armchair. He was dressed entirely in black, a studded leather collar round his neck. The livid scars of shrapnel wounds peppered his abdomen. The crest of the 202nd Explosive Ordnance Disposal Company was tattooed on his right forearm.

“Good evening, Colonel.”

He had the voice of a castrato.

Preston reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. His hands were trembling. “How much?” He knew the answer but he didn’t know what else to say.

“Same as always, Colonel. Three hundred fifty. Head is extra. Head is five hundred.”

Preston counted out five hundred dollars in fifties and added an extra twenty.

“I need a bottle of Bourbon.”

“We don’t got no Bourbon, Colonel. Alcohol is strictly off limits.”

The Bear shrugged. Something in his manner suggested he held the Colonel in less than the highest regard.

“Then send out for some, corporal. Or did you lose your brains in ‘Nam when you lost your balls?”

Preston was impatient to get on with proceedings but needed the whiskey to give him that extra sharpness he craved.

The Bear grunted, unlocked a door concealed in the padded wall and led Preston down a long dark corridor with cubicles on either side. Preston could hear the screaming now; smell the blood and the sweat, the faint stench of urine. He could feel his throbbing hard-on. They entered a booth and a large middle-aged man in black trousers but no shirt stood up for Preston to look him over. The once firm body had run to fat. Soft white flesh drooped over his belt. His right nipple was pierced. There were livid bruises on his chest and back. His head was shrouded in a quilted leather mask with slits for his eyes, mouth and nostrils. Preston looked at the man with a vicious thin-lipped smile.

“You’re a whore,” he hissed. “You’re a great fat whore.” The Bear handcuffed the man and hoisted his arms above his head on a chain suspended from the ceiling. Preston stripped to the waist, rummaged in a basket and found a pair of leather knuckle-dusters embedded with blunt steel studs. The Bear shuffled back along the corridor. Colonel Preston went to work with his hands.

***

15

O’Brien accepted Ortega’s offer to fly him back to Palm Beach in the Learjet. Declan picked up the rented convertible he had left at the airport and drove back to Miami where he planned to disappear. Declan was working to a tight, self-imposed timetable and unless he got started on the project right away there was no way he could make it. Tirofijo didn’t give a damn where O’Brien detonated the Dirty Bomb, any big city would do, but Declan was fixated by the date.

As he headed for the freeway O’Brien pulled into a shopping plaza for cigarettes and coffee. That was when he saw the headline. IRA Trio Held in Bogotá. He bought the Miami Herald and a carton of Luckies and went into the coffee shop next door to read the article. The story played very big in Florida where the large Latino population followed South American developments closely. It was all over the front page. For this edition at least it even displaced Saddam. Washington was outraged at the idea the IRA might be exporting its skills to the Western Hemisphere. Colombia was only a few hours flight from some of America’s most populous cities. A committee of Congress had been formed to investigate the situation. Senior figures in Sinn Fein, the IRA’s political wing, had been subpoenaed but refused to appear before it, disclaiming all knowledge of the men.

“Holy shit. This is bad,” said O’Brien. “The politicals will go ape.”

Declan O’Brien was a natural loner. Had been all his life. So working on his own was no particular problem. Trouble was, O’Brien was not an engineer. He was an assassin. He had a rudimentary knowledge of car bombs and mortars. That was part of every IRA man’s basic training. But a Dirty Bomb was a much more complex thing. The detonator in particular. Gerry McGuire was the IRA’s chief bomb maker and could build a thing like that in his sleep if he wanted to. But Gerry McGuire was locked up in a Bogotá jail. Declan O’Brien needed help but had no idea where to find it. He got back in the car and headed south towards Miami. Declan planned to disappear and needed the anonymity a big city could provide. He realised now it was a mistake to tell McGuire and the others about the Dirty Bomb. But Declan had not been able to resist. He needed their recognition, not their approval. Declan O’Brien was going to make history.

He drove through the elegant centre of Miami with its smart shops and stylish boutiques to the commercial docks, away from the yachts and the luxury liners. He bought a bottle of Bushmills from an Irish liquor store and checked in to a seedy back street hotel. An hour later the bottle was half empty. O’Brien stripped and examined his exquisitely toned body in the long mirror. The outline of a small black rose was tattooed on his upper arm. Next he showered, shaved and washed his hair. Then he opened his case and dressed in black trousers, black shirt and black shoes. He checked his appearance in the long mirror, tightened his belt one notch and put on dark glasses, black beret and gloves. He examined his reflection for a full minute, turning this way and that to ensure there were no imperfections. Then he clenched his fist and raised his arm in the Republican salute.

“And what has Ireland done for you, old son? What has Ireland ever done for you?”

***

Bogotá’s high security La Picota jail squats behind coiled razor wire in the middle of a grim suburban slum. It is the setting for the most vicious crimes in a country long since desensitized to violence. La Picota is completely lawless. The authorities make no attempt to control the brutality of the inmates. The only preoccupation of the guards is to keep out of trouble and make a little money on the side, supplying drugs and facilitating the exchange of sexual partners. Within La Picota left-wing guerrillas fought right-wing paramilitaries. Paramilitaries fought thieves and rapists. Thieves and rapists fought the guerrillas, in an on-going cycle of violence.

McGuire, O’Rourke and Kelly were at first held in separate cells to facilitate their questioning by members of the 13th Brigade. Under interrogation they stuck to their initial denials but none of them had any idea what the others were saying and chinks soon began to appear in their stories. Their inquisitors were patient but persistent, though the use of certain of the 13th Brigade’s customary array of tools was precluded by the interest of the media and the intervention of the Irish Consulate in Bogotá. The men could not be marked. But sleep and sensory deprivation, isolation, thirst, hunger and the threat of beatings eventually made their mark and the men began to weaken. Kelly was the first to crack. The isolation got to him first, the suggestion the others had come clean and were prepared to sacrifice him. In a matter of days the true purpose of their presence in Colombia was confirmed.

McGuire O’Rourke and Kelly had no idea how or why they had been caught. A leak from inside the IRA was possible but unlikely; they had formal approval for the trip from the Army Council. Sinn Fein had given them the nod. More probable was satellite interception of their cell-phone conversations. Sensitive communications were usually encrypted, but this wasn’t always possible from deep inside the rain forest, where digital equipment was rare. And anyway the codes weren’t necessarily secure. The CIA monitored the Colombian airwaves constantly, and if they’d picked up any kind of signal linking the IRA to the FARC it would cause untold panic on both sides of the Atlantic.

The three men had a genuine dilemma. They knew about the Dirty Bomb. And they knew what it could do. Make an entire city uninhabitable for decades. And Declan O’Brien, an unhinged maniac, was out there somewhere trying to put one together. They knew Declan didn’t have the skill to do this on his own. But if he could find the expertise, he could buy it. The FARC reputedly earned two million dollars a day, every day, from trading drugs. A Dirty Bomb could be paid for out of petty cash. And all three could see quite clearly the devastating effect a Dirty Bomb would have on the Republican movement back home. IRA/Sinn Fein would become pariahs overnight. No one would ever deal with them again. America would be outraged. In Ireland it would be a political disaster, delay unification for a generation or more.

McGuire heard the key turn in the lock of his cell. The armed guard stood to one side and a pleasant looking young man in a business suit walked in and held out his hand.

“Charles Lachlan, Second Secretary at the Irish Embassy. You wanted to see me?”

***

The Republic of Ireland is a very small country of fewer than four million souls. The social group from which its elites emerge is tiny. Those who achieve prominence in the arts, industry or politics come from the same families, attend the same schools and universities, belong to the same clubs. So it wasn’t surprising Charles Lachlan knew the Taoiseach personally, or that their wives were distantly related. Where luck did play its part was that Lachlan was in temporary charge of the Embassy. The Ambassador and First Secretary were both attending a conference in the Caribbean at the time he interviewed McGuire. So Lachlan didn’t need to go through channels. He could go straight to the top.

The chauffeur driven Embassy Mercedes flying the Ambassador’s pennant sped through the chaotic city traffic, ignoring the cops controlling the flow and burning every red light. Lachlan was out of the vehicle before it stopped, rushed up the Embassy steps and straight to the communications room in the basement. He bellowed at the duty officer to get lost, picked up the secure Satcom phone and punched in the code he had long since memorised.

The Taoiseach was away from his desk at the instant the red phone rang and it took a couple of minutes for his Chief of Staff to find him. A breathless Charles Lachlan rapidly related McGuire’s incredible story. Minutes later a stunned and fearful Taoiseach used the same secure instrument to alert Washington DC.

The President of the United States sat on the floor of the Oval Office playing with his grandson. The boy was about to return to Texas at the end of the school vacation and this was their last few minutes together. The President picked up the Satcom phone without a thought, holding the kid in his arms. He listened for a couple of minutes and uttered the single word “Jesus.” Then he went to the door, passed his grandson to the security guard, kissed the tearful child goodbye and returned to the phone.

“Who else knows about the Dirty Bomb?”

“O’Brien, obviously,” said the Taoiseach, “and Tirofijo. Then there’s the three men in La Picota, plus Charles Lachlan at our Embassy in Bogotá. Far as I know, that’s it.”

“That’s it? Not even the Brits?”

“Not even the Brits.”

“What about Al Qaeda? This has bin Laden written all over it.”

“As far as we know there is no Arab involvement. McGuire certainly isn’t aware of any.”

The President was silent for a while. Then he said,

“The Brits will have to know, if they don’t already. They’re pretty much on top of things where the IRA is concerned. Wouldn’t surprise me if they knew about this even before you did.”

The President sucked air through his teeth.

“Listen, Bert, I need some time to think this through. Decide what our response should be. Do you mind calling Downing Street, put the PM in the picture? I got a feeling we’re going to need help on this one.”

“No problem. I’ll call him right away.”

“I’ll get back to you in a couple of hours. After I talk to my people.”

When Michael Santos put down the phone he felt physically sick. His pulse was racing and he began to sweat. Here was a threat more deadly and more imminent than Saddam Hussein and his weapons of mass destruction that imperilled the American people in their own back yard.

***

16

The Dirty Bomb was the President’s severest test. He understood and feared its implications. If he wasn’t able to avert this threat it was the end of everything. Forget about his legislative programme. Forget about a second term. If this Irishman could detonate his Dirty Bomb, Michael Santos would not complete his first. The President picked up the phone.

“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 other 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.”

“So he hates the Brits. I can understand that. Partition was one of the biggest cock-ups in history. If I were Irish I’d be a rebel too. And then we shoot his kid brother for Christ sake. Of course he’s bitter. But it’s a long way from hating the Brits to providing the guerrilleros with a Dirty Bomb.”

Bowman got up and went to the window. “What’s his motivation?”

“McGuire says it isn’t money, though O’Brien probably stands to make half a million dollars, maybe more. Who knows? He could probably name his price. McGuire says Declan wants his name in the history books. Interestingly, that coincides with something in the file. When Declan was active in the UK it sometimes seemed like he was trying to get caught. Kept leaving little clues about the place. The psychological profilers took a look at it, thought he might have some kind of psychobabble complex. Declan O’Brien is dying to be famous. If he pulls this off he’ll be up there with bin Laden.”

“Personal habits?”

“He’s a loner. As far as we know McGuire is the only real friend he’s ever had, apart from his brother, Liam. Declan drinks a lot. Straight Bushmills. One odd thing is he prefers to pay for sex. Normally that would denote a lack of confidence or self-esteem. But that’s not Declan. Declan’s a cocky little bastard, completely self-assured.”

“What sort of sex?”

“Declan’s a sadist, enjoys inflicting pain. If the IRA ever thought they had an informer in their midst it was always Declan O’Brien they’d get to interrogate the man. Declan likes working with his hands. One curious thing, he fancies himself as an actor. Trained at the Abbey for a couple of years but didn’t make the grade as a professional. Apparently he couldn’t take direction. On the plus side, he’s a committed family man. Devoted to his younger brother.”

“Sounds like a real sweetie. What’s his core skill?”

“Declan knows how to handle all the toys, but he especially likes blades, enjoys working close in. He’s a killer not and engineer, which is just as well in the present circumstances. He needs someone like McGuire to help him assemble the detonator and prime the bomb, but killing’s what he’s good at. Which reminds me, it’s probably just coincidence but as I said, Declan’s been in touch with Pablo Ortega. Problem is we don’t know why. I’d deduced a contract killing, they’re common enough in the drugs trade, and if Ortega plans to decapitate a rival cartel that’s certainly all right with me.”

“And what about the FARC? What’s in it for them?”

“The FARC’s motives are straightforwardly political. Tirofijo is probably the last unreconstructed Marxists on the planet. And 9/11 taught him just what terror can do. If they’ve decided to go global we’re in deep trouble, the FARC has more resources than Al Qaeda could even dream of. Washington has been spending billions of dollars a year in Colombia fighting the drug wars and the terrorists at the same time, with the same methods. A Dirty Bomb is Tirofijo’s way of getting back at the Americans in one massive single hit. 9/11 dented capitalism. A Dirty Bomb could bring it down.”

“So how long have we got? Is O’Brien working to any kind of schedule?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Merlyn Stanbridge reddened. “I’ve really no idea.”

Bowman went to the window and looked out across the Thames. “When’s Colombian Independence Day? Assuming they have one.”

“Haven’t the foggiest.” Merlyn Stanbridge was impressed. Lateral thinking was something she admired. “I’ll have to look it up.”

***

18

As Congress prepared to vote on the resolution authorizing President Santos to wage war on Iraq, a group of senior advisors, including Bill Bradshaw, Director of the CIA and Secretary of Defence Herzfeld assembled in the Oval Office to review the latest intelligence reports. The atmosphere was tense. The movement of men and material to the Gulf was gathering pace. America’s traditional allies were wavering. Mid-day temperatures in southern Iraq were in the high nineties and climbing. But still no weapons of mass destruction had been found. Eagerness for war gripped the American people while in Britain it was patchy. One million anti-war protesters had marched through London and paralysed the city. All across Europe millions of peace campaigners had mounted the most impressive display of public outrage for decades. The governments of France, Germany, Russia and China were vehemently opposed and public opinion across the globe was shifting their way. The assembled group knew the time to act was now.

The President was first to speak.

“OK, Bill, what have you got?” He did not sound optimistic.

Bradshaw cleared his throat.

“Good news, Mr President. We’ve intercepted a shipment of high-tensile aluminium tubes in the Persian Gulf, bound for Iraq.”

The President steepled his hands.

“Is that it? Aluminium tubes? For Christsake, Bill, can’t you do better than that?”

He glanced at Herzfeld who was gazing distractedly out of the window. Herzfeld had convened the meeting but so far he seemed to be playing no part.

“This material,” Bradshaw continued, referring to his notes, “we believe this material was destined for the construction of centrifuges capable of producing enriched uranium.”

The President’s eyes narrowed to a slit. This was getting better.

“Could these tubes be used for any other purpose?”

“Yes, Mr President, at best they’re multiple use. I suppose they could be used for pretty much any industrial purpose, but there’s more. The CIA has received intelligence Saddam is negotiating to buy five hundred tons of uranium oxide from the African State of Niger.”

Bradshaw looked up from his notes to confirm he had the President’s undivided attention.

“Now, while this type of uranium, known as ‘Yellowcake’, could be used as fuel for nuclear power stations, Iraq has no civil nuclear generating programme that would require it.” Bradshaw paused for maximum effect. “But if processed correctly, Mr President, Yellowcake can also be enriched to make weapons-grade material. Five hundred tons of Yellowcake would produce enough enriched uranium for a bomb that would dwarf Hiroshima and Nagasaki.”

The President smiled and glanced again at Herzfeld who continued to gaze out of the window as if none of this concerned him.

“How sure of all this are you, Bill? This is pretty devastating stuff. Where did your intelligence originate?”

“The Brits, Mr President. Specifically with MI6.”

“OK. And where did the Brits get it?”

Bradshaw hesitated.

“From the Italians.”

“The Italians? Oh shit. Did it have to be the Italians?”

“We’re pretty sure it’s genuine,” Bradshaw resumed. “The Brits are about to go to public with this very same material. They wouldn’t do that unless they were absolutely confident of their facts. Subject to your approval, sir, I plan to brief a Senate Committee in secret session a couple of days from now.”

“Let me get this straight, Bill,” said the President. “You’re not saying Saddam’s already purchased this stuff, this Yellowcake? It’s just a negotiation, right? Nothing’s actually been shipped?”

“Unfortunately that’s correct, Mr President.”

“So we can’t say the stuff’s actually been bought?”

“No, Mr President, not ‘bought’. The closest we can get is ‘sought’. Bradshaw gazed down at his hands. “It’s the best we’ve been able to come up with.”

“OK, Bill, have you seen the documentation?”

“Yes, sir.” Bradshaw patted his briefcase. “I have copies of everything right here Mr President, if you want to see it.”

“That won’t be necessary, Bill, long as you’re happy with it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then go right ahead. Take it to the committee. You have my wholehearted approval. If this is the best we’ve got, lets run with it. This looks like the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for. The American people will love it. And the timing’s perfect. It will play very well in my State of the Union address.”

Bradshaw reddened. “I’m not sure you ought to do that, sir.”

“Why not, Bill, if you’re happy this is genuine?”

Bradshaw cleared his throat.

“Just to be sure, Mr President, would you mind attributing the intelligence to the Brits?”

“Be glad to, Bill, since that’s where it came from. The Brits deserve a pat on the back. They’ve been very supportive.”

On his way out of the meeting Karl Herzfeld put his arm around Bill Bradshaw’s shoulders.

“Congratulations, Bill. That was a very fine performance.”

Iraq’s attempted purchase of uranium oxide from Niger was judged serious enough to be included in the President's Daily Briefing, the most sensitive intelligence document at the heart of the American system. The information the PDB contains is meticulously analysed, or "scrubbed", to verify its authenticity before distribution by the CIA to a small number of the President’s closest aides. The PDB is so secret it is not even made available to members of the Senate or House Intelligence Committees. But these officials quickly got to know what the PDB contained because those who do have access like to talk about it, demonstrate how close to the President they are. The PDB produced immediate echoes. News of the attempted Iraqi uranium purchase reached the middle ranks of the Government within hours. Washington was euphoric. Here was the justification the Administration needed. Its inclusion in the State of the Union address would be the clincher.

Two days later Bill Bradshaw appeared before a closed hearing of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and cited Iraq's attempted purchase of uranium from Niger as proof of Saddam’s persistent nuclear ambitions. Two weeks later a resolution was passed overwhelmingly, granting the President the Congressional mandate he needed for an assault on Iraq at any time of his choosing.  America’s route to war was open.

***

19

Bowman sat in an aisle seat on British Airways flight 8195, while the pilot waited for clearance to take off. Bowman hated flying. He’d had a problem with tight spaces ever since his confinement, but worse was the slow ascent to cruising height. Anxiety turned to panic as the 757 surged forward, unleashing the full power of its four Rolls Royce engines. Bowman felt his stomach drop as the aircraft lifted off and forced himself to look out of the window as the ground receded and his fear increased as the Boeing climbed through clear air turbulence. Bowman braced himself in his seat and squeezed the armrests in his hands. He began to sweat and wanted to loosen his collar but his hands would not let go of the armrests. He closed his eyes and listened to the note of the engines, afraid they might cut out. Gradually, painfully, the plane ascended and the juddering faded. The tightness in his stomach and chest subsided and he found he could move in his seat without disturbing the equilibrium of the plane. He released the armrests. They were going to make it after all.

“Everything all right, sir?”

The stewardess was a two-tone blond with smiling eyes, estuary vowels and a costly dental plan. She noted the sweat on Bowman’s brow and wondered if her nurse’s training was about to come in useful.

“Anything I can get you, sir?”

“A gin and tonic would be great.” Bowman did his best to smile. It wasn’t very convincing. “A large gin and a little tonic.”

“Will that be all, sir?”

She seemed to imply there might be more on offer if he could figure out the buttons.

Bowman slept most of the way across the Atlantic. He popped a pill and woke up on schedule one hour out of Miami leaving time for a rapid re-appraisal of the files. Merlyn Stanbridge’s team had done a very thorough job. There was more information here than Bowman could possibly digest at a single sitting but everything was indexed and cross-indexed. When he needed help, help would be available. Bowman survived the terrifying ordeal of the landing, grabbed his hand luggage and made his way to immigration. The official was unimpressed by Bowman’s diplomatic passport.

“What is the purpose of your visit, sir?” She sounded like a recording. “Business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure,” Bowman lied.

“Enjoy your stay,” she said without a smile.

“I’ll do my best.”

Bowman walked out into the concourse and found a pay machine to check his emails. Ambrose had left a message with the address of a hotel on Eighth Street in Little Havana. Bowman stepped outside into the heat and the humidity. It was like walking into a steam room. By the time he crossed the pavement he was soaked in sweat. He hailed a cab and gave the driver the address in perfect Spanish.

The driver looked at Bowman in the rear-view mirror.

“Eres Español?”

“Soy Inglés.”

“Hombre. Qué bien hablas. Mis cumplimentos.”

“Grazias.”

“Pués nada hombre. Pero qué bien hablas.”

They drove down Eighth Street, better known as Calle Ocho, the main artery into the Hispanic heart of Miami, known locally as Little Havana, whose ten square city blocks are the nerve centre of Florida’s passionately political Latino population, from anti-Castro Cubans to left-wing Colombian para-militaries.

Bowman stepped onto the pavement and experienced a full frontal assault on all his senses. Colours were brash, aromas pungent, sounds rhythmic and loud. Little Havana moved to a salsa beat. Nothing here was subtle. Not since Fez had Bowman felt such an onslaught of sensations. But while Fez was medieval, Little Havana was twenty-first century techno-funk. Bowman paid the cabby, tipped him memorably and crossed Calle Ocho to the shabby hotel. The entrance was a narrow doorway wedged between an illicit Cuban cigar shop and an incongruous Irish liquor store. Bowman squeezed passed a pair of malnourished teenage hookers with no tits and walked up to the desk where a mulatto sat behind a bulletproof glass screen paring his fingernails with a flick-knife. Bowman checked-in.

“You have any messages for me? Name of Bowman?”

Sweat trickled down his back and chest. The heat and humidity were stifling. He loosened his collar. The two hookers smiled back at him. The taller of the two put the neck of a coke bottle between her lips and grinned.

“Ambrose left word he’s out to lunch. Back about five.”

The clerk dumped the room key on the counter.

“Room’s on the third floor. Ain’t no lift. I know the air-con’s broke, so don’t bother phoning down.”

“Thanks.” Bowman picked up his key. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”

“No problem.”

Bowman carried his bag up to the third floor. The room was cramped and sparsely furnished, but at least it was clean. He stripped, showered and changed into fresh dry cloths. Then he went downstairs to find a cab. As he squeezed past the hookers one of them made a grab for his crotch and whispered,

“Eras maricón?”

The second hooker pouted and blew him a kiss.

At the head of the line of cabs was José, who had driven Bowman from the airport.

“Olá amigo. Dondé vamos?”

“Necesito una pistola.”

Bowman climbed gratefully into the air-conditioned cab.

“Una pistola? Si, Hombre. No hay problema ninguna. No problem.”

He put the cab in gear and minutes later deposited Bowman outside a gun store in the middle of a suburban shopping plaza. Bowman entered the store and looked around at the array of pistols, shot guns, rifles, sub-machine guns, all in pristine condition.

“And what can I do for you today?”

The salesman was an overweight Hispanic with a high-pitched voice, several chins and a hanging gut.

“I need a hand gun. Browning GP35FA if you have one. If not maybe the Beretta 92FS. Something not too large.”

“Let me check.”

The salesman disappeared to a storeroom at the back of the shop. Moments later he returned, carrying a shoebox.

“There we go. Thought we had one. Browning GP35FA. Not new but it’s in mint condition.”

Bowman balanced the weapon in his hand. It felt good. He examined it expertly under the salesman’s watchful eye.

“I’ll take it.”

“Ammo?”

“Two boxes.”

“I guess you won’t be needing any lessons?”

“Just the gun and the ammo.” Bowman reached for his wallet.

“Yes, sir.” The salesman mentally calculated his commission. “Will that be cash or charge?”

***

Bowman returned to the hotel, went up to his room and flicked through the directory of contacts Merlyn Stanbridge had provided. Bowman didn’t want to worry about status; he wanted someone he could talk to as an equal, no please and thank you, someone he could share a beer with if things got really tough. Special Agent in Charge at the FBI’s Miami field office was listed as Patrick Hoolahan, who sounded like he might have political affiliations of his own. Most Irish Americans did. Many of them raised funds for the cause. But Bowman decided to take the chance and dialled Hoolahan’s office on Second Avenue in North Miami Beach.

“Special Agent Hoolahan.”

He spoke with a slight Irish brogue.

“My name’s Bowman. Alex Bowman. Mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing, my Limey friend. Not a Goddamn thing.”

There was the slightest hint of hostility.

“Would you do something for me?”

“What did you lose?”

“Call Robert Jennings.”

“Which Robert Jennings would that be?”

There was a subtle change of tone as Hoolahan’s curiosity ratcheted up several notches.

“You know which Robert Jennings.”

“Counter terrorism?” Hoolahan’s voice was hushed.

“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, hasn’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 buttons 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.

“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.”

Woman (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 women 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.”

Pablo Ortega burst into the room, followed by a team of heavies. He introduced himself with his usual impeccable Latin courtesy.

“Well, gentlemen, I hope you find your accommodations adequate?”

The three Irishmen nodded their approval.

“And the young ladies served you well I hope?”

The Irishmen enthusiastically agreed they were first class.

“And now gentlemen, it’s time to show your appreciation.” Ortega looked at each of his guests in turn. “Where is Declan O’Brien?”

The three Irishmen looked at one another and shrugged, then back to Pablo.

“Sorry. We don’t know.”

“Come, gentlemen, surely you must know? He was with you in San Vicente was he not?”

“Yes, sir,” said McGuire. “But he left ahead of us. Tirofijo sent him out by jeep. We didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye. He may have gone back to the States. We’re not sure. Honest. We’d tell you if we could.”

Ortega stood up and surveyed the trio. “Este!” He pointed at Kelly, the youngest of the group. Two of the heavies grabbed Kelly by the arms and tied his wrists behind his back with leather thongs, then his ankles. It was done in seconds. McGuire and O’Rourke rushed forward to protect him. Each received a sharp baton blow to the head. Then they too were tied and pushed back onto the sofa where two of the gorillas held knives to their throats. At a signal from Ortega a rod was thrust between Kelly’s tethered arms. Two of the heavies stood on either side of the Irishman and lifted the baton so Kelly dangled in the air, his feet clear of the ground. He was petrified, but made no sound. His body tilted forward at an angle, his shoulders level with Ortega’s head.

“Where is Declan O’Brien?” It sounded like a casual enquiry.

“I don’t know.”

Kelly’s voice was half an octave higher than usual. His face was pale. He felt an urgent need to pee.

“Cuchillo!” Ortega held out his right hand, eyes fixed on Kelly. One of the heavies placed a stiletto in Ortega’s outstretched palm. Ortega flicked open the blade and made a small incision at the base of Kelly’s throat. A small amount of blood tricked down the Irishman’s chest.

“Donde está Declan O’Brien?” Ortega repeated the question.

Kelly was too terrified to answer. With an expert flick of his wrist Ortega slit the Irishman’s throat from the base right up under the chin. There was surprisingly little blood. Kelly emptied his bowels.

“We don’t fuckin’ know,” McGuire yelled from the sofa.

Ortega didn’t turn but motioned to the heavies who held Kelly aloft.

“La cabeza!”

Each of them grabbed Kelly by the hair and held his head rigidly in place.

“Where is Declan O’Brien?”

There was no reply. McGuire and O’Rourke were too horrified to speak. Ortega inserted the blade in the open wound and expertly detached Kelly’s tongue from its roots. Then he wrapped his fist around the severed organ and wrenched it out through the gap. Kelly passed out.

“Toalla!”

One of the heavies produced a cloth for Ortega to wipe his hands. Then at a signal from Pablo they hoisted Kelly above their heads, strapped the baton to the curtain rail and left him dangling there for the others to contemplate. He looked ridiculous. Bright bubbles issued from the bloody wound and made a merry gurgling sound. Blood, shit and urine mingled on the floor.

McGuire and O’Rourke sat weeping on the sofa, too terrified to move. “We don’t fuckin’ know,” they murmured. “Honest. We don’t fuckin’ know.”

Ortega glanced at the seated pair. “No saben.” He shook his head. “Talvez no saben.”

He knew he was wasting his time. The best he could do was alert his people in the States, distribute O’Brien’s mug shot and description, offer a reward of two or three million dollars.

***

22

It was 4 a.m. London time when Merlyn Stanbridge got news of the heist. There was no indication of who had pulled it off. No one claimed responsibility. She was pretty sure the FARC was not involved. Bogotá was too far north of the safe-haven, beyond helicopter range, and an operation like this was way out of the IRA’s league. That left the Americans. The CIA had the equipment, the manpower and the motivation. But if Washington were involved Merlyn Stanbridge would have been informed by now. She just didn’t see who it could be. She called Bill Bradshaw at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

“Ortega?” Merlyn Stanbridge was stunned. “Why Ortega?”

“Has to be,” Bradshaw’s tone was casual.

“What’s in it for him?”

“It’s a power play. He wants back into the action. Can’t say I blame him. It is his country after all.”

“Can you get them back?”

“We plan to, but as yet we don’t know how. We can’t just blast our way into Ortega’s stronghold and pull the bastards out. The compound is far too well protected. Pablo has an army down there. But those three Irish bastards represent a serious threat to the United States. We need to know what the fuck is going on between them and the narco-terrorists. Problem is, we don’t have any channels open to Ortega. Be easier to speak to the Pope. How about you guys?”

“I’ve never had any dealings with Ortega. Never reached that high. Sorry, Bill, I don’t see any way we can help. But if something comes along I’ll be sure to let you know. Just don’t hold your breath.”

“We sure would appreciate it. Right now we have our hands full with Saddam.”

“Are you going ahead with the pre-emptive strike?”

Merlyn Stanbridge was stretching things a little but the line was certainly secure.

“Depends on who you talk to,” Bradshaw chuckled. “The Pentagon says yes. The State Department says no. Same ole samo.”

“Did you find any WMDs?”

“No. We’re still looking but I’m not hopeful. I’m pretty sure Saddam got rid of them last time, like he says. We sure as hell can’t find any. How about you guys?”

“We’re under a lot of pressure but our intelligence is patchy. I think we may have to fake it.”

“You too?”

“Bill? What do you mean, me too? You’re kidding, right?”

“Sure. Of course I’m kidding. By the way, I never thanked you for that stuff on the Yellowcake deal. Appreciate it. You may have saved my butt.”

“My pleasure, Bill. But I thought you milked it for more than it was worth. Did you really have to let the President include it in his speech?”

“He couldn’t resist it. But the Prime Minister wasn’t exactly coy about it either. And by the way, did he really have to use that forty-five minute crap?”

“It’s very thin I know, Bill, but we’re only talking about battlefield munitions, not strategic weapons.”

“I read the transcripts. It didn’t sound to me like your Prime Minister appreciates the difference.”

“That’s because he didn’t ask.”

“Jesus Christ, Merlyn, he’s a politician, don’t wait for him to ask, explain it to him. You can’t let him take a country to war without understanding what his infantry is up against. But you must have known it was all a load of garbage at the time. At least the yellowcake transaction is supported by hardcopy documentation.”

“It’s the pressure we’re under, Bill. There are people in the PM’s office who don’t just want to tell us what to say, they want to tell us how to say it. So we have to grab whatever comes our way. What about you? You have any doubts about the Yellowcake deal? You do know where the intelligence came from in the first place?”

“The Italians? That bothers me a lot too Merlyn, but you checked it out thoroughly when you got it, right?”

“As much as we were able. But we’re under a tremendous strain here to produce the goods and there’s very little hard intelligence around. We don’t have reliable human resources on the ground, the way we used to in the Cold War, and we don’t have the technical resources you do. So we just have to use whatever dross comes to hand. You know how many actual spies we have on the ground in Baghdad? Five, and two of them are unreliable.”

***

23

The Secretary of Defence was in his office when news of the Bogotá breakout flashed across his TV screen. It astonished him. He’d never even heard of the Irishmen, had no idea the IRA was active in Colombia. That faggot Bradshaw had kept him out of the loop. Herzfeld briefly pondered any possible connection between the narco-terrorists and his more pressing problems in the lead-up to the war, some angle, some way they might be used. He saw none. But Karl Herzfeld was bordering on frantic. Just a couple of weeks after the President’s dramatic revelations in his State of the Union address, the story of Iraq’s attempted acquisition of uranium oxide from Niger was beginning rapidly to fall apart.

The TV in Herzfeld’s office was tuned permanently to CNN. Live on television the Director General of the International Atomic Energy Agency was telling a bewildered meeting of the UN Security Council the documents surrounding the attempted purchase of Yellowcake from Niger were all fakes.

"The IAEA has concluded,” the official was saying, “with the concurrence of independent experts, that these documents are not authentic. In fact, these documents are so poor I cannot imagine they were ever scrutinised by any serious intelligence agency. Furthermore it saddens me, given the low quality of the documentation, that this story was not suppressed. And in view of the level this so called intelligence reached, I would have expected a much more stringent verification of the so-called facts."

Herzfeld picked up the phone and summoned Colonel Preston to his office.

“What the fuck is going on, Arthur?” He pointed to the TV screen.

“The IAEA headquarters in Vienna got hold of all the supporting documentation. It took them less than a couple of hours to work out the original paperwork was forged. Whoever cobbled this together did a very sloppy job. That letter signed by the Minister of Foreign Affairs in Niger? He’d been out of office for several years. And those documents that supposedly came from the President of Niger’s office? The signature on that was a blatant fake. Looks like somebody got hold of some old letterhead and did a crude cut and paste job. But the worst thing is, the quantity of Yellowcake involved was simply out of sight. Niger's uranium production comes from just two mines. Their entire output is pre-sold under contract to generating companies in France, Spain and Japan. Five hundred tons couldn’t just have been siphoned off without anybody noticing it was missing. So the deal was never remotely possible. Fact is, the President’s so-called revelations were a total load of garbage. The CIA just got the whole thing wrong.”

“I guess we knew that, Arthur.” A grimace broke across Herzfeld’s face.

“Yes, sir, I guess we did.”

“That’s what you get for relying on the Brits.”

Herzfeld dialled Bill Bradshaw at CIA Headquarters. But the Director of Central Intelligence was not taking any calls; they were being diverted to his home in Fairfax County.

“Arthur, do you have Bill Bradshaw’s home address? I think you should go pay him a visit.”

***

Colonel Preston collected his two-tone Caddy from the underground executive parking lot, checked the unlisted Schofield .45 he kept in the glove compartment and drove through Arlington, past the National Cemetery and out on Highway 50 to the tree-lined suburb of Oakton. He parked off Old Lee Highway and walked the last few hundred yards through the driving blizzard to the fake colonial mansion on Saint Andrews Drive. A beat-up Secret Service Chevy was parked across the street with its engine running, the windscreen wipers fighting a losing battle with the snow. There’d be two more suits inside the house. Preston paused at the foot of the drive, smiled at the sign that read, “beware of the dog” and made his way round to the rear of the house that backed onto the golf course of the Army and Navy Country Club. But immediately he stepped through the open doorway of the triple garage he knew he was too late.

***

On the other side of the Potomac President Santos was glued to CNN. He was apoplectic. He found it hard to follow what was being said…forged signatures? …textual errors so glaring?…fabricated letterhead?…the Foreign Minister no longer in office?…documents not authentic?…this story should have been suppressed?…what the fuck is going on?…is everybody crazy?

The anchor-man attempted to illicit a response from the CIA and the Department of Defence but no spokesmen were available to dispute the startling disclosures of the IAEA official. The whole machinery of government had run for cover.

CNN scoured the world for a reaction to the news. London reported two members of the UK cabinet had threatened to resign, citing their discontent at the unreasoning rush to war. In Paris and Berlin the forgeries were greeted with derision and outright condemnation of the incompetence of the American and British intelligence services. But CNN reported scant public interest on the streets of Washington or London where the headlong preparations for the impending conflict remained the lead story. In neither capital was there any sustained probing into how both Governments could have endorsed such transparent falsehoods. No one queried how such dross had penetrated the topmost layers of the American and British administrations. No one asked how it got into the President's State of the Union address delivered before Congress and the British government’s intelligence dossier presented to Parliament. But unanswered questions remained. Was any potential threat posed by Iraq more important than the integrity of either government? Were both Administrations lying to themselves and one another? Above all, had each deliberately deceived their own electorates?

The CNN report concluded with footage of men and material pouring into the Emirates of the Persian Gulf. An entire army was on the move. Special Operations forces had already taken up advanced positions well inside Iraq. The momentum towards war was becoming irresistible. Mid-day temperatures in Basra had soared above 110^0.

President Santos picked up the secure satcom phone that linked direct to the PM’s desk at 10 Downing Street.

“Prime Minister? Please tell me you didn’t know this whole thing was a total load of garbage.”

The Prime Minister’s phrasing was staccato.

“Mike...believe me...we weren’t just relying on the Italians...we have our own intelligence on this... from an independent source.”

“What intelligence? What source?”

“Sorry, Mike,” The PM’s tone grew firm. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“Why the hell not?”

The PM paused. “It’s classified.”

“Then fuck you, Prime Minister.”

President Santos picked up another phone and dialled Bill Bradshaw at his Virginia home. I’ll fire the fucking bastard! The phone rang for ages before a maid answered. She went to look for her employer but couldn’t find him anywhere. The President insisted she try again. She searched the house from top to bottom then went to look for him in the garage. She found William Bradshaw hanging from the rafters. He hadn’t even left a note.

***

24

When Frank Willowby discovered Ben Ambrose had vanished, he panicked. Ambrose was probably at DEA headquarter right now relating his incredible story; the DEA’s top man in Europe was working for Pablo Ortega. So Willowby phoned a couple of his associates in Washington DC and had a perfectly normal conversation with each of them. They’d never even heard of Agent Ambrose.  Next he called his secretary at the London Embassy to check for messages. Nothing. She mentioned a couple of unimportant items and asked when she should expect him back at the office.

“I’ll be there in a couple of days. I still have a couple of things to straighten out with Ambrose.”

He thought the mention of the name might trigger a response, but it didn’t. And yet Ben Ambrose was out there somewhere, armed with this astounding piece of intelligence.

Willowby checked out of the Palais Jamaî, paid Ambrose’s account and his own, sped back to Tangier and boarded the first available London flight. By mid-afternoon he was back at his apartment off Cadogan Square. He called directory enquiry and got the number for the Echo. Minutes later he had Melanie Drake’s secretary on the line.

“Sorry to bother you. This is Interflora. We need to deliver some flowers to Miss Drake. Trouble is, we don’t have her home address. I’m afraid my young assistant...”

“Miss Drake is out of town for the weekend. She won’t be back till Monday.”

“That’s a great pity,” Willowby sounded disappointed. “Mr Bowman was very insistent we send them right away." It was a shot in the dark, but it worked.

“Alex Bowman? I see. That makes a difference. Just a second, I’ll get the address of the cottage.”

Late the following afternoon Frank Willowby walked into a flower shop in Guildford High Street.

“Hi,” he smiled at the pretty young assistant. “I need some flowers delivered to an address just outside Petworth.”

“No problem, sir. What flowers would you like?”

Willowby looked around at the confusing profusion of blooms.

“You choose. Something not too expensive.”

The assistant busied herself making up a bouquet.

“And when would you like these sent, sir?”

“Do you mind if I deliver them myself? It’s sort of a surprise. I’ve come all the way from the States...”

“I don’t know...delivery is included in the price.”

“Here.” Willowby produced two brand new £50 notes. “Does that solve the problem?” The assistant blushed. “And I’ll need to borrow your van. Won’t be for long. I’ll be back in less than an hour. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The assistant smiled, pocketing the fifties and handing Willowby the bouquet and the keys to the van.

***

Melanie stood in the garden at the rear of the cottage talking to Ron the gardener. She wore frayed jeans, a loose-fitting woollen sweater and a bobble hat against the cold. Her white breath drifted on the freezing air. Upstairs in the house Annette, the cleaner, was hoovering the bedrooms. Domestic routine was something Bowman hadn’t discussed with Melanie but she was sure the arrangements he’d made were fine. Melanie liked them both, especially Ron. He had very little to say, just got on quietly with his work. She watched him cutting back the clematis that overgrew the wall at the end of the garden and wondered why such a young, well-educated good-looking couple would want to work in domestic service. She saw the florist’s van come down the rise at the back of the house and follow the bend round the edge of the property.

“Flowers?” she smiled. “Can’t be for me, surely? Oh Alex, how thoughtful.”

She heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel at the front of the house and the insistent ringing of the doorbell. As she went into the cottage Ron put down his pruning shears, glanced up at the bedroom window and saw Annette looking out at him. He moved quietly round the side of the house. The front door was open. Melanie stood in the doorway holding a large bouquet in both arms. She was smiling.

The deliveryman was dressed in an expensively tailored business suit and polished shoes. His right hand moved slowly inside his bulging jacket.

“Freeze!” Ron yelled. “One false move and I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

Melanie looked in horror at the glistening gun in the gardener’s hand, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Then Annette rushed down the stairs, pushed Melanie back down the corridor, opened the man’s jacket and pulled out a Beretta sub-compact. The cleaner examined the piece, released the safety and held it up to the deliveryman’s head. Next she rummaged through his wallet, searching for ID.

“American Embassy? What the fuck...?”

Annette looked up at him quizzically, turned to Ron, then back to the deliveryman.

“Who the hell are you? Is this some kind of joke?””

He didn’t answer.

“I don’t get it, Ron. The bugger’s got a Grade One Security Pass for Grosvenor Square. Better call Legoland. Talk to Miss Stanbridge. We might have been a little hasty.”

Willowby smiled.

“That’s right. You have. And I always thought you guys were supposed to have a sense of humour. But I think you should check with the Embassy first. No point in bothering Miss Stanbridge.”

Frank Willowby was totally unruffled.

“If I know Merlyn she’ll be mad as hell if she hears about this. Look, guys, I realise you’re only doing your job. Let’s just forget about the whole thing. There’s no need to tell your boss. Mind if I have my gun back?”

“After I speak to Miss Stanbridge.”

Annette went back inside and picked up the phone.

“Frank Willowby? Frank Willowby?” Merlyn Stanbridge repeated the name. “I’ve known Frank Willowby for years.”

“You want us to hold him or let him go?”

“Yes, hold him. I’ll need to speak to him, at the very least.”

“Shall I give him back his gun?”

“No, Annette, keep the gun. Inside the Embassy the Yanks can do what they like but carrying firearms is still illegal in this country. Willowby knows that. He’ll expect nothing less. I’ll be there in a couple of hours. Oh, and I may need to stay overnight. Is there a spare room?”

“Yes, ma’am, there’s two. And Ron and me can always double up.”

“Check with Miss Drake if it’s OK for me to spend the night. And Annette...”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Be nice to Mr Willowby till I get there. I don’t want this turning into a major diplomatic incident on the threshold of a potentially catastrophic war.”

***

Two hours later Merlyn Stanbridge sat in an armchair in the drawing room of the cottage. Willowby was sprawled inelegantly across the sofa as laid-back as could be. Ron was in the corridor and outside in the garden, front and back, was a handful of additional men. Melanie and Annette were busy in the kitchen.

“Well, Frank? What is this all about? Turning up on the doorstep of a woman who says she’s never met you, a bunch of flowers in one hand and a handgun in the other?”

“I always carry a gun. That’s normal DEA practice.”

Willowby wasn’t in the least defensive.

“In the States, maybe, Frank. Not here. Here it’s illegal.”

“Your guys carry weapons.”

“That’s different. My guys have permission.”

She lit a cigarette and tossed him the pack.

“Look, Frank, it’s obvious there’s something you’re not telling me. Does this have to do with the Moroccan business Melanie got involved in? Is that it?”

“That’s it.” Willowby sat up straight. “I wanted to thank her for the part she played. Express my sympathy for what happened to her. It must have been awful. The flowers were a token of Uncle Sam’s appreciation.”

“No, Frank. That’s not it. You wouldn’t have delivered the flowers yourself; you’d have sent them. All that business with the van. It isn’t like you. You’d have arranged a reception at the Embassy, prepared a little speech, made a big deal out of it. Got your picture in the paper. I know you, Frank. I know your style. I think you came here to get something. Something you need. But I can’t figure out what it is. There’s nothing of value in the cottage.”

She got up and began to pace round the room.

“So it has to be something intangible… something abstract. Some idea. Some knowledge. Something Melanie knows and you don’t.” She turned to Willowby. “Am I getting warm, Frank?”

“Not even close,” Willowby smiled. “You’re way off the mark. Like I said, I just wanted to thank her on Uncle Sam’s behalf.”

“Melanie knows about the coke farm up in the Atlas. But so do you. You’ve had a copy of our file; we’ve had a copy of yours. So that’s not it. You know everything there is to know about the plantation. So you need…you need to erase what Melanie knows. That’s it, isn’t it, Frank? You came here to cancel something out. You came here to…to kill her.”

She stared at Willowby in disbelief.

“Oh my God! Frank! You’re working for the other side! You’re working for Ortega!”

“Merlyn.” Willowby spread his hands before him. “Come on, willya; that’s just absurd.”

Merlyn opened the door and stepped into the corridor.

“Ron. Cuff him. Drive him back to Legoland and put him in the basement. I’ll go to work on him in the morning.”

She lit a cigarette, her hands shaking slightly.

“And send a message to Langley. Tell them we have our channel to Ortega.”

Merlyn Stanbridge strode into the kitchen where Melanie and Annette were busy at the stove.

“Sorry about all this inconvenience, Melanie,” She sniffed the air. “Now, Melanie my dear; what’s for supper?”

***

Willowby was held in a small but comfortable room five floors below street level in the bowels of Legoland. The room was serviceably furnished with a wooden bed and a couple of soft armchairs. There was a separate toilet and shower room. No windows. No mirrors. No exposed electrical wires. The door was re-enforced steel. Fixed to the ceiling was a CCTV camera, linked to a display in the central monitoring room, somewhere along the corridor. Willowby had been strip-searched and given a pair of pyjamas and a robe with no drawstring. His head was shaved. All his possessions had been removed. His watch. His wedding ring. His glasses. He hadn’t slept.

Willowby heard the footsteps in the corridor outside, then the key turn in the lock. Merlyn Stanbridge entered, followed by a steward carrying a tray.

“I thought you might want breakfast.”

She sat in one of the armchairs.

“Sorry about the plastic. No sharp objects. I’m sure you understand. Coffee?”

“Thanks.”

“I’ve spoken to the Prime Minister. The PM has spoken to Washington. We’re prepared to offer you a deal. We want you to provide a conduit to Ortega.” She saw that Willowby didn’t follow. “You’ve read about the IRA doing business with the FARC? It’s been all over the American press.”

“I’ve been away on business. I did see something on CNN but I haven’t followed it closely.” Willowby rubbed his newly shaven head. “What’s that got to do with Ortega?”

“The three Irishmen were air-lifted out of La Picota. It wasn’t us. It wasn’t the Americans. And it certainly wasn’t the Irish. So it was either the FARC or Ortega. Bogotá is a long way from the safe-haven. Out of helicopter range. We think it was Ortega.”

“I don’t get it. What would be his motivation?”

“He’ll want to bargain his way back into the action.”

“What sort of action?”

“There’s some stuff that’s been kept out of the press. When I tell you, you’ll understand why.” Briefly she told him about the fourth Irishman. The Dirty Bomb. “So you see Ortega’s problem? If O’Brien succeeds, he’ll destroy one of Pablo’s major markets, wipe out all of his investments, and it could turn off the rest of his consumers. Americans are funny that way. There could be a backlash against all things Colombian, sort of an unofficial coke embargo, if you catch my drift. I know it seems unlikely but we think it’s a strong possibility.”

Willowby was outraged. He was a criminal but he was a patriot as well. The idea of a Dirty Bomb contaminating an American city appalled him.

“So what do you want me to do?”

“We have no way of talking to Ortega. We need you to make the introduction. Then we can set up a satcom link and share resources with him. Pablo has people on the streets in every major American city.  They’ll be out there now, searching for O’Brien.”

“And what happens to yours truly when this is over?”

“I’ll have to turn you in, Frank; ship you back to the States. You can always cop a plea, do the best deal you can. But it’ll be better than dealing with Ortega. Ortega’s nasty.”

It took twenty-four hours to establish the Satcom link from Legoland to Ortega’s compound outside Medellin. Merlyn Stanbridge called the Embassy in Bogotá and directed MI6’s head of station to liaise with his counterpart at CIA. One thing the Brits could never match was the Americans’ technical gadgetry. A small truck was dispatched to Medellin. The digital equipment took hardly any room. No special modifications were needed, just the fitting of a minute explosive charge so the kit could be destroyed remotely when it was no longer needed. For packed inside that glistening cubic foot of steel was some of the most advanced encryption software yet devised.

The following afternoon Merlyn Stanbridge sat in front of the newly installed monitor. At 4 p.m. precisely the VDU flickered into life and Pablo Ortega’s cherubic features filled the screen. From three and a half thousand miles away his malevolent presence was tangible. He looked very pleased with himself. He had manoeuvred his way back into the action, held a couple of very valuable cards. Merlyn Stanbridge watched the focus of Ortega’s eyes widen as he recognised Frank Willowby seated beside her. Ortega’s expression darkened to a frown as he tried to calculate what Willowby was up to.

“We think you lifted the three Irishmen from La Picota,” Merlyn Stanbridge began. “We want them back.”

“Two Irishmen.” Ortega corrected her. “One of them met with an unfortunate accident.”

Merlyn Stanbridge understood immediately.

“You questioned him? Gave him one of your famous neckties?”

“Of course I did.”

Ortega grinned; pleased his reputation reached out across the ocean.

“And do they know the whereabouts of Declan O’Brien?”

“It doesn’t seem so.”

Ortega smiled his vicious smile. Stanbridge believed him implicitly.

“We want them back. The Americans are keen to talk to them, find out what they’re up to.”

“They’re the only cards I have. I need something in exchange.”

“Name it.”

Ortega glanced at Willowby, sitting behind Merlyn’s right shoulder.

“I’ll have that bastard for a start.”

Willowby knew everything there was to know about Ortega’s European operations, names, dates, bank account details.

Stanbridge knew that wouldn’t be enough.

“What else?”

“I want a free hand in Morocco. My people have been doing some research, it looks like a very promising opportunity. But there’s been some stuff in your press over there. I want that stopped. In return you can pick up the two Irishmen any time you like. Meantime my people in the States are already on the lookout for O’Brien. If he’s using drugs as payment we’ll be the first to know about it. If we find him we’ll kill him. Do we have a deal?”

“We have a deal.” Merlyn Stanbridge thought it was a bargain.

Ortega threw a switch to terminate the transmission from his end and the screen went dead.

“I thought we had an understanding,” Willowby frowned. “You offered to ship me back to the States when this is over. Get me a lighter sentence.”

“Deals are made and broken, Frank. You know that. Things change. Ortega has a lot more to offer than you do.”

“I could raise my bid.”

“How?

“I can give you a complete organisation chart of Pablo’s worldwide set-up. The people he owns. Names. Addresses. Bank accounts. You name it I can give it to you.”

“May not be enough, Frank. But it’s certainly a good place to start.”

***

25

Special Agent Hoolahan left home early and drove to the offices of the Florida chapter of Noraid, the Irish Northern Aid Committee, in Miami Beach. He pulled into the car park at the rear of the two-story stucco building, walked up to the front door and pressed the bell.

“Yeah?” A metallic voice crackled from the speaker.

“That you, Terry? It’s me; Pat Hoolahan.”

He looked up into the CCTV camera fixed above the door and smiled.

“C’mon up, Pat”

There was a buzzing sound and the door clicked open. Hoolahan closed the door behind him and walked up the stairs. The hall and corridors were festooned with posters proclaiming “British Government: Sponsors of State Terrorism.” “Irish Holocaust.” “Oppressed Peoples of Occupied Ireland Unite.”

Terrence Cosgrave stood framed in the doorway of the rear office and held out his hand. He was a tall thin affable looking man with a flattened nose and brownish thinning hair

“Pat, old son. Long time no see.”

“Top of the morning, Terry.”

Hoolahan nudged passed him and collapsed into the nearest armchair, fanning himself with his hat. He was out of breath. Beads of sweat formed on his brow.

“How’s things? Bucks still rollin’ in?”

“There’s been a bit of a fall-off. 9/11 didn’t do us any good. One man’s freedom fighter is another man’s terrorist so they say, and we’re all tarred with the same brush. It’ll pick up again for sure, but it’s a long time till Paddy’s day. I take it we can count on your continued support?”

“Sure you can, you know me, Terry, always been up for the cause.”

Hoolahan coughed blood into a freshly laundered handkerchief.

“Are you all right, old son?” Terrence Cosgrave looked concerned.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You didn’t bring your cheque book with you, I suppose.”

Cosgrave laced his fingers together and smiled. He looked like the village priest, all virtue and unction.

“Plumb forgot,” Hoolahan beamed. “Next time we meet, I’ll give you something handsome. Matter of fact, I was hoping you could do something for Uncle Sam for a change. This is sort of official.”

“You’re here for the FBI, is it, Pat?”

Cosgrave sat in the swivel back chair on the other side of the desk and frowned.

“We’re all American citizens here, Pat. What is it you need?”

“I’m on the lookout for one of the lads. Name of Declan O’Brien. Can’t tell you why, ‘cept it’s pretty important. Did you hear anything, Terry old son?”

Cosgrave recognised the name at once. Declan O’Brien was a legend.

“O’Brien, you say? No, can’t say as I have. And which O’Brien would that be?”

“There’s people would pay good money to find him.” Robert Jennings would grant any sum. “It’s really important, Terry. Just don’t ask me why.”

“C’mon now, Pat, don’t insult me. You say he’s one of the lads? You know I couldn’t do a thing like that.” He had a wife and two children to consider. “You know what would happen if I did.”

“Tell you what, Terry, will you do something for me?”

“Anything, Pat, anything at all. Except grass up one of the lads.”

“Make a phone call to Dublin for me. Go right to the top. Can you reach as high as the Army Council?”

“I can try. I’ve raised fortunes of money for them in the past.”

“Tell ‘em I was here; and what I was askin’. See what they have to say.” Hoolahan got up to go. “Will you do that much for me, Terry old son?”

He coughed again, holding the blood-stained handkerchief to his mouth.

“Just ask them that one simple question? Sounds reasonable enough to me, Pat, in view of your past contributions.”

Hoolahan nodded.

“I’ll call you when I get back to the office, see what they have to say.” He made ready to leave. “Better still, why don’t I buy you lunch? I’ll pick you up about one. Deal?”

“Deal.”

***

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” Cosgrave’s face was red and furious as he bit into his hot dog.

“Tell you what, old son?” Hoolahan grabbed a paper towel and sponged the mustard from his tie.

“That ‘twas O’Brien shopped McGuire and the rest.”

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 courtesy. 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 connections 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.

“Hello?” Bowman cleared his throat. “Agent Moreno?”

Bowman crossed the room and touched her on the shoulder. She sat up with a start and made a grab for the Colt Anaconda holstered under her left shoulder. Bowman held up his hands.

“My name’s Bowman. Alex Bowman.”

She looked at him and smiled, re-holstering the piece.

“OK. Don’t tell me. You have a double zero rating? Am I right?”

Her accent was purest Brooklyn. She’d never worked with a Brit before. She wondered if it would be fun. She was in her late twenties, six feet tall with a prominent nose, large brown eyes, clear Levantine skin and a wide, promising mouth. She wore chinos, combat boots and a plain white sweatshirt. The Star of David dangled from a chain around her neck.

“Not me,” Bowman laughed. “I’m not even on the payroll.”

“Wow. That’s tough.”

Agent Moreno was not convinced. Anyone who commanded the personal attention of Director Jennings just had to have a double zero rating.

“I’m about finished with the technical stuff. You want me to talk you through it?”

Bowman looked her over. She was tall and slender like a supermodel but with bigger breasts. That might be a problem for Versace, but Bowman thought they were nice. Agent Moreno caught the vibe, blushed, smiled, and blushed some more.

“I’m sure I can work it out.”

“You’re right,” she said, “it’s really not that complicated. This is a PC and this is a cell-phone. They’re both secure. You shouldn’t have any problems. If you need me all my numbers are loaded in the directory.”

“You have any idea what this is all about?” Bowman asked.

If she did, she certainly hadn’t grasped the seriousness of the situation they were in. Maybe Jennings hadn’t brought her up to speed. Maybe he was right. The fewer people knew about this the better.

“I know you’re looking for somebody. I know who but I don’t know why. Maybe it’s better that way. Leaves me free to concentrate on the electronics. But this is how we’ll catch him.”

She patted the PC as if it were her pet dog.

“Satellite intercepts are ready to roll. Your man can’t order pizza without me knowing which kind. But if I did know why you’re looking for him it might help.”

“How come?”

“All I have is a name. If I had some key words I could set up an automated sniffer system. Scan the airwaves twenty-four seven and come up with a match. You’d be surprised how careless people can be if they don’t know they’re being listened to.”

“Bloke I’m looking for is Irish. You could tap into anything that has to do with Noraid and the Irish Republican Army. Telephone numbers. Bank accounts. Credit card transactions. As for key words… you could try knife, blade, detonator, bomb. And every kind of explosive you can think of.” Bowman didn’t mention nuclear material. “How’s that for starters?”

Agent Moreno made notes on her iPhone.

“He sounds like a real nice guy. You certainly move in interesting circles, Mr Bowman.”

She stood up, ran a hand through her soft brown hair and began to gather up her things.

“Talking of moving in circles… ” Bowman decided to try a minor move. “Do you have a name? Other than Agent Moreno?”

“That’s classified,” she smiled. “But in the interests of Anglo-American relations and given you’re our closest ally, it’s Calista.” She touched the Star of David on her neck. “Bu people call me Cal.”

“You free for dinner, Agent Moreno? Cal?”

“Don’t think that’s a very good idea, Mr Bond.” She looked him squarely in the eye.  “But if anything technical crops up, be sure to give me a call.” She pushed the cell-phone towards him across the desk. “I’m available twenty-four hours a day, every day. Just not for dinner.” Her smile was friendly but dismissive. “If you need me I’ll be back at the office, monitoring the airwaves. Anything else I can help you with?”

Bowman recognised rejection when he saw it and Agent Moreno’s defences looked pretty much impregnable. Pity. She had such a promising mouth.

“A Browning GP35FA would be useful. Had to leave mine in Florida. You know what airline security is like.”

“Sure, no problem, long as you sign for it. I’ll send one over with a couple of boxes of ammo.”

***

The series of catastrophes Cal Moreno and her fellow techno-spooks had helped avert since 9/11 was impressive; from the seizure of bomb making equipment in Brussels to foiling a plot to infest the American Embassy in Rome with cyanide gas. These triumphs belied the technical difficulties involved. But the alternative, the penetration of tight-knit militant communities by agents who combined unquestioned loyalty to the United States with fluency in Arabic or Pashtu, bordered on the impossible.

Agent Moreno did not think Bowman’s Irishman should present any particular difficulty. Director Jennings had provided a complete psychological profile and full personal details and Cal had access to the shadowy international computer network known to a select few practitioners within the intelligence community as Echelon. A system so secret the government denied its very existence, and with reason. Echelon contravened America’s own domestic laws.

Much of the work had already been done. The entire Noraid membership was routinely monitored as it had been since President Clinton got involved in the peace process. Irish Republican activists on both sides of the pond were on the Echelon register, their every communication intercepted, logged and analysed. The problem with this guy O’Brien was that he would be constantly on the move; but if he used a fax, a phone or the Internet it was only a matter of time before Moreno caught him. But chances were O’Brien knew this and would confine himself to public phones and Internet cafés, keeping his communications brief. And he would use cash, not credit cards.

So the best chance of catching him was to screen the people he might contact. In the States that meant engineers with known Irish Republican sympathies and ready access to explosives - people who worked in demolition, mining or the military. On the other side of the pond it meant his friends and family. Cal reckoned at most a couple of day’s computer time using existing Noraid data. She would monitor each phone call, email and bank transaction, sniffing out the key words Bowman had provided. It was only a matter of time before the Irishman broke cover. And when he did she’d catch him.

***

28

Declan O’Brien sat contemplating his shrinking options in a bar in North Miami Beach. Using his contacts in the Irish Republican community was out of the question now. He had made the mistake of telling McGuire what he was up to and that option was definitively closed down. The IRA and Noraid wouldn’t touch him. Worse, they’d probably turn him in. Maybe even put a bullet in his back. The Loyalist alternative had come to him in the middle of the night. He wasn’t even thinking about the problem at the time, it just happened, the notion jumped straight out at him, uninvited. But the more he thought about it, the more he liked the concept. The Protestant Loyalists would know about the IRA’s dealings with the FARC, the whole world knew by now. But not about the Dirty Bomb. They’d be out of that loop completely.

O’Brien’s quandary was he had no point of entry into the Loyalist community. No names. No contacts. No background. The Loyalists had a presence in the States, not on the scale of the IRA, but a presence nonetheless. Problem was, how to find them. But there are hundreds of small settlements in the eastern United States still dominated by the Irish. The same is true of the Poles, the Germans and a dozen other immigrant groups. To find one where the prevailing sympathies were Irish Protestant was unusual but not unheard of. O’Brien knew the best place to look would be the rural Appalachians; a dirt poor region pockmarked with isolated inbred Celtic communities of both persuasions.

O’Brien paid for his drink, walked to the end of the block

and entered the Internet café on the corner. It was the middle of the morning and the place was almost deserted. O’Brien sat at a screen with his back to the room, his shoulders hunched over the keyboard. He selected a search engine and typed the words “Ulster Volunteer Force in America.” in the dialogue box. He spent the next twenty minutes sifting through page after page of garbage before he found what he wanted, the contact details of the UVF chapter in Morgan County, West Virginia. Next he tried “Appalachian Stone Quarries” and followed a number of false trails before he found a full history of the Oriskany sandstone deposits in a place called Warm Springs Ridge at the heart of Morgan County. It was difficult to compare both sets of data without printing out complete pages but with patience, pen and paper, he got the match he was looking for.

O’Brien could not risk renting a car. He had a couple of false passports in his luggage with matching driving licenses and credit cards but McGuire would know the identities Declan customarily used. He hadn’t planned on making the trip and the FBI would be doing routine searches anywhere his usual aliases might crop up. So he took a cab out to the airport and paid cash for a no-frills ticketless flight to Atlanta, Georgia. On arrival he bought a hamburger and a diet Coke at a fast-food counter and paid cash for an onward flight to Charleston, West Virginia. He had half an hour to kill before take-off so he went to a pay phone and dialled his mother’s number.

“Ma?”

“Declan? Is that you darlin’?”

“Sure it is, Ma. How are you?”

“Fine, son. We’re all fine.”

She wanted to ask him what was going on. The papers were full of the arrests in Colombia. It was the biggest news in Dublin since the cease-fire. But she knew better than to mention things like that on the phone.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“I thought I heard a click on the line.”

“I heard it too…”

She lowered her voice to a whisper. She wanted to tell him about the wretched English woman who had come to the house and upset Liam, but she knew there wasn’t time.

“Will you tell Liam I called?”

“I will. But don’t forget to call him on his birthday.”

“Did I ever miss?”

“No, son; you never have. You’re a good boy, Declan.”

Declan hung up the phone and looked at his watch.

“Sorry lads. You’ll need a bit longer than that I’m thinkin’.”

At Charleston O’Brien took the Greyhound and headed north on Interstate 79. His destination was the small run down community of Warm Springs Ridge in Morgan County where high grade Oriskany sandstone had been quarried since before the Civil War and still supplied the local glass making industry. The first thing he noticed on entering the place was the ubiquitous grime. A blanket of fine grey particles covered every available surface, dispersed equally over the poor and less poor sections of town by the impartial westerly breeze. The dust came from the nearby stone quarries that gave the desolate place its miserable living.

O’Brien got off the bus at the north end of Main Street late in the afternoon, carrying a small overnight bag. He was the only passenger to alight at this particular stop. He dropped his bag on the pavement, looked up and down the deserted street and lit a cigarette, flicking the match into the gutter. He’d been travelling for the best part of a day. His joints were aching and his mouth was dry. He was wearing jeans and a loose fitting denim shirt that concealed a sheathed Bowie knife, strapped to his left forearm with brown packing tape.

There were twenty or so shops on Main Street, half of them empty, half announcing huge discounts on goods nobody would buy. The only living thing he saw was a scraggy cat, foraging in a pile of garbage. Canned music was coming from a dingy bar. O’Brien crossed the street to The Red Hand, pushed open the door and walked up to the counter. Inside the place was cool and dark. Sealed windows kept the dust at bay. A malfunctioning air-conditioning unit hummed above the door, surplus coolant dripping onto the unscrubbed wooden floor. White supremacist memorabilia decorated every wall. The red and white Cross of Saint George, prominent above the bar, proclaimed O’Brien was in enemy territory. His stomach tightened. He dropped his bag on the floor and ordered a large Bushmills and a soda water on the side. The stocky overweight barman took a good look at O’Brien and noted the broad Londonderry accent, but said nothing. O’Brien took his drink and his bag to a corner table he could watch the bar and the door from without moving his head. He was the only customer in the place. As he sat sipping his whiskey he felt a distinct tremor under his feet. It lasted only about five seconds but the whole building shook perceptibly. The ceiling light swung to and fro above his head. The glasses on the bar made a merry jangling sound. O’Brien glanced up at the barman but didn’t move his head.“

Boss Murphy’s blasting a new face today,” the barman shrugged.  Happens all the time.”

O’Brien nodded, put his glass to his lips and took a little sip.

The barman looked at the stranger, at his big uncalloused hands. There was no dust on his clothes, skin or hair. His shoes were shiny.

“You from around here?”

O’Brien shook his head and raised his glass, like he was making a toast.

“I’m from across the water.”

“Thought so.”

The barman glanced at O’Brien’s overnight bag.

“Travellin’ kinda light, aren’t ya?”

He returned to his chores and continued to talk with his back to O’Brien.

“The men’ll be here soon. They clock off about now.”

He was silent for a while, intent on O’Brien’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Then he said,

“There’s no work in these parts if that’s what you’re lookin’ for. Half the fellas is laid off.”

“I’m not lookin’ for work.” O’Brien flexed his hands.

The barman grunted.

“Is it Boss Murphy you’ve come to see?”

“Could be.” O’Brien emptied his glass, walked over to the bar and ordered another. “Will you join me?”

“Later.”

The barman put some of Declan’s change in a jar by the till.

Declan said,

“Is there somewhere I can put up for the night?”

“There’s Mrs Ahern on George Street, does room and board. Cooks a nice breakfast too, so they say.”

“George Street?”

“Number 32. Turn left at the bottom of Main and first right. Say Eddie sent yer, from the bar.”

“I’m grateful to you, Eddie.” Declan picked up his bag. “And would you tell Boss Murphy I was askin’ for ‘im.”

“I’ll do that.” Eddie went back to his chores. “What name did you say?”

“I didn’t.” O’Brien paused at the door. “Just say I came across the water.”

***

O’Brien walked down Main Street, turned right into George Street and found Mrs Ahern’s a little way along on the left hand side. Number 32 was a detached timber frame house painted white but covered with the pervasive grey dust that blanketed the town. The front yard was littered with dust-encrusted toys. A stack of fresh dog shit lent a little colour to the lawn. O’Brien stood on the porch and rang the bell. He sensed a slight movement in the net curtains in the bay window. Then the door opened and a grey woman in a grey dress stood looking up at him.

“Eddie at the bar said you might be havin’ a room, mum.”

The woman looked him up and down and smiled at the Londonderry accent.

“And how long would ya be wantin’ to stay, lad?”

She was hoping for a long let. She hadn’t had a good long let since the quarries went short time.

“Just the one night, mum. I’ll be on me way in the mornin’.”

“Will you be wantin’ a meal?”

She frowned. She wasn’t prepared for a gentleman’s supper. She’d have to go to the shop.

“Just breakfast, mum, I’ll not bother ya for supper. I have to meet a man.”

The woman asked him for twelve dollars, including the fried breakfast. O’Brien gave her fifteen, carried his bag to the upstairs room, took off his shoes, closed the curtains and lay on the bed. But he didn’t sleep. The packing tape around his left forearm was pulling at his skin. He heard the creak on the stairs, unsheathed the Bowie knife and went to stand behind the door. It didn’t open. Mrs Ahern tapped and said,

“There’s a man in the yard askin’ for yer. Didn’t say a name. Big fella.”

She knew who the big fella was but she knew better than to say a name.

“That’ll be Mr Murphy,” O’Brien replied through the door. “Tell him I’ll be right down.”

He winced as he stripped off the packing tape and replaced it with new. He checked in the long mirror, making sure the hilt didn’t show below his shirt cuff and went down to the yard.

Boss Murphy was a big red-faced man, a head and a half taller than O’Brien, with broad shoulders, narrow hips and a solid drinking man’s belly. He wore camouflage fatigues, dark glasses and military cap. His calf-high boots were steel capped. An array of hand-tools hung suspended from a belt around his waist. He was chewing gum. He looked O’Brien up and down and smiled at the little man.

“You was askin’ for Boss Murphy?”

He spat the gum out on the ground between them.

“That your truck?”

O’Brien gestured with his head, his thumbs resting in the belt loops of his jeans. The big Protestant peered over the top of his shades and nodded.

“Let’s take a ride,” said O’Brien as he headed for the truck and climbed up into the cab.

The open bed of the Chevy Silverado was a jumble of wires, cables, tools and detonator parts, the trappings of Boss Murphy’s dangerous trade. Half a dozen sticks of dynamite were mixed up casually with the rest.

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 sat 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.”

Declan 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.

“Remember, lads, not a bloody word. And that includes Terrence Cosgrave.”

The four Irish Republicans sat in Cosgrave’s office sipping whiskey, not knowing where to start.

“This is a bad business,” said Cosgrave. “A very bad business. Who’d have thought Declan O’Brien would grass up his mates.”

Hoolahan looked out of the window. McGuire and O’Rourke looked at one another, then back at Cosgrave. For a while, nobody spoke. Then Cosgrave looked across at the IRA’s chief engineer and said,

“You didn’t know, did you, Gerry?”

“Know what?” McGuire looked puzzled.

“That ‘twas O’Brien shopped you.”

McGuire glanced at O’Rourke, frowned, then back again to Cosgrave.

“No way.” McGuire didn’t blink.

“Gerry, I’m tellin’ ya. I wouldn’t joke about a thing that, now would I?”

Cosgrave spread his hands in front of him to show he was sincere.

“No way, Terry. I’ve known Declan all my life. We’re best mates. He wouldn’t do a thing like that. Not to me. Not to anyone. I know Declan.”

“It’s true, Gerry. I got it from the very top. I spoke to the Army Council.”

Cosgrave looked across at Hoolahan for help. Hoolahan continued staring out of the window.

“Am I right, Pat?”

“You heard it from the Army Council,” Hoolahan smiled. “So it must be right.”

They spent the next few hours making notes of everything they knew about Declan O’Brien, his personal habits, his heavy drinking, his sexual preferences, his MO. They made lists of the bars and clubs he frequented, the Republican sympathisers he might contact in Miami and a dozen cities.

“Jesus Christ. Can’t you guys tell us something we don’t already know?”

Hoolahan was getting more and more frustrated.

“Now make notes against each name, addresses, phone numbers, professions. I’m especially interested in engineers.”

“Engineers?” Cosgrave was curious. “Why engineers?”

Hoolahan turned and looked out of the window. It was McGuire who said,

“Declan’s been studying electronics. It’s become a bit of a hobby.”

He didn’t mention the Dirty Bomb or the Al Qaeda manual. Not with Cosgrave sitting there.

It was nearly morning when Hoolahan yawned and said,

“’C’mon, fellas. Time for bed. Let’s find you guys somewhere to stay. There’s a motel not far from my place that’s clean, cheap and the owner is one of us. But just remember, boys; you’re in my personal custody. So don’t plan on leaving town without my say-so. Just in case, I’ve allocated a couple of agents as backup, for the company you understand. Tomorrow you’re both off to Washington under escort to testify before a Committee of Congress. Find out what the fuck you’re up to. I wish you luck, lads. The brass is pretty pissed off with you guys. Can’t say I blame ‘em.”

McGuire and O’Rourke checked in to the motel and got ready for bed. An agent of the FBI stood guard in the corridor outside and a second in the car park below the bedroom window.

“I just can’t believe he’d turn us in,” said McGuire, taking off his shoes. “I’ve known Declan all my life. I grew up with him, for Christsake. We’re practically family. He nearly married my kid sister.”

“Do you believe he’d detonate a Dirty Bomb?”

“Commit suicide, you mean? No, I can’t believe that either. If there’s one thing I’m absolutely sure of it’s that Declan won’t sacrifice his own life. Not much point in being famous if you’re dead.”

“Then you don’t really know him, Gerry old son. You don’t really know him at all.”

For the next several days Irish Catholic communities across America were abuzz with activity. Bars, churches, social clubs, cultural societies, all were scrutinised. A volunteer who ratted on his mates was the very worst thing an Irish Republican could imagine. The entire Noraid network was looking for Declan O’Brien. But O’Brien never showed up.

***

32

Bowman woke early, made coffee and stepped out onto the penthouse terrace, overlooking the Potomac. At eight o’clock precisely he picked up the cell phone, scrolled through the directory and dialled Bob Jennings’s number.

“Alex? We have contact. He’s been in Baltimore. FBI’s been making routine enquiries in every major city, doing the rounds of liquor stores up and down the country. Our man ordered two bottles of Bushmills. Said he’d be back in a couple of days to pick them up. FBI is checking hotels and rooming houses in the district as we speak. Seems like he’s changed his appearance, dyed his hair black and grown a beard. Sort of thing you’d expect. But it’s him all right. Careless bastard left prints all over the liquor store counter. The Garda Siochana confirms it’s definitely our man.”

“I’ll get up there right away.”

“No point, Alex. Place is crawling with FBI already. Declan turns up, we’ve got him.”

“If he turns up. Question is, why Baltimore? Maybe he’s just heading north, making for the Big Apple. One of his criteria is high symbolic value. The object of the exercise is maximum publicity. Where’s the mileage in Baltimore? The best targets are all right here in DC or Manhattan. What’s in Baltimore for Christ sake? Nothing.”

“Come on, Alex. The target isn’t a building, it’s an entire city. Doesn’t matter which one and Baltimore’s as good as any.”

Bowman finished his coffee and went down to the street to buy a decent map of Baltimore. What was it he remembered about Baltimore? Something happened there about a year ago. A fire. A fire in a tunnel. He scrolled through the cell-phone directory and dialled Agent Moreno.

“Cal? What do you have on the fire in the Howard Street Tunnel?”

“Whole Goddamn history. You want me to send you the file?”

“Is there a résumé?”

“Executive summary? Sure. I’ll email it across to you now.”

Bowman went back up to the apartment, switched on the computer and downloaded the file. The blaze in Baltimore’s Howard Street Tunnel had occurred on July 18 the previous summer when a freight train transporting hazardous chemicals through the city had exploded. The blaze burned for three days and attained a maximum of 1,500 degrees Fahrenheit. There was no nuclear waste aboard the train. But if there had been the containers would certainly have ruptured since the canisters that carry spent fuel from the Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Plant that supplies the city with power are designed to withstand a maximum of 1,250 degrees. And this for 30 minutes only. Not three days. So had fissionable material been aboard the train the fire would certainly have triggered a nuclear blast. And aside from thousands of fatalities 500,000 people would have been exposed to a catastrophic release of radiation. For each cask shipped from Calvert Cliffs contained 260 times the amount of radioactive caesium released by the Hiroshima bomb. Whole neighbourhoods would have had to be razed. The city would have been uninhabitable for a generation. But the official report ended on a complacent note. Nuclear waste had been shipped safely by truck and rail across the United States for more than 35 years. During that period over 3,000 shipments of spent fuel had travelled a total of 1.7 million miles. And there had never been a nuclear accident.

Bowman switched off the computer in despair. Of course there wasn’t going to be an accident. But if O’Brien could replicate the conditions that ignited the fire, he wouldn’t even need a detonator.

***

Unlike most of the world’s capitals Washington is laid out according to a coherent plan. Conceived by Pierre Charles L’Enfant in 1792, his vision gives the city its grace and sense of order. Many of the nation’s great emblematic buildings are located within its bounds; the White House, the Capitol, the Supreme Court, the Library of Congress, the monuments to Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln, the great national museums. Most of these are ranged along the grand central avenue of the National Mall, the tree-lined ceremonial thoroughfare that runs from Capitol Hill all the way down to the Potomac on the far bank of which looms the daunting citadel of the Pentagon, the world’s largest office building.

As Bowman logged off the computer on the other side of town Declan O’Brien stood in line at Union Station waiting for the bus to take the extended tour of the capital. It was a bright, blue winter’s morning. A fresh fall of snow blanketed the ground and the chill air was clean and sharp as crystal. As he stepped aboard the bus O’Brien glanced at his watch. It was 9 a.m. on Tuesday March 11. He had lined up the explosive and the detonator. The nuclear material was already in place in the docks in Baltimore. Within the next three or four days all the elements of the Dirty Bomb would be united and the device made ready and primed. O’Brien was on schedule to meet his chosen date. What Declan needed now was a target. A precise target. Something with a bit of poetry. A resonance. A building with the high symbolic value that would secure his place in history. But when he got off the bus some nine hours later O’Brien had not seen anything that quite captured the nuance of symbolism he was looking for. And nothing he had seen was remotely personal to him.

***

33

Like most of his compatriots Boss Murphy had never visited the nation’s capital in Washington DC, so when O’Brien offered to reimburse him for the trip the quarryman was delighted to accept. He loaded the detonator and a quantity of Semtex onto the bed of his truck, covered them with a tarpaulin and set off on what was to prove the fatal final journey of his life.

Four hours later he checked in to a modest motel a few miles inside the Beltway off interstate 95 where O’Brien had reserved him a room. Murphy made sure the tarp was still secure over the contents of the truck, checked in, went upstairs to his room, plugged in his laptop and began to search the web. It took only minutes to find the service he wanted. The website had all the relevant details; photographs, phone numbers, hourly rates, customer reviews. What the rent boys would and wouldn’t do. Murphy selected a partner, picked up the phone and made a date for later on that evening, allowing a couple of hours to complete his transaction with the Papist O’Brien. Then he lay on the bed and relieved himself of his hard-on.

O’Brien arrived twenty minutes later by taxi carrying a small overnight bag. He recognised Murphy’s truck in the car park and walked over to take a casual peek under the tarp to make sure everything was there. Then he went up to Murphy’s room. He put his bag on the bed, opened it, rummaged among his clothing and took out a plastic envelope containing five hundred grams of fine white powder.

“What’s this?” Boss Murphy was genuinely puzzled.

“Payment.” What do you think it is, you Protestant asshole? Sherbet?

“We agreed on $20,000 in cash. Folding money.”

“This is more, asshole. This is a whole lot more.”

Christ sake you Protestant pick, don’t you recognise a bargain when you see one?

“Cash.” Boss Murphy shook his head firmly. “I only want cash. I wouldn’t know how to handle this shit. Wouldn’t be much use to me back in Warm Springs Ridge.”

O’Brien considered his options. He could convert the coke to cash in an hour or two and keep the surplus for himself. Make everybody happy. But his comings and goings might be noticed by the desk clerk, the FBI was out there looking for him and hotels were a prime target. The big Protestant was a pain in the fucking ass. He didn’t seem to understand that cocaine hydrochloride was more valuable than cash. Apart from which the Loyalist asshole knew too much already.

“OK, Murph,” O’Brien smiled. “Have it your way. You want cash, I’ll get you cash. Problem is you’ll have to drive me.”

“How long is this going to take?”

Murphy looked at his watch, thinking about his date with the rent boy.

“An hour.” O’Brien shrugged and re-packed his bag. “Two max.”

“That’s cool.”

Murphy grabbed his jacket and the keys to the truck.

“Long as it doesn’t take any longer, I have plans for tonight.”

Then he hurried downstairs and climbed into the flatbed.

“Where to, little man?”

Murphy grinned, pissed off about the cash but not wanting to let it show.

“Go north on Columbia Pike,” said O’Brien “And not so much of the little man.”

”It was almost dark and the evening traffic was thinning out to a trickle. It began to rain, not hard enough for the wipers to work, just enough to obscure the road ahead. Murphy was getting more and more irritated with O’Brien, pissed off about the cash and worried the rent boy would show up before he got back to his room. After twenty minutes O’Brien told him to hang a left and they joined a narrow country road heading west toward Rockville.

“You sure you know where the fuck we’re goin’?”

Murphy was beginning to have doubts. Images of the boy and what he would do with him kept flashing across his mind, making him more and more disgruntled.

O’Brien peered ahead into the darkness, his anger at the big Protestant coming slowly to the boil.

“Will yer shut the fuck up, Murphy? I’m concentrating here.”

Ahead O’Brien saw the flashing neon of a cheap motel. Rooms $20 a nite. Adult channels. The dimly lit car park seemed deserted.

“Pull in over there,” O’Brien gestured.

Boss Murphy swung the truck off the road and headed slowly toward the distant sign that read “Reception.”

“Go round the back, will yer, Murphy?”

O’Brien unbuttoned his shirtsleeve.

“Hey, what the fuck is this?”

Murphy slammed the breaks on hard. As he did so the nine-inch blade of the Bowie, double edged at the curved tip, ripped into his belly. It made a neat surgical incision. Blood seeped through Murphy’s shirt. He grabbed O’Brien by the neck and smashed the little bastard’s head hard against the windscreen.

“What the fuck is this? You piece of Papist shit!”

O’Brien drove the blade upward into the Protestant’s throat, severing the jugular, and felt the grip around his neck begin to slacken. Thick warm blood pulsated rhythmically against the glass, splashing back into the cabin of the truck and drenching them both in a sticky covering of gore. O’Brien’s Bowie was the ideal weapon in a confined space and the third thrust pierced Boss Murphy’s heart.

“Holy Mother of Jesus!” O’Brien climbed out onto the tarmac, pointlessly wiping the blood from his face with his blood-stained hands. “Shite! What a fucking mess!”

Murphy’s heart still pumped as O’Brien hauled the massive body over into the passenger seat. Then O’Brien climbed behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition and switched on the windscreen wipers. It didn’t help. He rummaged under the dashboard, found a cloth and cleared a small area of glass. Murphy groaned as O’Brien put the truck in gear and re-joined the road, heading west away from interstate 95. He hadn’t planned the killing. It just happened. But it did make things more complicated. A body on his hands was the last thing Declan needed. Murphy groaned again. O’Brien pulled over to the side of the road and stabbed him viciously several times in the throat face and chest.

“Will yer shut the fuck up, Murphy? I’m concentrating here.”

After a while O’Brien spotted a sign that said Great Falls and knew he was nearing the river. He guided the truck down a rutted track across open fields and came to a halt on the north bank of the swiftly flowing Potomac.

Boss Murphy was barely breathing when O’Brien dragged him from the truck but blood still seeped from his wounds. The sticky film of gore made the body difficult to handle. O’Brien could hardly get a grip on him but at last the big man slithered to the ground. As he crashed onto the icy surface Boss Murphy uttered the final sound of his life, a meaningless childish gurgle. O’Brien checked Murphy’s jacket for anything that might ID the corpse and found a wallet. Along with some money, a driver’s licence, a dry cleaning receipt and half a dozen charge cards, was a set of black and white photographs of Murphy and young boys.

“You filthy, Protestant bastard.”

O’Brien slipped the photos back into Murphy’s shirt pocket and trousered the cash and the other items. Then he slit Murphy’s pants open with the tip of the Bowie, severed his limp penis and stuffed it in the big Protestant’s mouth. Next he rolled the heavy corpse down the bank into the freezing river. It snagged in a bed of reeds.

In the back of the truck O’Brien found a can of spirit and some rags and did his best to wash away the blood from inside the cabin. It was far from forensically clean but it was the best he could do. Next O’Brien stripped and plunged into the freezing river, washing himself vigorously in the cold clear water. In his overnight bag along with the packet of coke was a change of clothing. He put his soiled shirt, jeans and underclothes beneath the tarp and drove back towards the city. He was dreaming of a nice hot bath.

***

34

Bowman grabbed a cab and rode over to the FBI safe house on 9th Street where McGuire and O’Rourke were held pending hearings before the Committee of Congress set up to investigate their activities. The IRA had lobbied vigorously for them to be shipped back to Ireland, out of the glare of publicity. If the pair revealed what they knew of IRA activities in Colombia, it was going to be deeply embarrassing for both wings of the Irish Republican movement. Worse than embarrassing, it would cut the IRA off from its major source of funding. Noraid would have to be disbanded. But the American authorities insisted the two Irishmen could not be released until they testified and the Irish Government reluctantly agreed. They really had no alternative. Not even the senior Senator from Massachusetts would lend them his support.

Bowman had the cab drop him a couple of blocks from his destination, watched the taxi pull away into traffic and walked the rest of the way to the corner of 9th street and M. He pressed the bell and identified himself to the intercom, looking up into the CCTV camera above the door. He was let in by one of three FBI agents who manned the house, a big red faced man with a Colt semi-automatic holstered below his left shoulder. The man didn’t speak but pointed Bowman to the stairs leading down to the basement. McGuire and O’Rourke were playing cards in a windowless air-conditioned room. They had hardly spoken to one another for days, they had run out of things to say. They were bored rigid but at least they were safe. There were people out there who would prefer them dead, from Tirofijo to their very own friends in the IRA. They knew too much. Simple as that. So the FBI had offered them a bargain. In exchange for their full co-operation they would be put on a generous witness protection programme. New identity. New Life. Lots of cash. In a couple of years, when this thing was over and forgotten, their families could be shipped out to join them in some forgotten outpost of the rural mid-West.

Bowman and the two prisoners spent an hour discussing what O’Brien might do next, where he might go, whom he would contact. The liquor stores, the S&M clubs, the list of known Noraid contributors. It led nowhere. It was ground they had all gone over a dozen times before. Then McGuire casually mentioned the Al Qaeda manual.

“He’s got what?” Bowman was stunned.

“He’s got an Al Qaeda manual,” McGuire repeated. “Bastard showed it to me in the safe-haven.”

“Jesus Christ.” Bowman was on his feet. “Why didn’t you mention this before? This changes everything. We’ve been looking in all the wrong places!”

“Haven’t had the chance,” McGuire yawned. “Been locked up here for days going stir crazy. No one came to de-brief us since Hoolahan and he told us to keep schtum.”

“What sort of manual?”

“A technical manual. How to build and detonate a Dirty Bomb.” McGuire looked thoroughly embarrassed. “I didn’t get a chance to examine it in detail.”

“In Arabic?” said Bowman hopefully.

“In English.”

“Holy shit.”

Bowman put his head in his hands. If O’Brien was in contact with Al Qaeda it solved the problem of how and where to source the nuclear material. Chances were the stuff was already in place, probably right her in Washington DC. As Bowman pondered the implications of this new intelligence he was startled by the sound of his cell phone.

“Bowman.”

“Alex?” Ben Ambrose was calling from Miami.

“Ben, hi, what’s new?”

“I just got a call from Ortega, thought I should let you know about it right away. Maybe it doesn’t mean a lot but an unusual amount of high-grade cocaine hydrochloride is flooding the market in Baltimore. Ortega says it isn’t his.”

“Baltimore? OK, Ben; get on the next plane. I’ll pick you up at BWI in a couple of hours.”

“I’ll be on the very next flight.”

“Call me when you have an ETA.”

Bowman called Agent Moreno, walked the five blocks to the Hoover Building and picked out a pimpmobile from the car pool in the basement. Two hours later he was in the concourse at BWI waiting for Ambrose to de-plane.

“Nice wheels.” Ambrose raised an eyebrow as he climbed into the white Vette convertible.

“Discreet, don’t you think?” Bowman smiled.

“This is the States, Alex,” Ambrose explained. “Who needs discreet?”

***

Bowman had no idea where to start so he began by checking the rooming house where O’Brien had stayed for the last couple of nights. The FBI had identified the place as a result of routine enquiries and already searched it thoroughly. They had come up with a load of O’Brien’s fingerprints, some DNA material and traces of cocaine hydrochloride, but nothing really useful. Still Bowman thought he might learn something, get a better understanding of his quarry. Ambrose flashed his DEA badge and the clerk handed them the key and let them go up to the room. The place had been swarming with FBI for days and two more snoopers couldn’t do much harm.

There was no point in doing a forensic search, teams of trained professionals had already done that job, so Bowman just stood in the middle of the sleazy room and tried to get a feel for O’Brien. Why would he choose to stay in a dump like this when he had a fortune in a suitcase? Bowman went to the window and looked out over the vast commercial docks.

“Why here, Ben? Here’s a man loaded with cash, coke, or both. Why would he stay in a tip like this?”

“Maybe he just wouldn’t feel comfortable staying at the Ritz.”

Bowman looked out over Locust Point Marine Terminal with its thousands upon thousands of containers that stretched as far as the eye could see. The queue of trucks heading for Interstate 95 was nearly a mile long. As Bowman watched, one truck shunted into another. Both drivers got out and started remonstrating wildly with one another. Bowman watched their gestures but couldn’t hear a word they said. He grabbed his cell phone, scrolled through the directory and dialled FBI headquarters.

“Moreno.”

“Cal, it’s me, Alex. How’s your Pashtu?”

“My Pashtu?” There was uncertainty in her voice. “Far as I know I don’t have one.”

“Pashtu’s a language, Cal. It’s what they speak in Afghanistan. We may need someone to translate. You have anybody there can do that?”

“I think it’s pretty unlikely. I can do a search of the personnel files if you like. Is it urgent?”

“Yes, Cal. It could be very urgent.” He switched off the phone and turned to Ambrose. “The nuclear material must be already here.”

“Here in Baltimore?”

“Right here in Baltimore, somewhere down there in those docks. No point them moving it till they have to. But O’Brien came here to check things out, inspect the merchandise, maybe make a payment.”

They went downstairs and talked to the desk clerk but he’d been questioned repeatedly by FBI field agents and had nothing new to add. Bowman thought of going to the Ukrainian liquor store where O’Brien had ordered the Bushmills, but decided against it. The place was crawling with FBI agents waiting for O’Brien to pick up his order and Bowman didn’t want to risk blundering in at a critical moment. They went back out to the street. Bowman turned up his coat collar against the freezing wind.

“What exactly did you get from Ortega?”

“Like I said on the phone, Alex, Baltimore’s awash with high grade coke and Pablo swears it isn’t his. I have the name and address of the dude who runs Ortega’s operation if you want to meet him.”

“Why don’t you talk to him yourself, Ben? Drugs is your department. No point me being there, I’d stick out like a sore thumb. I’ll just walk around the neighbourhood for a while, maybe take a look at the Howard Street tunnel. Then I’ll find us a place to stay. I’ll call you on the cell phone when I’ve got something sorted.”

Ambrose hailed a cab and gave an address in Fells Point. The Caribbean Fine Foods Import/Export Company looked pretty much like any other fruit and vegetable store, except maybe some of the items on display were a little more than averagely exotic. Paco Trujillo worked out of a spacious air conditioned office in the back of the shop. Trujillo’s once athletic frame had run to fat but he was still an imposing presence. He was tall and dark with brown don’t-mess-with-me eyes and tightly curled black hair. He stuck out his hand.

“Ben Ambrose? I’ve been expecting you, got word from Medellin you might be stopping by. How can I help?”

Word had come down from the very top, from Mr Ortega himself. Whoever the black guy was he had to be treated with respect.

Automatically Ambrose reached for his badge, but stopped himself in time. No point upsetting the natives.

“Pablo just asked me to check around. Apparently there’s some high-grade coke on the street that isn’t his. He’s not the least bit happy about that. You wouldn’t expect him to be. He thinks someone’s taking part of his action and that makes him very angry. Wouldn’t be you now, Paco, would it? Or would it?”

Ambrose sat on the desk looking down on Trujillo’s once toned, athletic frame.

Paco Trujillo stiffened. Trouble with Mr Ortega was something he definitely did not need. He had enough neckties hanging in his cupboard.

“Me? No, it isn’t me. I’m a loyal soldier. Mr Ortega knows that. I’ve run his operation here for the last five years, worked my way up from the deck. My books are open for inspection any time. Matter of fact, it was me who advised Mr Ortega of the situation.”

“How come?”

Trujillo leaned back in his swivel chair and assumed his best CEO manner.

“About a week ago there was a sudden surge in supply and I knew it didn’t come from us. This was dangerous high-grade stuff. Much too pure. Lethally pure. We never market product with that degree of purity, it doesn’t make commercial sense. It’s costly and we lose too many customers that way. Sure enough, over the next four or five days a number of dope heads OD-ed. Turned up dead in doorways all over town.”

“So where do you think it came from?”

“Hard to say, at first I had no idea but it looks like it could be the Muslims. Which is really strange.”

“Why strange?”

“Coke is a Latino thing. South America supplies ninety-five per cent of the market. The Muslims control horse and hash. Heroin is their thing. Coke is ours. It’s a very good arrangement.” Trujillo leaned forward across his desk. “Of course it could be Calí or one of the other Colombian cartels but if so Mr Ortega would have known about it long before I did.”

“So what made you think of the Muslims?”

“Here, I’ll show you.”

Trujillo pointed to a map of the city pinned to the wall above his desk. There were a number of red dots that seemed to cluster around a single central area.

“Each dot is a dead dope-head.” Trujillo explained. “They started turning up in shop doorways and doss-houses all over town. A few made it into A&E but mainly they died on the street. ’Course there could be more. I wouldn’t know about them all. But you can already see a pattern. The action seems to be centred on Islamic Way. There’s two or three Mosques in that part of town, it’s an Arab neighbourhood. American Arabs that is. Leastways, they call themselves Americans.”

Ambrose shook his head. “Guy I’m lookin’ for is Irish.”

Trujillo was puzzled. Ortega had posted a bounty on an Irishman a couple of weeks back but Trujillo didn’t see the connection. “Don’t get that much Irish in Baltimore. Some. There always is. But the Irish are mainly further north in Philly and the Big Apple. They own Boston. I could make some enquiries, if Mr Ortega wants me to.”

“We have people working the Irish end. But it’s just this one guy we need to talk to so if you hear anything let me know.”

Ambrose made ready to leave. He grabbed a sheet of paper from Trujillo’s desk.

“This is my cell phone number. Get your people out there asking questions on the street. If you hear anything about an Irish guy operating on his own, be sure to give me a call. His name’s O’Brien. Declan O’Brien.”

“Be glad to.” Trujillo slipped the sheet of paper in his pocket. “Anything else I can help you with while you’re here?”

“I need to see your payroll.”

“My payroll?” Trujillo chuckled. “Sorry. This is a cash business. We don’t make a declaration.”

“Don’t be cute with me, Paco. You know what I mean. Who are you paying off at Customs? I want the top man. Don’t feed me any chicken shit.”

Trujillo hesitated

Ambrose picked up the phone.

“You want to call Ortega? Check on my authority?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Trujillo knew he was dealing with one of Ortega’s top aides. He grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil and wrote down a name.

“You want his address?”

“Home address will do. I won’t bother him at the office.”

***

At 9.45 next morning Bowman steered the white Vette convertible into the driveway of a spacious mansion overlooking the water in Annapolis, a few minutes’ drive from the Naval Academy. Fifty miles south of Baltimore on the Chesapeake Bay, Annapolis, the State Capital of Maryland, is the most handsome colonial town in America. The mansion was genuine Georgian, as authentic as any house of its period in England. Its manicured lawns swept down to the water where a forty-foot schooner lay bobbing at anchor. Bubbles from the aeration system that kept the ice at bay drifted slowly around the keel, like balloons at a birthday party. Old Glory fluttered unselfconsciously from a flagpole. In the driveway were a seven series Beemer, a faithfully restored 1930s Duisenberg and a brand new Range Rover. A heavily built young man in rubber boots and waterproofs meticulously soaped the Beemer. He glanced over at the pimpmobile, then at Bowman and finally at Ambrose. He smiled but didn’t speak and disappeared into the garage.

Ben Ambrose pressed the bell. For a while nothing happened, then an elderly black maid in a spotless uniform and starched white apron opened the door and looked up at the black face, slightly shocked. Her lined and weathered face held a quiet dignity that reminded Ambrose of his mother.

“Is Mr Libitch at home?” Ambrose enquired politely.

“Depends who’s askin’.”

The maid was unsettled by the idea of a black man calling at the master’s house. It had never happened before. Not in the fifteen years she’d worked there.

“Tell him I’s a friend of Mas’er Trujillo.”

A slight southern drawl had crept into Ambrose’s voice, uninvited. The old woman reminded him of home, the scent of black-eyed peas and collard greens coming from his mother’s kitchen.  She said,

“Please step inside.”

Ambrose and Bowman did as they were asked.

“Just wait right there.”

She indicated a spot on the marble floor only she could see and disappeared into the house.

Bowman looked admiringly around the beautifully appointed hall. The furniture and ornaments were all meticulously in period. Within a minute the maid reappeared.

“Follow me, please.”

She turned on her heel and led the way across the lobby, down a long corridor and into a study lined with books. Behind a desk sat a portly, middle-aged man in brightly coloured casual clothes puffing on an illicit Havana cigar. He had the moist eyes and heavily veined cheeks of a recovering alcoholic. He didn’t rise when they entered but looked up at Bowman and said,

“Who the hell are you?”

Cigar ash spilled down his cashmere cardigan.

“He’s from England,” Ambrose interjected, as if this were answer

enough. Libitch seemed to accept that it was.

“And who the fuck are you?”

Libitch reluctantly addressed to the black man.

“Or are you from England too?” It was probably a joke.

“Me?” Ambrose chuckled. “No, not me. I’m with the DEA.”

He flashed his badge.

“Jesus Christ.”

Libitch chomped on his cigar. His cheeks changed from ruby to crimson and he began to sweat. He brushed ash nervously from his cardigan.

“Nice place you have here, Henry.”

Ambrose went to the window and looked out at the dinghies tacking across the icy bay where naval cadets in bright yellow oilskins were mastering the intricacies of sail. Ben stood there for a while then turned to Libitch and said,

“You marry a rich lady, Henry?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your wife, Henry. Is she rich?”

“My wife died fifteen years ago,” Libitch growled.

“Sorry to hear that, Henry.” Ambrose was suitably chastened. “But I was just wondering how much money you make. You see, we’re both public servants with more or less the same level of seniority, except you’re older than me and you’re with Customs and I’m with the DEA. Details like that could make a small difference. Now, I make $85,000 per and I reckon you can’t be on much more than…let’s say $120,000 max.”

Libitch saw at once where this was leading. He didn’t want to go there. He crushed his cigar in the ashtray and put his head in his hands. After a while he said,

“OK, OK, OK already. Tell me how much you want.”

Ambrose began to pace about the room.

“You’ve been taking kick-backs, haven’t you, Henry? That’s against the rules. You know that.”

“I’ll testify,” Libitch protested but his defences had already crumbled.

“I’ll need protection.”

“I’m not interested in you testimony, Henry. Not yet anyway. We’ll come to that later. You see, I made an arrangement with Mr Ortega.”

“You did?”

Libitch started to laugh. Tears welled up in his moist milky eyes.

“Jesus Christ! You sonofabitch! You had me goin’ there for a minute. You really had me goin’.”

He lit another Monte Cristo and shunted the box across the desk at Bowman.

“This is much more serious than you think,” Ambrose continued.

“What is?”

Libitch recovered the humidor and locked it away in his desk drawer.

“What’s more serious?”

“Henry, have you ever come across an Irishman called Declan O’Brien?”

“No,” said Libitch truthfully.

Ambrose believed him. He looked across at Bowman who seemed to believe him too.

“Henry?” Ambrose tried a different tack. “You haven’t been dealing with the Arabs, have you?”

Ambrose could not believe a fellow American would do that, no matter how greedy. Not after 9/11.

Libitch went pale.

“Once,” he spoke in a whisper. “Just the once, I swear. About a year ago. Way before 9/11. Never heard from the bastards before or since.”

“You want to tell me about it?”

“July 22 2001 a cargo vessel docked at Locust Point. The Jersey Lilly. Registered in Panama. But it took on cargo at Beirut. The manifest said canned fruit and vegetables. I was to fix it so the containers were parked in one particular spot in the bonded area on the docks while they waited to clear Customs. Right next to the perimeter fence. That was it. Just park the containers in a given spot and have a guy tamper with the lights and disable the alarm system. ‘Course I understood why. They cut through the fence at night and stole one of the containers.”

Ambrose saw Libitch was ashamed of what he’d done.

“What was it?” Libitch asked. “Horse or hash?”

“Who approached you?” Bowman spoke for the first time. “You have a name?”

“In this business nobody gives a name, at least not a real one; just a wad of cash. They came here to the house, just rang the bell and barged their way in. Even roughed-up the help. Dinah May was very upset.”

“The maid?” Ambrose looked genuinely concerned.

“She threatened to quit, but I talked her out of it. Dinah May’s been with me since my wife died. Couldn’t get along without her.”

“Can you describe the guys?”

“Middle-eastern dudes. Nicely pressed white linen trousers. Short-sleeved cotton shirts. Wrap-around gold-rimmed shades. This was July remember. One had a Saddam type moustache and manicured hands. Kept toying with a string of beads. Spoke perfect American, no trace of an accent. Had a sidekick with him who didn’t speak at all. Big sonofabitch packin’ something heavy under his jacket. Woulda topped me I’d said no.”

“You made a police report after the event? When the container went missing?”

“Sure. Always do. Cops looked into it. Came up with a big fat zero.”

“Who handled the police enquiry?”

“Guy called Danny Russo.”

“Was Russo in on the action?”

“No, not this time,” Libitch affirmed. “Sometimes he is. Sometimes he isn’t. Depends on what’s involved. This one was just too easy. Didn’t need no help.”

Bowman and Ambrose left Libitch alone with his cigar and his conscience. They were half way down the drive when they heard the shot through the open study window, followed a moment later by the sound of Dinah May screaming at the top of her lungs. One long loud wailing note that came straight from the gut. A distant memory of Bessie Smith floated across Bowman’s mind.

***

Police Lieutenant Daniel T. Russo was more than happy to oblige. A short, fat, amiable man with soft chubby hands and a belt too tight on his ample gut, he lay back in a swivel chair with his boots up on the desk. He addressed the black man with thinly disguised disdain.

“Kinda late, aren’t ya, son?” ‘Son’ was intended as a put-down. “That was way over a year ago. DEA usually moves faster’n that.”

“At the time it must have looked like a straightforward police matter,” Ambrose explained patiently. “Simple theft. Manifest said fruit and veg. No need for the DEA to get involved.”

Russo shifted in his seat as if he was passing wind.

“Couldabin. Shouldabin. Stuff gets lifted off the docks is likely to be drugs don’t you think, son. ‘Less you believe it really was fruit and veg? Me, I think they went to too much trouble for some cans of beans.”

“So what happened next?”

“We investigated. Came up with zilch. You ask me, I’d say it was an inside job.”

Russo was still sore at not sharing in the spoils.

“Stuff is parked right next to the gate. The lights go out. The alarm system is on the fritz. Just one specific container disappears out of a whole shipload. What would you think, son? Let’s see if you can work it out.”

“You have any paperwork?”

“Paperwork? Sure. ‘Nuf paperwork to wipe your nigger’s ass.”

He opened a drawer in a large metal filing cabinet marked “Unsolved”, flicked through the hanging files, pulled out a buff folder and threw it on his desk.

Ambrose stood up to leave, taking the folder with him.

“Hey!” Danny Russo yelled. “You can’t take that.”

“Oh yes I can,” Ambrose smiled patiently. “I’ll make sure you get it back though.”

Russo’s stocky frame blocked the doorway.

“I can’t have some young buck from the DEA walk in here and remove police files without authority. What the fuck is going on here?”

He made a grab for the file.

“You want me to call Internal Affairs, Danny Boy?” Ambrose enquired politely. “Tell ‘em ‘bout you and your pal Paco?”

Russo staggered round the desk and collapsed into his chair. He went pale.

“And by the way, Danny Boy,” Ambrose continued. “Unless you’re a whole lot older than you look, you’re definitely not my father.”

***

Back at the hotel Ambrose and Bowman examined every scrap of paper in Danny Russo’s file. There was nothing much they could use, the twenty month old trail was cold beyond resuscitation. But there was a precise description of the missing container, external and internal dimensions, colour, make and serial number complete with the bill of lading, and photographs of its identical companions the thieves had left on the docks. Just standard modular shipping containers, much like any others. The only thing that could be useful was the name and address of the intended recipient of the goods. Ambrose picked up the phone and made a call to Danny Russo.

“Did you ever make contact with the Lebanon Trading Company?”

“Sure I did, son. Spoke to the top man,” Danny’s tone was defensive. “Guy was pissed off naturally, but not as much as you might think. Probably made a fat profit on the insurance claim.”

Ambrose thumbed through the file.

“This guy... whatsisname… Fayed? Was he helpful?”

Russo was quiet for a while. Then he said,

“Sure, I’d say he was helpful. Like I mentioned, he was pretty pissed off. But I’d say he was co-operative.”

Ambrose put down the phone and turned to Bowman.

“Whadaya think, Alex. You want to go pay this guy Fayed a visit.”

“Might as well, Ben. Then I can pass the file to Robert Jennings, let the FBI squeeze what they can out of it. Up to now this was just a local matter that got no higher than your friend Danny Russo. The FBI’s had no involvement yet. Chances are Fayed’s shipment was just used as cover, but now at least the Feds can do a nationwide search for the container. At least now they’ll be armed with the serial number and an accurate description.”

***

The Lebanon Trading Company was housed in a large expensive-looking air-conditioned unit on an otherwise shabby industrial estate just north of Baltimore, a short distance from junction twelve of Interstate 95. Bowman parked the pimpmobile in the visitors’ space, right next to a brand new Cadillac Deville in a space marked CEO. Ambrose showed his badge to the receptionist and explained he was making routine enquiries.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” he assured her, but she didn’t even bat an eye, stuff like that happened all the time.

It turned out Fayed was between meetings and agreed to see them right away. They rode the lift to the oak-panelled executive suite on the second floor.

A slightly built, dapper little man in a business suit one size too large stood up to greet them. He had jet-black thinning hair that was probably dyed, a neatly trimmed moustache and perfect manners. He seemed unsurprised that they were there. Maybe Russo had phoned ahead to warn him. Could be an insurance scam that everyone was in on.

“Gentlemen,” Fayed smiled, “please sit down.”

He motioned them to upright chairs on either side of the impressive desk.

“How can I help?”

“Nice place you got here.”

Ambrose looked around the large room, cluttered with gilded furniture and expensive looking oriental rugs and drapes.

“Business must be good.”

Fayed confined himself to an enigmatic smile, lit up by a single golden molar.

“Just over a year and a half ago,” Ambrose began, “you had a container stolen from the docks at Locust Point.”

Fayed nodded.

“Part of a consignment of canned fruit, apricots if I recall correctly. The police investigated at the time but as far as I’m aware the case is closed. Why? Has something new come up?”

Ambrose flashed his badge.

“I’m with the Drug Enforcement Administration, Mr Fayed, not the Police Department,” Ambrose explained. “That should tell you something.”

“So you think the container was used for smuggling drugs?” He raised one tinted eyebrow. “Yes, I can see that. Heroin could certainly be concealed among the packing cases, or between the hollow walls of the container, or maybe even in the cans themselves.”

“And where would a nice, back-country boy like you get a neat idea like that?”

Ambrose ratcheted up the pressure by a single notch, but Fayed was prepared.

“What was the name of that movie? The French Connection? Remember Popeye Doyle? Gene Hackman played the role, played it beautifully. I think he got an Oscar.” Fayed smiled. “That’s it; I must have gotten the idea from the movie. But my company wouldn’t know anything about that, Agent Ambrose. We just buy the merchandise. We don’t pack it. We don’t ship it. We don’t unload it. And it’s cleared through Customs by our agents. What’s more, when this container was stolen it was still in bond. So technically we hadn’t even taken delivery. It was the Port Authority’s responsibility, not ours.”

Fayed noticed Bowman staring at a photograph on the desk. A young woman in a bridal gown had her arm around the waist of a clean-cut young man in a dark suit and Roman collar.

“That’s my daughter,” Fayed beamed. “Lovely, isn’t she? The priest is my younger brother, Joseph.”

“So you’re a Christian, Mr Fayed?” Bowman enquired. He could recognise a dead end when he saw one.

“Lebanese Christian,” Fayed confirmed. “We’re known as Maronites. The oldest Christian sect in the entire world, though we’re among the smallest. There’s about one and a half million of us in the States.”

“Shit.” Bowman climbed back into the pimpmobile. “A good day’s detective work and yet we’re still no further forward. Unless Robert Jennings can squeeze something more out of Danny Russo’s file and locate that fucking container.”

***

35

Next afternoon Bowman left Ambrose in Baltimore to work with Paco Trujillo and his network of informants, tracking-down the source of the uncut coke. Bowman drove back to Washington on the Parkway and a little over one hour later he parked the pimpmobile in the basement of the Hoover Building and pocketed the keys. Then he went to the reception desk in the lobby and asked for Agent Moreno. It was 6.30 in the evening but Cal was still at her desk. Bowman fastened the security pass to his lapel and took the lift up to the fourth floor. He was grinning. Today was a special day. A very special day. The twelfth of March was Liam O’Brien’s birthday.

Agent Moreno’s office was small and crammed with a bewildering array of speakers, consoles, PCs and VDU’s all hard wired to a Cray SV1 buried elsewhere in the building. Copper cladding built into the walls, floor and ceiling insulated the chamber from unwanted electronic noise. Thick strips of black foam rubber lined the walls and gave the windowless enclosure an eerie tomb-like feeling. It looked more like an operations room than a place for transacting business. There was barely room for them both. One entire wall was given over to a giant plasma screen that displayed a map of the continental USA on which every major conurbation glowed.

Cal was dressed in her usual outfit of logo-free white sweatshirt, beige chinos and steel-capped combat boots. A rubber handled Colt .44 Magnum strapped below her left shoulder completed the stylish ensemble. Cal was wearing padded headphones, fine-tuning an incoming signal on one of the consoles. She barely looked at Bowman when he entered. Just the briefest smile of recognition flashed across her lovely mouth.

Bowman sat in the only vacant swivel chair with a clear view of her profile.

“Anything?”

“Nothing.” She didn’t look at him. “What time is it over there? Must be getting late. Maybe he forgot?”

“Don’t worry, he’ll call; apparently he always does. Declan knows the Garda Siochana set up a wiretap weeks ago but even that won’t stop him; it’ll turn him on. He won’t be able to resist. You have people standing by?”

“Sure we do. There’s agents dispersed all over DC and Baltimore. And Miami, just in case.”

Cal held up a hand for silence and juggled with her headphones.

“I think I have a signal.”

She passed Bowman a second set of ‘phones.

“The bastard’s on the line.”

Silently she pointed to the map of the USA displayed on the giant plasma screen that covered one wall of her office. The first voice they heard was Declan’s mother’s.

“Is that you, son?”

The wall-map re-focused to the eastern seaboard from the Canadian border to Miami.

“Sure it is Ma, How are you both?”

“We’re fine, Declan. Fine. Would you be wantin’ to speak to Liam?”

There was a slight tremor in her voice. Something was making her nervous. The illuminated map contracted to Washington and Baltimore as the dedicated software strove to pinpoint the origin of the signal. Important thoroughfares and specific major buildings were highlighted in red.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Ma? You don’t sound quite your usual chirpy self.”

“I’ll get Liam for yer, son. He’ll explain. Hold on just a minute.”

The map now focused on the downtown area of Washington DC. Bowman held his breath. The silence lasted fifteen seconds while the remote array of Cray SV1s sifted several million bits of data, refining the search to an ever more specific area.

“Is that you, Declan?” Liam was on the line.

“Who else would it be, old son? Happy birthday, little brother.”

The map homed in on a compact area just north and slightly to the east of Capitol Hill. Bowman sat forward in his seat.

Cal tore off her ‘phones and grabbed Bowman by the arm.

“Union Station. He’s at Union Station.”

They ran for the elevator. There were dozens of people milling about waiting to go home. The office crowd was getting ready to party.

“The stairs,” Bowman yelled. “I’ve got wheels in the basement.”

They were in the car park in no time. Bowman gunned the Vette up the ramp, elated at the power of the 5.7 litre V8 engine. Cal shouted directions, gesticulating wildly with her right hand and grasping her cell phone in the left. By the time they reached Massachusetts Avenue Cal had mustered every available agent in the capital. Three minutes later Bowman pulled up outside Union Station. The forecourt was already teeming with unmarked cars, blue lights flashing, sirens blaring.

“Description?” Cal yelled at Bowman. “What’s the fucker look like?” Exhilaration blazed from her bright eyes. She was on an adrenalin high.

Bowman grabbed her cell phone.

“Short. Fair hair. Blue eyes. Clean shaven.”

As he handed back the phone Bowman knew the only adjective that probably still applied was ‘short’.

They hung around Union Station for over an hour before Bowman would admit it was useless. O’Brien had timed his phone call to perfection. He could be on the other side of the city by now, maybe even have boarded a train.

Cal put out an all points text message on her cell phone instructing the FBI to stand down.

“What now?” Agent Moreno reassessed the Englishman. Fast driver. Good reactions.  Stays cool. Her heart was pumping as she fought to hang on to the high, seeking for some new sensation to sustain it.

“We could go back to your office? Analyse whatever else is on the tape?” Bowman kept looking at her mouth.

“No way, Pedro.” Cal hitched her thumbs through the belt loops of her chinos. “We can do that in the morning.” She looked Bowman squarely in the eye.

Come on you Limey bastard, show me your best move.

Bowman gazed at her quizzically.

“You still don’t do dinner, do you, Agent Moreno?”

Dinner could be OK for starters.

“I might. If you can think of somewhere interesting to take me.”

She made it sound like a challenge

Twenty minutes later Bowman parked the Vette one block from Blues Alley at 1073 Wisconsin Avenue, a short walk from his apartment.

Agent Moreno was impressed with his selection.

“How’d you know about this place, Mr Bond?”

Bowman grinned.

“Everybody knows Blues Alley. Eva Cassidy used to sing here.”

“That’s right, Mr Bond. She did.”

Bowman didn’t seem to mind her teasing him. The more Cal got to know the Englishman the more she liked him. Maybe she would tell him her little secret. Maybe not. But he’d be going back to Limeyland pretty soon, so there wasn’t much danger of him taking advantage of it.

They were shown to an isolated table at the back of the dimly lit room and ordered from the simple menu. It was early still by jazz club standards and the musicians hadn’t showed up yet. The place would not get crowded for at least a couple of hours and they could talk freely without fear of being overheard. Canned music played in the background, a spin-off group from the Ellington band with Cootie, the Rabbit and Duke himself on piano. The waitress brought their drinks and their steaks at the same time and left the couple alone. She could sense the electricity between them. Something stimulating must have happened to spark them off.

“You have a lot in common,” Cal teased.

“Me and who?”

“You and James Bond,” she was smiling at him nervously. “He always gets his man. And he always gets the girl.”

She seemed somehow jumpy, as though she were being led down a path she hadn’t chosen and didn’t want to follow. Her hand was trembling slightly. When she reached for her glass she nearly knocked it over and only managed to take a little sip. She fanned herself with the menu.

“Wow. That was some exciting evening.”

“Cal, are you all right?”

Bowman thought the exhilaration of the chase must have triggered a reaction. He was feeling pretty horny himself.

“Alex, can I confide in you?”

Her eyes were fixed and her mouth began to tremble.

“Sure, Cal.” He placed a hand on top of hers. “What’s the matter?”

“You won’t tell anyone. Promise?”

Bowman had no idea where this was leading.

“Sure, Cal. I promise.”

“Alex… can I?… can I?” She closed her eyes and made a tight little fist with each hand.

“Can I talk dirty to you?”

Bowman didn’t know what to say. He put a comforting hand on Cal’s knee but didn’t utter a single word.

“Language is such a fucking turn on for me, Alex. My analyst says I have a mild case of Tourette’s Syndrome.”

She put her lips to his ear and squeezed his hand between her knees.

“Fuck me, Alex. Fuck my fucking cunt.”

Her trembling was getting out of control; there were beads of sweat on her brow.

“You see, I have this irresistible urge to talk dirty. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s involuntary. A compulsion. Doesn’t mean I want to fuck you; fuck fuck fuck you. Suck your dick. Suck your fucking dick.” Cal was blushing helplessly by now.

“I can’t help it, Alex. And it’s really hard to stop once I get started. I have this very rare condition called Coprolalia. Sounds like a dirty word, don’t you think? Coprolalia?” She caressed each syllable with her tongue “Cop-ro-lal-i-a”. Then she took his hand and primly removed it from between her knees.

The waitress sensed something was amiss at table twelve.

“Anything else I can help you folks with? Before the band get started?”

“We’re fine,” said Bowman. “We’re absolutely fine.”

“The fuck we are,” said Cal. “Can we have the check please?”

“Yes, mam. You sure can.”

***

Fifteen minutes later Agent Moreno was in the shower at Bowman’s apartment softly whispering obscenities to herself. Bowman switched on the computer, selected a search engine and took a three-minute course in Tourette’s Syndrome and Coprolalia, auto-arousal by means of obscene language. Seemed like something she wouldn’t be able to control, once she got started. Bowman didn’t know whether he should feel sorry for her or not.

Cal stepped out of the shower, dripping water across the wooden floor. She put her wet arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his ear.

“Fuck me, James. Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!”

Bowman wanted her, wanted her badly, wanted her now. He took the belt from around her chinos and pulled her towards him. He cupped her small breasts in his hands and kissed her mouth. She unbuckled his belt and fumbled for his hard-on. They slid together onto the wooden floor, tearing off the remainder of one another’s clothes. She was beneath him now, her thighs enfolding him.

“Fuck me Alex. Fuck me now!”

She took his penis and guided him inside her, sighing, moaning, feeling him move, pushing back on him, responding. She wrapped her legs around him, rising against him, holding him close. She took his head in her hands and kissed him urgently, wanting, yearning, almost coming, not now, not yet, too soon, more slowly, make it last, slow, easy, gentle, good, harder now, harder, almost hurting, flowing, thrusting, deeper, deeper, make it last, no not yet, no, NO. Slowly now, easy, gentle, good, good, flowing, thrusting, FUCKING, harder now, harder, yes, YES. Coming, coming, now Now Now NOW NOW. She released him, holding his head in her hands, kissing him softly as he rode her, plundered her, made her whole.

***

When Bowman awoke at 6 a.m. next morning she was gone. There was a note by the kettle in the kitchen.

“Just don’t breathe a word.”

He put the piece of paper in his pocket. Which word, he wondered, which was the magic word?

At 7.30 a.m. Bowman walked in to Agent Moreno’s office. She seemed unaware that he was there. Bowman played the tape of Declan’s call, only part of which he’d heard the night before. It went as follows: -

“Is that you, son?”

“Sure it is, Ma. How are you both?”

“We’re fine, Declan. Fine. Would you be wantin’ to speak to Liam?”

“Are you sure you’re all right, Ma? You don’t sound quite your usual self.”

“I’ll get Liam for yer, son. He’ll explain. Hold on just a minute.”

“Is that you, Declan?”

“Who else would it be, old son? Happy birthday, little brother.”

“We’ve had a visitor.”

“And who would that be?”

“A woman. Pretty. Green eyes. Auburn hair. Nice tits. Good legs. Bitch gave me a hard-on. A journalist, or so she says. My guess is Secret Service. Claimed to be a friend of yours.”

“Did she say a name?”

“No way.”

“Leave a message?”

“Just that she’d like to make contact. And for you to stop whatever it is you’re up to. Bold as brass, said Ma and me could be in danger. I told her to fuck off.”

“Liam, do you remember your auntie Maude?”

“Sure I do.”

“Take Ma and leave the house at once. Go and stay with your Auntie Maude in the North. There’s people there who’ll look after you.”

The sound of police sirens grew louder in the background and the line went suddenly dead. Bowman re-played the tape and recognised the green eyed, auburn haired woman. Jesus Christ, Melanie, what the hell are you up to? Don’t make things more difficult than they already are!

Bowman put a copy of the tape in his pocket and turned to Agent Moreno. He was blushing.

“Cal, about last night.”

“Last night didn’t happen.”

She put on a pair of headphones and pretended to ignore him as she fiddled with the controls on one of the consoles.

“Fine. Right. It didn’t happen.”

“Look, Alex, try to understand. I have this unique combination of rare medical conditions. With some people it’s facial tics and twitches. With me it’s words. Tourette’s makes me like to talk dirty. Coprolalia gets me aroused. Once in a while, like last night, something sets me off and things get out of hand. When that happens I can’t control it. Maybe I don’t want to control it. But don’t worry, Alex, I promise it won’t happen again.” She turned to face him. “I apologise, OK? Can you live with that?”

Bowman wondered what would trigger an attack. Could it be the adrenalin rush? The thrill of ensnaring O’Brien, the chase? She had performed magnificently last night, handled things with aplomb. Maybe coming down from such a high had set off a reaction.

As Bowman reached the door Cal said,

“Who is she?”

“Who’s who?”

“The woman on the tape, Alex. Green eyes. Auburn hair. Nice tits. Great legs.” Cal intoned flatly, flipping through the pages of her notepad. “I think that’s an accurate quote.”

Bowman closed the door noiselessly behind him. As he walked down the corridor he heard Cal mutter,

“Gimme a break, Alex. She could be a lead.”

***

Bowman stepped outside onto Pennsylvania Avenue, walked across to the Mall and placed his regular call to Robert Jennings in the Oval Office, just a few hundred yards away. It was a damp cold morning. The sky was heavy with cloud. He informed the Director of Counter Terrorism of last night’s events and the work he had done in Baltimore.

“Jesus, Alex, I can’t believe you let him get away.”

“Almost had him. We came really close. Another five minutes would have done the trick, but he knows to keep his calls short. But at least we know he’s in Washington. Trouble is, he knows we know. You can hear the sirens on the tape.”

“So what do we do now, Alex?” There was exasperation in his voice.

“We know the nuclear material came in through Locust Point about a year ago. The good news is you have the serial number of the container and an accurate description. Go find it.”

“Every available agent in America is already out there looking.”

“Concentrate on Baltimore. It’s probably still in the docks area there, waiting for O’Brien to supply the detonator, the explosive, and put the package together. But I have a strong hunch the target is here in DC. The bad news is, if they planned that far ahead the stuff is definitely weapons grade. You should have NEST teams crawling all over the city. Every public building. Every national monument. O’Brien intends to make a statement the world will not forget. He’ll choose a specific spot with care, to maximise the symbolism of the event. But it won’t be the White House or the Capitol. Too obvious. Too well protected. He’ll go for something a lot more esoteric. Something personal to him.”

The sun burst through the clouds, silhouetting the great obelisk of the Washington Monument and illuminating the Capitol. “The specific target isn’t important, Alex. He’s going to wipe out an entire city.”

“The specific target is vital to O’Brien. And that’s how we’ll catch him. He has to detonate the bomb at some specific place. But he may still fail to disperse the nuclear material. In that case his place in history depends on destroying some major monument or building with the conventional explosive. He craves that high symbolic value. That’s what drives him. But it has to be personal to him.”

“Jesus, Alex, how do you know all this stuff?”

“I don’t know anything. This is all conjecture. But I’m beginning to get a feel for our man. It’s the actor in him. He wants to see his name in lights.”

***

36

A black Labrador found the bloated body bobbing among the reeds. The police estimated the big man had been in the river for about seventy-two hours. They searched the site for ID but found none, making theft a probable motive. They hauled the rigid swollen corpse out of the water and dumped it unceremoniously in the back of a flatbed. There were bloodstains all over his clothing with an unusual concentration in the chest and crotch areas. When they examined the corpse more closely they noticed the penis was missing, making sex the primary motive. The photos they found in his shirt pocket confirmed it. They let the dogs loose to forage for the missing member but the hounds came up with nothing so they covered the corpse with a tarp and drove back into Rockville for a more detailed examination.

The vehemence of the knife thrusts and the missing penis indicated a frenzied sexual attack but there were no semen traces on his clothing and the victim had not been sodomized. As the pathologist prized open his mouth and made ready to insert a probe, she found an unexpected obstruction. She extracted it with a pair of tongs and held it up to the light.

“There’s your little prick.” She dropped the withered penis into a clear plastic evidence bag and sealed and labelled it. “Oh that’s so cute.”

They photographed the head, face and body with a five million pixel camera that recorded every scratch, pore and crevice, downloaded the images onto a laptop and emailed his mug shot and fingerprints to the Hoover Building. Forensics came up with zilch. Next they took swabs from his mouth for DNA testing and couriered these and his clothing to the FBI lab at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue. The swabs revealed nothing. But the victim’s clothing was impregnated with traces of TNT and Semtex together with an unusually dense concentration of one particular dust particle. It took forensics fifteen minutes to identify the material as high-grade Oriskany sandstone with a silica content in excess of 95%. Four hours later they had traced its origins to Warm Springs Ridge in Morgan County in the northern Appalachians where the glass making industry flourished. The combination of explosives and sandstone particles indicated just one thing. The victim worked in a quarry. They circulated his mug shot and description to local police forces throughout Morgan County West Virginia and by 8 a.m. the next morning they had a confirmed ID.

Agent Moreno had spent that day monitoring the airwaves, scanning FBI and police radio and telephone traffic for the key words Bowman had suggested. She’d added the complete Noraid directory that included every Irish surname you could think of and some additional key words of her own like car-crash, suicide, detonator, blade and an entire lexicon of explosives. Nothing was related specifically to a sex attack but well before the Agents handling the case identified the victim, Echelon’s alarm bells started ringing. Cal called Bowman to bring him up to speed.

“Alex? This is Agent Moreno.”

“Hi, Cal.”

“I don’t think this is necessarily what you’re looking for but I have one dead Irishman. Victim of a sex attack.”

“How’d you know he’s Irish?”

“His name’s Murphy.”

“That’s a clue. Why’d you think it was a sex attack?”

“Somebody severed his penis and stuck it in his mouth.”

“Could be significant. What else?”

“Victim works in a quarry. There’s traces of sandstone and Semtex on his clothing.”

“I’ll be right over.”

Boss Murphy was not included in any Noraid data but other than that he had every characteristic Bowman was looking for as a possible supplier of the explosive and the detonator. He had access and he had the expertise. Bowman’s first thought was to take a trip to Warm Springs Ridge and make his own enquiries, but he decided against it. He would settle for copies of the local police and FBI reports. Later that day he had a description of the stranger who had come across the water. It didn’t sound much like Declan O’Brien, the long dark hair, the full luxuriant beard. But Bowman knew it was he. The blade work gave it away. All this meant nothing to the local Rockville investigators. But it meant everything to Bowman. The explosive and the detonator were now in place. The bomb was primed. The clock was ticking.

Twenty-four hours later, Boss Murphy’s partially burnt out truck was discovered in a deserted parking lot on a derelict industrial estate on the outskirts of DC. Forensics revealed traces of the same dust and explosives particles as were found on Murphy’s clothing. The truck’s interior was smeared with Murphy’s blood and there were clear prints left by his presumed assailant. These were scanned into the FBI computer but revealed nothing. It was a rookie cop in Morgan County who recognised the Irish connection and suggested the prints be wired across to Dublin. The Garda Siochana came up with a match right away. The police in Rockville and Warm Springs Ridge issued statements to the local press, radio and TV stations. The press releases also linked O’Brien to the IRA’s activities in Colombia. Nobody in Rockville took much notice of this, but when O’Brien’s IRA connections were publicized in Warm Springs Ridge its citizens were outraged.

As these developments occurred Agent Moreno kept Bowman updated on an hourly basis. Bowman was impressed with the intelligence she provided but for Cal the whole thing was routine. She thought highly of her own abilities, and with reason. Her grades at the FBI Academy at Quantico and her job performance at the Hoover Building confirmed her outstanding talent. But Cal wasn’t vain enough to think she was unique. Other agencies within the intelligence community employed people just as smart as she was. The techno-spooks at National Security and the CIA, even in Military Intelligence, would have skills as well honed as her own. And equal access to Echelon. What didn’t occur to Cal was that they might have a different agenda. That just one mile away, on the other side of the Potomac, government agents might be seeking O’Brien not to stop him, but to shield him.

***

37

The President of the United States was an early riser. He was at his desk by 7 a.m. each morning. Over coffee he would scan the early editions of the east coast papers; the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Miami Herald. For international input he would flip through the London Times, the Telegraph and the Echo. On this particular day all the broadsheets had one common theme. The President’s approval rating was in the slide. The after-glow of 9/11 was fading fast as domestic issues and the faltering economy pushed their way to the fore. The dollar was weak. The stock market was in free-fall. Real estate values were plummeting. The price of gold had soared to $489 an ounce. But these were problems the President knew he could not solve. Only the economic cycle could cure them, and that was out of sync with his own election timetable.

At 8 a.m. Bob Jennings was shown in to the Oval Office to make his regular report.

“We’re making good progress Mr President. He’s still right here in DC. Last night the bastard made a big mistake and apparently topped his lover. Now every law enforcement agency in town is out there looking for him. We’ll sure as hell catch him next time he picks up the phone.”

Jennings went on to relate the events of the previous evening till the intercom on the President’s desk interrupted him in mid flow.

“The Secretary of Defence is here to see you, Mr. President.”

“Send him in.” The President turned to Jennings. “Bob, I haven’t had a chance yet to bring you up to speed, but the Secretary of Defence has an interesting take on our problem. Something I haven’t discussed with you before. Stick around. Listen to what Herzfeld has to say. I think you’ll find this very interesting.”

Karl Herzfeld took a seat opposite the President and acknowledged Jennings with a friendly smile. There was something cadaverous about the Secretary of Defence that reminded Jennings of the Skull of Zurbaran.

“Mr Secretary,” The President spoke in formal terms. “I was telling Director Jennings you have a totally different take on our problem. Would you care to explain your thinking to him?”

“With your permission, Mr President, I’d be glad to.” Herzfeld turned his fun-filled eyes on Jennings. “Basically, Bob, the way I see it, we should let it happen. Let this Irish fellow pop his bomb.”

“You can’t be… ” Jennings’ jaw stayed open.

“Oh but I am, Bob. Absolutely serious. Look, the way I see it, the biggest rogue on the planet isn’t Tirofijo and it isn’t even Al Qaeda. It’s their paymaster. Saddam. Now, as you know, the President and I want to fight a war with the sonofabitch. Finish off what Desert Storm began. But, as you also know, we haven’t exactly been overwhelmed by popular support, either here in the States or abroad. Even the Brits are lukewarm. And the fucking French are dead against it.” Herzfeld frowned to show his disappointment. “Now, up to a couple of weeks ago, we thought we had the bastard in a box. We were ready to strike. Cruise missiles were primed and loaded. Special Forces had infiltrated across the border from Kuwait, Jordan and Turkey to positions around Baghdad and Tikrit. Then the little shit out-foxed us. Agreed to let the UN inspectors back in. Now the fucking French are threatening to veto. We’ve had to put our plans on hold.”

Herzfeld frowned, then broke out in a boyish smile.

“But now, Bob, thanks to the fine work of your department, we know for sure Al Qaeda is definitely mixed up with this Dirty Bomb. And from Al Qaeda to Saddam is only a little stretch.”

Herzfeld stood up and began to pace about the room, talking more to himself than the others.

“Now, if our Irishman sets off his device, we should be able to pin the whole thing on Saddam without too much difficulty. Essentially it becomes a matter of news management. Nothing a good PR team couldn’t handle. The anger of the American people will be unconfined. The President and I will have a completely free hand. No one will oppose us. I get my war. The President gets his second term.”

Herzfeld beamed a winning smile at Jennings, as if he were talking to a child.

“The whole thing has… what’s that word I’m looking for?… verisimilitude?”

Bob Jennings was in shock. He reached for the nearest available crutch.

“What about the Security Council?”

“That bunch of spineless wimps? And where the fuck did the United Nations suddenly get all this great moral authority? What did they do about apartheid? Nothing. When China marched into Tibet? Zilch. Genocide in Rwanda? A big fat zero.” He pummelled his right fist into his left palm. “OK so we have to go through that charade to appease the Brits and the State Department. But defeating terrorism takes more than empty words and vacuous resolutions. What it takes is iron resolve. But let’s get this thing into perspective, Bob. More Americans are killed each year by automobile accidents or peanut allergies than ever died from a terrorist’s bomb - and that includes 9/11. So what’s the big deal? At least these guys will be dying for a cause.”

“Well, Bob? What do you think?”

The President turned to the Director of Counter Terrorism. Was he smiling?

Bob Jennings thought that was the most outrageous thing he’d ever heard, but what he said was,

“Well, Mr President, you did say it was a different take.” He turned to the Secretary of Defence. “Can I ask you a question, Mr Secretary?”

“Fire away.”

“Do you have any intelligence at all that links Saddam to 9/11? If you do I ought to know about it.”

“No, Bob, I don’t.” Herzfeld’s eyes twinkled playfully. “That’s because there isn’t any.”

“Or that links Saddam directly to Al Qaeda?”

“None.” Herzfeld made it sound like Jennings’s reservations were irrelevant. “Matter of fact, Bob, we know bin Laden is much closer to the Saudis than he is to Saddam Hussein. Bin Laden’s a Saudi himself, after all.”

“Or that Saddam even has weapons of mass destruction?” Jennings probed.

“Negative. If we could prove he still has WMDs we wouldn’t have this problem. But intelligence hasn’t come up with a Goddamn thing, zilch; and it doesn’t look likely now they will. Leastways not before this war gets started. But I’m not concerned with the truth, Bob. My concern is what the American people can be persuaded to believe. Fact is we have to move now, while we still can. Do you know how hot it was in Baghdad yesterday at noon? 115º and rising. Our troops just can’t fight in those conditions, leastways not a land war. And it’s going to get worse.”

There was a long silence while President Santos and Secretary Herzfeld scrutinised Robert Jennings to gauge what his response might be. After a protracted pause the President said,

“Something for us all to think about, Bob.” He steepled his hands. “But politically, you must admit, it’s very astute.” He was smiling. “Problem is, it’ll never work.”

“It worked at Pearl Harbour,” Herzfeld interjected. “I agree it’s a calculated risk, Mr President, I’ve always recognised that. The downside is we lose one American city just as we did on Oahu. But that’s a worst-case scenario. Chances are this Irish guy will do very little damage, set off the conventional explosive but fail to disperse the nuclear material. We know he’s not an engineer. He doesn’t have the requisite skills. On the upside, we rid the world of Tirofijo, Al Qaeda and Saddam all in one glorious military operation. Pax Americana. Sounds like a bargain to me.”

President Santos sucked air through his teeth.

“I still say it wouldn’t work. And anyway it’s a risk I can’t afford to take. It’s not just my Presidency that’s at stake. We’d lose the House and the Senate for a generation. I’d be impeached. And as for you, Karl, you’d probably be lynched. It’d be a hundred years before another Hispanic occupied the White House.”

Bob Jennings took the President’s words to mean the meeting was at a close but it was the Secretary of Defence who got up to leave. When he had gone President Santos turned to the Director of Counter Terrorism.

“Bob, I wanted you to hear that from the man himself. So you’ll understand just what it is I’m up against.”

“Mr President, that’s the most outrageous thing I ever heard. Why don’t you just fire the guy? The man’s unhinged.”

“Not easy, Bob. Karl Herzfeld controls an important wing of the party. Plus he has the backing of some major interest groups, most notably big oil – the most powerful lobby in the country. How else do you think the bastard got appointed? Besides, we’re almost certainly on the brink of a major conflict with Saddam, whether your Irishman detonates his bomb or not. Firing the Secretary of Defence on the eve of battle would not inspire the American people with confidence in my judgement. Morale in the armed forces would plummet. No, Bob, unless he actually commits a treasonable act Secretary Herzfeld will have to stay in post.”

***

Colonel Arthur Preston of the Joint Special Operations Command was waiting to drive the Secretary of Defence across the bridge to Arlington and on to his office at the Pentagon.

“How was your meeting with the President, Mr Secretary?”

“I’m afraid the Commander in Chief is going to wimp out on us, Colonel. But he’ll come round to our way of thinking when he recognises he has a choice between our way and electoral defeat. This economy is about to go belly up. Mike Santos desperately needs an issue and if the French use their veto, which I’m sure they will, he has no one to turn to but us.”

Herzfeld gazed out across the silver-grey Potomac. Small islands of ice moved sluggishly down stream.

“Jesus. Why can’t we find any WMDs? Just a handful would do. If not, we’ll have to come up with another reason to justify the war.”

“If we can’t find any WMDs,” Preston mused, “how about ‘weapons of mass destruction programmes’? That way we don’t have to come up with any hard evidence. All we need is some paperwork, like correspondence files, diary entries, computer printouts - stuff like that.”

“Come on now, Colonel. Get real. That’s far too wishy-washy.”

“Maybe we could liberate the Iraqi people?” Preston persisted. “What do you think?”

“That wouldn’t work either. It’s just too darn dramatic. And much too altruistic. How many Americans really give a shit about the Iraqi people? The public would never buy it. We need something a lot more subtle. Besides, if we’re into liberating the oppressed peoples of the world there’s a very long list of candidates – Zimbabwe, Burma, China. Are we supposed to liberate them all?”

Preston was silent for a while. Then he said, “How about ‘Regime Change’?”

“Umm. Yes, Arthur, that does have a certain ring to it, you may have something there. Regime Change. Yes, I like the resonance of that – it sounds kind of… uplifting, almost noble.” Herzfeld smiled. “Yes, Colonel, let’s go with that. Meantime we have a more pressing problem on our hands. Director Jennings is going to be a nuisance.”

“You want me to take care of him?”

“Not yet, Colonel. I understand he has someone working with him. Probably FBI. Definitely a killer. He’s supposed to stop the Irishman. We have to eliminate the assassin to ensure our Irish friend gets a free hand. But we need Jennings to lead us to the marksman. Then you can take care of them both in a single hit.”

“What about anybody else knows about the Dirty Bomb?”

“Santos has done a pretty good job keeping this under wraps. Far as I know, there’s just a handful of people at FBI in the picture. Problem is, we have no way of identifying them. Plus there’s still those two Irish bastards holed up in a safe house somewhere in the city. If they ever get to tell their story, nail this whole thing on Tirofijo, they’ll blow us out of the water. Christ knows how we get to them, but one way or another we have to take them out.”

Colonel Preston took off his glove and nervously fingered his scar.

“And how do you propose we do that, sir? Given we don’t even know where they are?”

“At this precise moment Colonel, I have absolutely no idea. They’ll have protection twenty-four hours a day, that’s for sure. But somebody out there is going to make a mistake pretty soon. And when they do we’ll nail the bastards.”

***

38

Robert Jennings returned to his office, buzzed his secretary on the intercom and told her to hold his calls and cancel his meetings for the rest of the day.

“And bring me the Bowman file.”

A couple of minutes later Clare White came in carrying a slim buff folder. She was nine weeks pregnant but it didn’t show. Jennings emptied the contents of the folder into the shredder he kept beside his desk and turned the Bowman file into confetti.

“Sit down, Clare.”

“Sir?”

She folded her hands across her abdomen. She was blushing. She’d never known Director Jennings do a thing like that before.

“You didn’t see me do that, Clare. There never was a Bowman file. You never even heard of Bowman.”

“No, sir?”

Clare White struggled to compose herself. She had worked for Director Jennings for over a year now but had never known him this agitated before. Nor instruct her to lie on his behalf. She was a good Catholic girl. She didn’t know if she could do it.

Jennings said,

“Who else at FBI knows about Bowman?”

“Far as I know just you, me and Agents Hoolahan and Moreno. That was what you wanted. Total secrecy.” She frowned. “No, wait. There’s Agents Brown, Sondheim and Wharton at the safe house, guarding the two Irishmen.” She shrugged. “I guess that’s it. On this side of the pond.”

Jennings went to the window and looked out. His back was to her as he spoke.

“You have family in Michigan, don’t you, Clare?”

Clare White felt suddenly very anxious.

“My sister Chloë has a cottage on the lake near Traverse City.”

“Go there. Just pack a bag, tell nobody, and get out of town. Don’t come back to Washington till you hear from me personally. Got that? Me, personally. And if anything happens to me, just forget you ever worked here. Make a new life as far away as possible.”

Clare White was deeply worried now. Her allegiance was to the flag, not to anybody personally. But she knew and trusted Robert Jennings. Knew he had the confidence of the President of the United States. She would do what he asked. Lie for him if she had to. Grab her son and run.

Jennings searched his desk for any items that could be traced to Bowman, printouts of emails from Vauxhall Cross, his CV and background material. It was bad enough to be working with a foreign national on American soil, but using an ex-con with a drugs conviction was sheer bloody madness.

“One last thing before you go, Clare. Call Bowman on his cell phone and tell him to meet me at twelve o’clock. Then forget you ever heard the name.”

“Meet you where, sir?”

“He’ll know.”

As Bob Jennings hurried across the Mall he reflected on the morning’s events. He did not believe any President of the United States would sacrifice an American city whatever the cause, least of all Michael Santos. But Secretary of Defence Karl Herzfeld was quite another matter. The leading hawk in the cabinet was a loose cannon, many of his colleagues thought him unhinged, though large sections of the public adored him. This was a man who would calculate the odds, evaluate the risks, and arrive at a conclusion that left the human cost out of the equation entirely. To the Secretary of Defence casualties were statistics, not people.

Jennings found Bowman sitting on a bench in front of Dalí’s eerie masterpiece. From up close you couldn’t see the death’s head clearly. What you saw was detail. Jennings sat next to the Englishman and appeared to talk directly to the painting.

“Alex, this might sound alarming but if any government official gives you an order, or countermands my instructions, I want you to ignore them. No matter how senior they are. No matter what happens to me.”

Bowman reflected on this for a full minute before he replied, thinking through the outer limits of its meaning.

“What if it’s the President himself?”

Jennings didn’t answer right away but went on gazing at the canvas. Then he said,

“If the President of the United States gives you a direct instruction, then I guess you’ll have to obey him. God help us, we all will.”

***

39

If Clare White had done what she was told to do, when she was told to do it, things might have turned out differently. But instead she chose to go shopping. The weather at her sister’s cottage on Lake Michigan at this time of year could be bitter and she’d need an appropriate wardrobe.

She arrived back at her apartment just north of Dupont Circle at four in the afternoon, laden with parcels from Bloomies and Saks. Eighteen-month-old Jack lay gurgling on the carpet. Clare picked up the sweet-smelling bundle and was rewarded with a sloppy kiss. She paid the babysitter and explained she was going away on an unplanned trip and might not be back for several weeks. Then she sat at the computer and went online to book space on the early evening flight to Detroit and on to Traverse City.

When the doorbell rang she thought it was the babysitter returning to pick up something she’d forgotten. It happened all the time. The girl had a mind like a sieve. So Clare pressed the buzzer on the entry phone without thinking, left the apartment door ajar and returned to the computer with her back to the room. When she heard the door close she said,

“Whatcha forget this time, hun?”

She turned to see two strangers in grey suits standing in the hallway. The older of the two had a livid scar that ran the length of his right cheek. It seemed to be pulsating.

“Who the fu…”

Clare stared open mouthed as the older man picked Jack up from the floor. The kid reached for the man’s scar and gave it a friendly squeeze.

“Who are you?”

“We’re with Military Intelligence.” His tone was friendly enough.

“And I’m with the FBI. You have some ID?”

“We’d like to keep this as informal as possible, ma’am,” said Preston. He stepped around her and went to look at the computer screen.

“You planning a trip, ma’am? Traverse City? Let me see, that would be your sister, Chloë, wouldn’t it?”

“How would you know…?”

“She’s listed on your job application as next of kin. Guess little Jack here doesn’t have a father?”

“That’s none of your Goddamn business, but since you ask he’s away on a trip. Look, Mister, show me some ID or get the fuck out of my apartment. Otherwise I call the cops.”

She edged towards the panic button in the hall. As she did so the older man, carrying her child, stepped out onto the balcony.

“What floor we on here, ma’am? Fourteen?” Preston peered into the void. “Wow. That’s quite a drop. And you don’t got no protection? Look, the kid could squeeze through these bars quite easily, right here.”

He lowered Jack to the floor and threaded the little boy between two railings to demonstrate the point he was making. Jack made a quiet gurgling sound.

“I were you, ma’am, I’d get that fixed right away.”

They drove Clare and Jack to an isolated farmhouse in rural Fairfax County in the woods off Pohick Road, overlooking the icy surface of Lake Burke.

“You’ll be safe here, ma’am,” said Preston. “It’s single storey. No chance of a serious fall.”

They made Clare call her sister to postpone the trip, something major had come up at work, which was true enough, and Chloë knew better than to press for details. Preston explained to Clare there was an easy way and a hard way to proceed. The easy way would be better all round, especially for baby Jack. But just to make sure they showed her some of their equipment; the dentist’s chair, the electrodes. Just so she’d understand. They even had pictures of what they’d done to some of their previous houseguests. But Clare didn’t need to look at them. By eight o’clock that evening she’d told them what little she knew. It was not her fault. She just wasn’t heroine material.

Preston said,

“So here we have a foreign national, operating on American soil on behalf of an alien power.” He put on an expression of mock horror. “Why, that’s illegal. And you say this guy’s aided and abetted by a senior government official? My God, that’s a federal offence. I wonder if the President knows about this?”

“I doubt it,” said Clare. “Director Jennings kept this on a need-to-know basis.”

“I bet he did. Otherwise the President’s own position would be compromised. The spic’s too smart to take that risk.”

The younger man said,

“This guy Bowman? What’s he look like?”

“I never saw him. He never came to the Director’s office.”

“Where’s he staying?”

“One of the safe houses, I should think.”

“Is there a list of safe houses?”

“Shouldn’t think so. That’s what makes them safe.”

“Who else at FBI knows about this guy Bowman?”

“Agents Hoolahan, Moreno, Brown, Sondheim and Wharton.”

“Any of them know exactly what Bowman’s doing in the States?”

“Hoolahan. And probably Moreno.”

“Do you know what he’s up to?”

“I’m just a secretary. I only have entry-level clearance.”

“If you were us, ma’am, trying to find him, what would you do?”

“I’d talk to Agent Moreno.”

“Why Moreno?”

“Moreno’s a girl.”

Next morning they drove mother and child to Ronald Reagan National Airport and put them on a plane to Detroit with onward reservations to Traverse City.

“Let’s not do anything silly now,” said the man with the scar. “Don’t want baby Jack here taking a nasty fall.”

***

Cal Moreno left her office at 8 p.m. that evening and switched the system to automatic. The Cray SV1 supercomputers would go on scanning the airwaves throughout the night. Anything interesting came up, her cell phone would vibrate. She drove across town in her beat-up ’97 Cherokee, parked in the basement of her apartment building overlooking Lincoln Park and rode the elevator to the ninth floor. As she came out of the lift fumbling for her keys, she noticed the faint odour of tobacco. Hers was a non-smoking floor. She put down her bag and pressed the Star of David to her lips. She turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door and stepped silently inside, the Colt Anaconda .44 magnum gripped tightly in both hands. She didn’t switch on the light but the glow from the hallway flooded into the corridor. Cal moved noiselessly to the sitting room. Moonlight shone through the open curtains.

“Put away the shooter, ma’am. It won’t be necessary.”

The voice came from the kitchen hatchway that gave onto the dining area. A tall man in shirtsleeves blocked the kitchen door. An older man with a scar on his right cheek stood behind him. Cal noticed the faint aroma of coffee. Then the nickel barrel of a Schofield .45, holstered under the man’s left shoulder, caught the light.

“And who the fuck are you?”

Cal levelled the Colt at the first man’s chest. At close range the .44 Magnum could drop them both with a single shot, the way they were aligned.

“We’re with Military Intelligence if you want to check us out.”

The man didn’t move, both eyes glued to the four-inch steel barrel of the Anaconda, knowing she would use it if she had to. He’d read Moreno’s file. The agent had killed twice before, claimed self-defence on both occasions. So at least she wasn’t squeamish.

Cal grinned.

“Military Intelligence? That’s an oxymoron. Come on; gimme some ID.”

Her voice was loud but controlled.

“Don’t got none, ma’am.” The big man shrugged. “We’d like to keep this as informal as we can.”

“OK, Mister. Don’t move an inch. I’m going to pick up the phone now, call the cops. Stay still and nobody gets hurt. You make a move I’ll blast ya.”

Cal transferred the piece to her right hand and reached for the phone with her left. Go for your gun you bastard. Just go for your fuckin’ gun.

“Name of Bowman mean anything to you, ma’am?” It was the second man who spoke, the one with the scar, peering over his colleague’s shoulder. “Alex Bowman?”

Cal replaced the phone in its cradle.

“Not a fucking thing.”

She switched her weight from one leg to the other, the Colt still trained on the intruder.

The man said,

“Bowman’s a foreign national operating on American soil on behalf of a foreign power. That’s illegal. You should know that, Agent Moreno. Aiding and abetting him would be illegal too. Could jeopardise your career.”

“Nothing wrong with my record. Far as I know, my superiors are more than satisfied with my performance.”

“I’m sure they are, mam. But what we need is an accurate description. Better still, you could lead us to him. Set up a honey trap. Good lookin’ kid like you should be easy. And you’d be doing your country a great service. Why don’t you call him?” He pointed to the phone. “Ask him to come over. You don’t have to promise him anything, maybe just some heavy breathing. Let him work it out for himself.”

“Sorry, Mister. No ID. No dice. I take my instructions from the FBI.”

The two men looked at one another, perplexed. They made ready to leave.

“One of two things is going to happen,” said Preston. “Either we find him with your help, or we find him without it. The result is the same. That’s your choice, Agent Moreno. But just don’t think you’re not involved. Don’t think there isn’t a price you’re going to have to pay, somewhere down the line.”

The one thing Cal Moreno was absolutely certain of was the quality of her own work. She’d graduated top of her computer science class at Quantico, second from top in math and cryptology. She retrieved her handbag from the corridor and dialled Bowman on the cell phone she knew was absolutely secure. Please don’t say the words, Alex. Please don’t say those fucking words. The encrypted signal found Bowman at the safe house in Georgetown. She told him what had just happened and gave him an accurate description of the two men.

“They’re pissed off at you, Alex, cos you’re a Brit operating on American soil. They say that’s illegal. And I guess they’re right.”

Bowman was not surprised, his meeting with Jennings that morning had alerted him that something was awry. He just couldn’t figure out what it was. The most likely explanation was an inter-agency jurisdictional dispute, and the advent of Military Intelligence confirmed that.

“Do something for me, Cal. Phone Jennings at his home, put him in the picture. I know it’s late, but this could be important. He’ll understand what’s going on much better than you or me.”

Bowman hung up, pocketed the cell phone and holstered the Browning, wondering just how safe an FBI safe house could be. The pimpmobile was parked in the street below. Using an FBI registered vehicle he’d signed for was a risk, but one worth taking. He could be in Baltimore within the hour.

***

40

As Bowman drove north on the Parkway Declan O’Brien checked in to a cheap motel just inside the Beltway. He went to his room, showered, saved and changed his clothes. Then he went to the dimly light bar and ordered neat whiskey and a soda water on the side. The hooker sat on a stool further along the bar. She was about forty, past her prime but still attractive with jet-black hair, ebony skin, good legs and tits that were probably enhanced. Declan made eye contact in the mirror that lined the back of the bar. O’Brien grinned. The hooker lowered her eyes and smiled demurely. O’Brien told the barman loudly to charge the whiskey to room 118 and brushed against the hooker as he squeezed past behind her. Back in his room O’Brien went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth with mouthwash. When he came back into the bedroom the hooker was framed in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the hall. She looked good. O’Brien already had a hard-on.

“So what’s the deal?” he grinned.

“Depends on what you want.”

She walked in and closed the door behind her.

O’Brien opened his overnight bag and showed her some of his equipment. The mask. The knuckle-duster. The leather thongs.

The hooker shook her head and moved back towards the door.

“I don’t do kinky. I just fuck. BJ if you want but not bareback. I don’t do the full GFE and definitely no anal. But if just a fuck is what you want it’ll cost you a hundred bucks; but that’s all I do. Take it or leave it.”

She didn’t seem very enthusiastic.

O’Brien’s wondered what was left but his hard-on already had control of his brains so he said,

“OK, we’ll kick off with a face fuck. See how we go from there.”

He took a $100 bill from his wallet and added an extra $20 to generate a little enthusiasm. He thought of offering her a line of coke but the stuff he had was so damn pure she’d probably OD. The hooker took her handbag to the bathroom and did whatever hookers do in there. O’Brien stripped, unstrapped the Bowie from his left forearm and placed it on the floor on his side the bed. Then he flicked on the TV in case she was a moaner. When the hooker came back into the bedroom she was naked. O’Brien was impressed. The surgeons had done a pretty good job. Nice taut thighs. Great hubcaps. The hooker knelt on the bed beside him, put a condom in her mouth and slid it onto his rigid dick. Then she began to drill for oil. O’Brien closed his eyes and tried to think of something else. He didn’t want to come too soon, he wanted his full money’s worth. He was trying hard to listen to the late night news on television. The desensitising condom was working in his favour. The main news item was an inquiry into the apparent suicide of a senior customs official in Annapolis. The hooker came up for air, brushed the hair from her face and adjusted her position. The coda to the news piece was an appeal for the public to look out for a container with a serial number O’Brien didn’t catch. The hooker began to wonder if there was something wrong with her technique, any normal john would have come by now. The news segment closed with an interview with a black maid, something about an incident a year ago when two foreign gentlemen had forced their way into the house and roughed her up. She was helping the authorities with their enquiries. But all this meant nothing to O’Brien, he’d never even heard of Henry Libitch. The hooker moaned. She could tell O’Brien was about to come. Declan put his hand behind her head so she could springboard on the down stroke.

“Come on baby,” she moaned some more, “come for momma.”

Declan came.

“Jesus baby, what took you so fucking long?”

She got up and went to the bathroom to rinse her mouth and dispose of the soiled condom.

O’Brien was about to flip channels when his own face filled the TV screen. A body had been fished out of the Potomac. An Irish national was the only suspect in what was presumed to be a sexually motivated killing. There was a warning the man should not be approached by members of the public, he was a psychopath, armed and extremely dangerous. O’Brien saw the hooker framed in the bathroom doorway staring at the TV screen. His hand dropped to the floor and made a grab for his silent friend, the gleaming Bowie.

The hooker continued gazing at the screen. Then she said,

“Just look at that fucking creep. Ain’t nobody safe.”

For those were not O’Brien’s features on the screen. The man on TV had short fair hair. O’Brien’s was long and dark. The man on TV was clean-shaven. O’Brien had a full luxuriant black beard. The man on TV was described as short. With his built up shoes and Cuban heels, O’Brien stood over five feet seven inches tall. The man on TV didn’t resemble O’Brien at all. For reasons Declan did not begin to understand somebody somewhere had tampered with the TV station’s archives.

O’Brien idly switched channels and incongruously found himself watching a delayed broadcast from the British House of Commons. The Right Honourable Member for Little Piddlington was on his feet telling an appreciative Prime Minister of his certainty the people of Baghdad would be grateful for having the crap bombed out of them.

“Jesus Christ,” O’Brien muttered. “How do those neo-colonialist bastards think this shit plays in the Middle East? The days of the Empire are long gone, old son.”

***

41

Bowman joined Ambrose at Paco Trujillo’s apartment in Baltimore shortly before midnight. The penthouse was large and ostentatious, garishly furnished in the fake French Imperial style Trujillo had adopted after visiting Ortega’s palatial headquarters in Medellin. Paco lived alone save for the series of transitory companions who shared his bed. He summoned the present incumbent, a feisty sixteen year old imported from the Balkans who was working her apprenticeship before he passed her over to the trade. He stuffed five hundred dollars in her bra, patted her backside and told her to get lost. In the corridor outside a pair of heavies shared the night security duty. Two more were downstairs in the lobby and a couple more across the street watching the outside of the building in case the Feds tried abseiling down.

Trujillo was in a state of outright panic. Henry Libitch’s suicide was the biggest scandal to hit Baltimore since the Howard Street Tunnel fire. It had even made the national TV news and set alarm bells ringing throughout the international drug trafficking community. Now investigators from half a dozen federal agencies were swarming over every aspect of Libitch’s life, his bank accounts, his lavish lifestyle, his business contacts, his friends. Ortega’s entire east coast operation was beginning to unravel. Paco Trujillo knew it was only a matter of time before the Feds finally got to him. Paco was desperate to work out some kind of deal but Ambrose could not guarantee Trujillo immunity, he wasn’t senior enough. What he could offer was advice. Paco could perform one great public service. He could help Ambrose with his enquiries and document everything he knew about Ortega’s operations in the States. That way by the time the Federales finally got to The Caribbean Fine Foods Import/Export Company Trujillo would be ready to cop a plea.

But something else was bothering Ben Ambrose. He had seen the late evening news on television and watched the interview with Libitch’s elderly black maid who reminded Ben so much of his own mother. It was plain Dinah May Jefferson had a clear recollection of the two Middle Eastern dudes who had come to Libitch’s home a year ago and roughed her up. This placed Dinah May in very considerable danger. If the bad guys had seen the broadcast too they’d be out there looking for her now. And Dinah May Jefferson would not be difficult to find.

“Anything you guys need before we turn in?” Trujillo was ready to call it a night.

Bowman tossed him the keys to the pimpmobile.

“There’s a white Vette convertible parked across the street. It’s hot. Have one of your boys get rid of it for me, torch it or drop it in the docks. If you can replace it with something less conspicuous in the morning, I’d be grateful.”

Bowman slept for three hours and woke up in the middle of the night. He found the kitchen, made a cup of instant coffee and sat down to review his situation. He thought he was in pretty good shape. He had somewhere safe to hide. He had Trujillo’s extensive organisation at his disposal. He had Cal Moreno and her communications and surveillance expertise. He had Hoolahan with his Noraid connections and bomb disposal skills. And he had direct access to the President through Jennings. The rest, he thought, was pure detective work.

Ambrose got up about eight followed a little later by Trujillo. Paco made huevos rancheros and fresh Colombian coffee, shipped direct from Ortega’s personal plantation in the hills above Medellin.

“OK, Alex,” said Paco, “you seem to be in charge. What’s our next move?”

“I need to talk to a top Muslim cleric. Any ideas how I can get hold of one?”

“No, none. But there’s bound to be a way. There always is.” Trujillo probed his cavities with a small gold toothpick. “I’ll just need to made a coupla calls.”

Bowman turned to Ambrose. “How about you, Ben? You want to come along?”

“You go, Alex. I’ll drive down to Annapolis and talk to Libitch’s maid.”

***

Trujillo made several phone calls before he came up with a contact who knew a man who knew the Imam at Masjid Ul-Haqq Mosque at 514 Islamic Way. Bowman had no idea how to speak to a priest, let alone an Imam, how to approach him, what the proper form of address might be. But Bowman saw no point in faking it. He would go as the uninitiated infidel he was. He took a couple of Trujillo’s heavies along for the ride. They drove him to Islamic Way in an old Dodge station wagon and parked in a side street on a meter with some unexpired time that Bowman took to be an omen. Bowman left the pistoleros in the café across the street where they could keep an eye on the approaches and entered the green and white domed and minareted building. He knew enough to remove his shoes and leave them by the door.

Imam Siddiqui was a second generation native born American of Saudi descent in his mid-forties, five and a half feet tall, with a well-rounded figure and soft feminine hands. He hid the face of a cherub behind an untrimmed luxuriant grey beard. The Imam had a Harvard law degree and a Doctorate in Koranic studies from the Quaraouyine University in Morocco’s Holy City of Fez, the world’s oldest dedicated seat of learning. He was fluent in Arabic and French. He wore a white dishdashha, a taiga covered his head. The Imam reclined on a pile of cushions smoking a hookah, a string of amber prayer beads dangling from

his plump right hand. His English was Boston Brahmin.

“9/11 was an un-Islamic act,” the Imam began. “There can be no treachery in Islam. No war that is not announced. He who kills without permission of the law, it is as if he kills the whole of mankind."

There was no trace of irony in his high-pitched, cultivated voice.

“Nonetheless, it happened,” Bowman countered.

“The holocaust happened. Dresden happened. The people who did those terrible things called themselves Christians. Can you denounce an entire religion if a handful of its supposed adherents act against its creed? I think not. Islam abhors all unlawful killing. ‘He is not a true believer from whose mischief his neighbour does not feel safe.’” The Imam flicked the prayer beads in his hand. “I repeat. 9/11 was an unlawful act. We condemn it.”

Bowman wondered if the Imam was sincere but at this stage he had nowhere else to go.

“It’s happening again. It will be much worse this time. Infinitely worse. Tens of thousands may die. A whole city could be destroyed.”

“If you know this you must stop it.” The Imam made it sound so easy.

“That’s why I’m here. But I need your help.”

“And what is it you want from me?”

The Imam’s eyes remained impassive but his moist cherubic lips trembled slightly.

“Information. I know Al Qaeda is involved, along with others. There’s a cell right here in Baltimore that was activated over a year ago when a cargo of dangerous material arrived by sea from Lebanon. Some time between then and now at least two martyrs, suicide bombers, will have come here. They’ll have entered the country legally, no point in taking chances with the Immigration Authorities. They’re probably living openly within the Muslim community, possibly married to local girls to secure their immigration status. I need to find them and the material. I don’t have much time.”

Imam Siddiqui rotated the prayer beads in his hands and put aside the hookah.

“There must be scores of young men just like that, even in a small community like ours, right here in Baltimore. Can you give me something more specific? Something that makes them stand out?”

“They’ll be in contact with an Irishman, a man named Declan O’Brien whose job is to co-ordinate the project. But I’m betting O’Brien doesn’t plan to sacrifice his own life, he won’t have that level of commitment. Hence the martyrs. But if we find the Irishman, we’ll find the suicide bombers. We find the bombers, we find the nuclear material.”

“It’s not a lot to go on.” He picked up the hookah and inhaled.

“We also know the Irishman is trafficking drugs to finance the operation. Drugs with a dangerously high purity, marketed by people with little experience dealing coke. A lot of junkies have ODed in this area.”

“The same Declan O’Brien who’s wanted for murder? The one I saw on TV?”

“That’s him. Except he won’t look like that anymore. Somehow all the TV stations managed to screw up the files.”

Bowman pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and produced an up-dated image of O’Brien.

“He’ll have changed his appearance for sure, probably looks something like this by now, dark hair, beard, tanned. Maybe wearing built up shoes, to add a little height.”

Imam Siddiqui scrutinised the drawing and smiled a gentle, knowing smile.

“Funny. He looks more Arab than Irish. Put him in a dishdashha and he’d blend right in.”

***

The maid’s quarters at the Libitch mansion were surprisingly comfortable. Dinah May Jefferson lived alone above a converted timber-frame boathouse looking out across the water. The sitting room was small but well furnished with a stunning view of the icy Chesapeake Bay. Dinah May was already getting used to receiving company. She wore her best Sunday outfit with a freshly starched apron and insisted on making tea.

“Mr Libitch always treat me with respek. I knows now he was a bad man. Didn’t know that when he was alive. But he always treat me right.”

Dinah May wore her uniform with pride. She sat bolt upright, her withered hands resting in her spotless apron.

Ambrose sipped tea from a china cup.

“Miss Jefferson, a little over a year ago two gentlemen came to the house. Two Arab gentlemen. Mr Libitch said they roughed you up a bit. Any chance you might remember them?”

“Sure do. Weren’t no gentlemen though. Wouldn’t give no name. Just barged right into the house. Shoved me on the floor.” She made a tight little fist with each hand. “Ain’t nobody push ole Dinah May around. No, sir. When I was just a little bitty girl I done march with Dr King.”

Pride shone from those weary, wise old eyes.

“Mr Libitch gave me a good description, Dinah May,” Ambrose continued. “You remember anything else about these men? Other than the way they looked?”

“Done took the number of their car.”

“You did?” Ambrose beamed.

“I was madder ‘n hell. I woulda preferred charges ‘cept Mr Libitch didn’t want me to.”

Ambrose held his breath.

“Dinah May, do you still have the number of the car?”

“I keeps a diary. Always did. Since my time with Dr King.” She looked down at her hands. “Already gave it to the man.”

“What man?”

“Man came here las’ evenin’. Done seen me on TV.”

She ran a finger down the length of her right cheek.

“Scar down the side of his face. Was wounded in Vietnam. Said he knew my nephew Bobby got killed out there, fighting’ for his country.”

“Did he give a name?”

“No, sir. But I knows he was a Colonel. Ribbons all over his chest. Musta bin a very gallant man. Served with my nephew Bobby.”

“So you gave him the diary?” Ambrose recalled the description of the heavies who’d been to Moreno’s apartment. “Dinah May, you sure about that scar?”

“Yes, sir”

“An’ you ain’t got no other copy of that number?”

“No, sir.” Dinah May could see Ambrose was upset. “What’s the matter, son? Didn’ I do right?”

“You did fine, Dinah May. You did just fine.”

***

42

The President of the United States sat in the Oval Office contemplating the morning’s dismal headlines. Every newspaper on the eastern seaboard led on the same bleak, dispiriting story. A Committee of Congress had been formed to investigate the massive intelligence failures that preceded 9/11. The concerns of FBI field agents about foreign nationals training at US flying schools had gone unheeded. The movement of significant Saudi funds into suspect bank accounts was undetected. The failure to scramble military jets unexplained. The FBI, the CIA and the Immigration Service were all under sustained media attack. Only Military Intelligence was in the clear. The Pentagon, it seemed, was above reproach. Most damaging of all was the re-emergence of that old Watergate refrain,

“What did the President know? And when did he know it?”

On that bright March morning Robert Jennings was shown into the Oval Office and sat at his usual chair facing toward the window. President Santos sat with his back to the light, making it difficult to discern his features clearly. When he spoke his voice had an icy metallic quality Jennings hadn’t been subjected to before.

“Director Jennings, it has been brought to my attention,” the President steepled his hands, “that you have taken it upon yourself to collaborate with a foreign national acting on behalf of a foreign power on American soil, thereby placing me, personally, in a very difficult position.” He paused. “You’ve seen the morning papers? The American people are losing faith in some of their most cherished institutions. I cannot allow that to happen. For Christsake, Jennings, what the hell were you thinking of? This isn’t a game. This country is about to go to war!” The President got up and began to pace about the room. “Well, Jennings? Would you care to comment at this point?”

Jennings reddened. He didn’t answer right away. Then he said,

“Mr President, I understood I’d been given a free hand. I chose the best available man. You instructed me specifically not to tell you who I picked, to protect your own position. Resources, as you know, are limited. Secrecy is paramount. Someone from outside the loop seemed the most appropriate choice.”

Jennings didn’t really feel he needed to defend himself. He knew for sure he’d made the right decision.

“And anyway, Mr President, it was the Brits who provided the initial intelligence on this matter. Without the Brits we never would have known about…”

“You’re missing my whole point, Bob,” the President’s tone was muted. “The fact the man’s a Brit doesn’t help one bit, he’s still a Goddamn foreigner. OK, so they’re our best allies, but legally he’s still an alien. They even tell me the man’s done time on drugs related charges.”

“Trumped-up charges. He was cleared on appeal.”

“My point is, Bob, you’ve involved the President of the United States in what you must have known was an illegal act. I can’t condone that. I’m sure you were motivated by what you thought were the best possible objectives, but you leave me with no alternative.” He stood at the window with his back to the room. “Director Jennings, I’m relieving you of your responsibilities.”

“You mean I’m fired?” Bob Jennings was stunned.

“I’m asking you to take a temporary leave of absence till this thing is over. I want you to go back to your office and clear your desk. I’ve already agreed the text of a statement to the press. It’ll be on the news at lunchtime. I don’t want the American people to know the Director of Counter Terrorism acted in an inappropriate manner so you’ll be stepping down temporarily on health grounds.” He looked down at his hands. “Meantime, Military Intelligence will be taking care of business.”

“The Pentagon?”

“The Pentagon.”

“Herzfeld? That crazy bastard?”

“Don’t pressure me, Bob. If you’d picked a Goddamn American from inside the FBI this never would have happened. Believe me, I don’t want this. But I have no other choice. You’ve seen the papers. After 9/11 I just can’t risk another intelligence scandal.”

“I picked the best available man, Mr President. I think you know that.”

The President resumed his seat at the ‘Resolute’ desk, reflecting that its timbers had been salvaged from a British Man o’ War.

“Yes, Bob, I suppose I do. Which is exactly why I’m asking you to stay on board, unofficially of course. But I need you to go on monitoring the situation and keeping me informed. And with luck those Fascist bastards will never find your Brit. I don’t trust Herzfeld any more than you do, Bob, so pick out a handful of good people and set up your own operation.”

Bob Jennings was silent for a while. Then he said,

“Mr President, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Yes, Bob, there is.” The President smiled. “I’m about to launch my very own pre-emptive strike.”

“Sir?”

“I’m going to set up a press conference for those two Irish bastards. Feed them to the international media. Once those guys tell the world the Dirty Bomb is Tirofijo’s baby, Herzfeld’s scheme is dead in the water.”

“Mr President, you think that’s wise? It’s bound to cause widespread panic right across the country. The very thing we’ve been trying to avoid.”

“At this juncture, Bob, that’s a risk I simply have to take. But it sure as hell beats sitting around waiting for Herzfeld’s little plan to reach fruition. It’s time for the American people to realise just what their President is up against. This is not another intelligence failure, Bob, far from it, this is a major intelligence triumph. And while we’re at it, I intend to internationalise this thing, make sure the London and Dublin papers get in on the act. And the rest of the Goddamn spineless European press.”

***

Bob Jennings returned to his office immediately and cleared his desk of the few personal items he kept there. In his in-tray was a postcard depicting sunset on Lake Michigan postmarked Traverse City. It read:

“Hi, Bob – Having a fabulous time. Weather freezing. See you soon. Love. Clare.”

He re-read it carefully a couple of times and slipped it in his pocket. In the eighteen months she’d worked for him Clare White had never once used his first name, let alone had the temerity to call him Bob. She always addressed him formally as Sir – or Director Jennings. He picked up the phone and dialled personnel.

“This is Director Jennings. Look, I have a little problem. My secretary’s away on a break, staying with her sister somewhere on Lake Michigan. I’m having trouble locating a file I need urgently. Can you see if we have a phone number for the sister? I seem to remember she’s listed as next of kin. Can you check and call me back? Thanks. Appreciate it.”

Five minutes later Jennings had Clare’s sister Chloë on the line.

“No, Mr Jennings, I was expecting her, but she never showed up. Phoned a couple of nights ago to cancel the trip. Pressure of work, she said,” Chloë sounded distinctly worried. “Mr Jennings, do you think something’s wrong? It’s not like Clare to let me down. She’s my big sister for heaven’s sake. We’re very close.”

“I’m sure there’s some simple explanation,” Jennings improvised. “Matter of fact, yes, I remember now, they’re short staffed in another building, over at the Academy in Quantico. They may have asked Clare if she could fill in for a couple of weeks in lieu of her vacation. I recall her saying she could use the extra cash, mentioned a trip to England later in the year.”

“She was in England last year, Mr Jennings. She hated it. Nothing works over there. Look, Mr. Jennings, I’m very concerned. Could you call Clare and ask her to phone me please? I’ve called her apartment sixteen times and all I get is her voicemail.”

“Will do. Next time I see her, I’ll be sure to ask her to call.”

Jennings locked his brief case, walked down to the fourth floor and entered Agent Moreno’s cramped little tomb of an office. Cal sat with her back to the room adjusting the dials on one of the consoles, a pair of padded earphones on her head. Jennings reached over and tapped her on the shoulder. Moreno rotated in one rapid seamless cat-like movement, automatically reaching for the Colt.

“Director Jennings? Sir?”

The Director of Counter Terrorism had never been to her office before. What had she done to earn this accolade? She pulled down her sweatshirt, took off her ‘phones and peered at him quizzically, awaiting an instruction.

“Agent Moreno,” Jennings hesitated, unsure exactly how to put this. “Do you happen to be free for lunch?”

Moreno swallowed. Was this a date?

Twenty minutes later they sat in a terminally unfashionable surfn’turf restaurant half way between the Hoover Building and the Convention Centre. Elevator music played softly in the background. At the nearest occupied table, thirty feet away, an elderly couple took advantage of the Senior Citizen Special.

“Nice choice.” Cal Moreno looked approvingly around the dimly lit room, wondering why she was there. Blues Alley it ain’t, but this is not a fishing trip; it’s just a business lunch, right? Bowman would not have mentioned…boasted…you know what men are like, always comparing notes? No way, he promised not to…he couldn’t have…or could he? But Jennings was reputedly a happily married man, though she had to admit he did have a certain…authority? No, let’s face it Cal, the guy is really cute.

A young man with acne and a soiled waiter’s outfit brought the menu. Jennings ordered a double Bourbon on the rocks and Cal a diet Coke.

“Wow. Lobster and beef combo. My favourite.” Cal shuddered. “Do you mind if I just have a salad?”

When they had ordered Bob Jennings cleared his throat and said,

“I’ve been relieved of my duties.”

Agent Moreno’s mouth opened but she couldn’t manage a reply.

Jennings went on.

“Temporarily, of course. Till this Irish thing is put to bed.”

Cal blushed. The guy is cute! Jennings dabbed his mouth with a napkin.

“I mean, till this thing is over. There seems to be some inter-agency dispute concerning jurisdiction. The President has allocated responsibility to Military Intelligence. I think the Secretary of Defence is involved, somewhere up the line. Not much I can do about it I’m afraid, he out-ranks me by several notches.”

OK, so this is not a date.

“Military Intelligence? You mean like those two clowns who showed up at my apartment? They’re handling this thing now?”

“They’re just the infantry, Cal. At least I think so.”

“So all that effort was a waste? I’ve spent hours of my own time putting those Goddamn sniffers in place.” Cal was pissed off but polite. “And what about Mr Bowman?” She kept her eyes on Jennings’ mouth to see if mention of the limey’s name triggered a reaction. It didn’t even raise a smile. Whew!

“Bowman is still out there. I haven’t spoken to him yet, he seems to have gone to ground.” Jennings took a sip of California’s finest. “Fact is, Agent Moreno, I’m reluctant to give up on this one. I can’t tell you why, it’s a national security matter, but this is far too important to leave to the Pentagon. The military’s OK for dropping bombs on Tora Bora when no one’s home, but what’s required here is something a lot more subtle than a Daisycutter.”

“You’re asking me to stay on the job?” Cal was way ahead of him.

“Problem is you can’t remain in place at Pennsylvania Avenue, but you have to find a way to continue scanning the airwaves. I need you to keep me informed, so we can all stay involved.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

Cal’s eyes lit up in anticipation as the memory of moonlight glinting off the nickel barrel of a Schofield .45 flashed across her mind. She felt the pleasing onset of an adrenalin rush.

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Don’t worry,” said Jennings, “it will be. Especially as I want you to monitor the Secretary of Defence in person as well as the Pentagon in general. And Herzfeld has an aide called Colonel Preston I’m particularly interested in. Used to be with Special Forces in Vietnam. Distinguished himself in bomb disposal, so he’s something of an expert with explosive ordnance.”

Cal dabbed at her mouth with her napkin.

“If I can’t work out of Pennsylvania Avenue, just where on the planet do you expect me to find the computing capacity I’ll need to hack into the Pentagon? This isn’t going be easy, sir. I’ll need access to an SV1 at the very least.”

“I have every confidence in you, Agent Moreno.” Jennings emptied his glass and gestured for the bill. “You’ll think of something.”

***

Cal left Director Jennings in the restaurant, hurried back to her office and made copies of the files she needed on a clutch of blank CDs. Next she encrypted and compressed the data, imbedded a password, and used a broadband connection to hard wire them to a secure FBI mailbox somewhere out there in the ether. That way she’d always have back up if she needed it. Then she buried a bug in the computer and closed the system down. The only thing she needed now was access to a really powerful super-computer. But the Cray SV1 is not a domestic appliance. Outside of major Government departments only the very largest corporations can afford them and such is their value and complexity that access to them is always on a strictly controlled basis.

Perhaps the greatest concentration of computer capacity on the planet is housed at 6401 Security Boulevard in suburban Baltimore at the national headquarters of the Social Security Administration. Here hundreds of millions of files are updated daily and astronomical amounts of data routinely processed. Cal Moreno left her office and walked to the cyber-café in the concourse at Union Station. She logged on to the SSA website, clicked employment opportunities, scrolled through the situations vacant pages and completed an application for the position of night-shift data entry clerk. She was vastly over qualified for the job so she used one of the FBI’s phantom corporations to create a fake identity for a new Calista Moreno, a college dropout with no real computer expertise and a chequered employment history. She left her cell phone number as a point of contact and took a taxi back to her apartment. She changed from her sweatshirt and chinos into a low-cut blouse and the sequined DKNY mini-skirt her grandma disapproved of. Then she put on a brand new face complete with a blonde wig and packed an overnight bag. Lastly she checked her appearance in the long mirror and removed the Star of David from around her neck so as not to bring it into disrepute. She was in the elevator when she got the call from the SSA personnel department. Yes, she could be at Security Boulevard in a couple of hours to talk through her job application. Yes, if successful she could start work the following day. Yes, she understood how difficult it was to get good reliable staff to work the graveyard shift.

Cal dumped her bag on the back seat of the Cherokee. When she turned the key in the ignition the overhead light dipped imperceptibly as the electrical impulse fired the GPS satellite-tracking device concealed beneath the chassis. As she came up the ramp and turned left into Lincoln Park a red light started to pulsate on a digital map of the city displayed on a six-foot plasma monitor four floors below the Pentagon. An army Captain attached to the Joint Special Operations Command watched the flashing light head east on Independence Avenue, away from the city centre and out towards the Beltway. He picked up the phone and dialled Colonel Preston on his direct line.

“She’s moving, sir. Looks like she’s headed out of town. Do you want to put a tail on her?”

“A trained agent?” said Preston. “That’s much too risky. Her instincts will tell her if we stalk her. I’m amazed she didn’t check the car for bugs. Where is she right now?”

“Heading north on the Parkway.”

“How tight can you zoom in?”

“I can read her plates if you want me to.”

“Then just keep tracking her, Captain. We don’t need to pick her up, just find out where she’s going. If she leads us to Bowman, as I’m sure she will, we can waste them both in the one hit.”

Cal continued north on the Parkway, glancing periodically in her rear view mirror, surprised she wasn’t being followed. She took the exit to BWI on the outskirts of Baltimore and drove into the short-term multi-storey car park at the hub of the airport complex. She found a parking space at ground level where no satellite signal could penetrate the five floors of concrete and steel, or sort through the white noise of air-traffic control.

Cal grabbed her overnight bag, walked across to the terminal building and hailed a cab. She gave the driver the address of SSA Headquarters at 6401 Security Boulevard in the suburb of Rolling Heights. She glanced up into the clear blue sky and waved.

“Bye, guys.”

“Oh shit,” said the Captain.

“Whadaya mean oh shit?” Preston already knew what was coming.

“Lost the bitch.”

“How could you possibly lose her?”

“She disappeared into the multi-storey at BWI. We lost signal contact. Bitch could be on her way to anywhere.”

At eight o’clock that evening Cal Moreno entered the lobby of the huge steel and glass office complex. She checked in at the reception desk, picked up a visitor’s security pass and rode the lift to the ninth floor. As she was ushered into the office of the night-shift data-entry supervisor she felt the irresistible onset of an adrenalin rush.

Cal looked and felt like a tart in her blonde wig, heavy make-up, low cut blouse, tight skirt, fishnets and stilettos. But Cal relished the part as she morphed into the flaky college dropout with great tits, endless legs and a very promising mouth. She knew the effect her body had on men and just stood there while the sweaty little fink took a good long look at what she had to offer.

Through the glass partition Cal surveyed the great array of Cray SV1s and T3Es and let out a low whistle. There was more computing power in that one vast chamber than the whole of FBI headquarters. It made the Hoover Building look like a Boy Scout camp.

Cal sat down and the nasty little putz sifted through her application, her dismal College grades, her patchy employment record, her lack of formal IT training.

As he rambled on she crossed and uncrossed her shapely legs repeatedly while the little runt devoured her piece by piece. It was a strangely enjoyable sensation, almost as pleasing as Coprolalia. She repeated the word to herself Cop-ro-lal-ia. The little man droned on, making copious notes. When Cal confessed she’d been fired from her previous position for misconduct it seemed for one minute like she’d blown it. But when she implied she’d been caught in flagrante giving her boss a freebie, it seemed like it didn’t really matter much at all. The fink offered her the position right away.

“Anything you need from me before you start?”

The little man dabbed the perspiration from his upper lip with the thick end of his stained, tattered tie.

“I do have one small request,” Cal blushed demurely.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t work well in open-plan environments.”

She looked out at the serried ranks of data entry clerks beyond the glass partition.

“I’d like to have a little office of my own.”

“An entry level clerk? No way. It would start a riot out there.”

“Nothing fancy. But somewhere without windows would be nice.” Cal uncrossed her legs. A flicker of red silk may have caught his eye.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The fink undid his collar and loosened his tie.

“Matter of fact, my assistant is away on a trip. Maybe you can use her office till we get you settled in. After that, it’ll all depend on your performance.”

“I’m sure you’ll be very satisfied,” Cal smiled. “I’ll certainly give it my best shot, I’m good, I just want to get ahead.”

The fink scribbled an abbreviated note, taking one word from each phrase she had uttered. It came out as ‘gives good head’.

On her way out of the colossal building Cal paused in the lobby to call Bowman, bring him up to speed and check what he was up to. She was still on an adrenalin high but terrified of losing it and in need of another fix. As she dialled Bowman’s cell number she caught sight of her reflected image in the plate glass window by the door. At first she didn’t recognise herself.

Son-of-a-bitch Moreno, that’s one fine ass you got there.

“So you’re here in Baltimore?” Bowman enquired.

“Right. Can’t go back to my apartment till this thing is over.”

“You have somewhere to stay?”

“I’ll find a room out here in the burbs, close to where I work.”

“No you won’t. Come on over. There’s lots of spare rooms here and at least you’ll be secure, Trujillo has this place covered.”

Just say the word, Mr Bond. Just say the fucking word.

When Cal turned up at Trujillo’s apartment Ben and Paco had gone out to grab a bite to eat. Bowman opened the door and looked Moreno up and down.

“Jesus Christ!” His jaw stayed open. “Sorry, Cal, excuse me, but it’s just that…well…frankly my dear…you look like a fucking tramp.” It was all he could do to keep from laughing.

Cal was still in character from her interview.

“That’s just the way I feel, Mr Bond. I feel just like a fucking tramp.”

She put her arms around his neck and started murmuring obscenities in his ear.

***

43

Equipped with the diary of Dinah May Jefferson Colonel Preston had no difficulty tracing the car registration number to Jamal Habib, a naturalised American citizen of Saudi origin. Habib had come to the States some ten years earlier and married his native born American cousin, acquiring full citizenship rights. He’d sworn allegiance to the flag and vowed on the Koran to uphold the constitution. Habib was not known to be politically active and had spent the intervening years quietly pursuing his business career and nurturing his growing family. He now lived quietly in a comfortable apartment in downtown Baltimore and worshipped daily at the Masjid Ul-Haqq mosque at 514 Islamic Way.

Preston first traced Jamal’s home address then his place of business to a warehouse in Fells Point near the docks where Habib ran a dealership exporting used agricultural equipment to Eastern Europe and the Middle East. Preston immediately ordered an army AH-IG Cobra equipped with radiation sensors to make a low pass over the single-storey flat-roofed building. The read-out went off the chart. Within the hour Preston had the place surrounded by a detachment of assault troops from the garrison at Fort Meade. Army snipers in camouflage fatigues took up positions on nearby rooftops. Special Forces occupied a row of derelict buildings opposite the warehouse entrance. There was no other means of entry or egress. It was now impossible for anyone to enter or exit the site without Colonel Preston’s specific knowledge and approval. The place was sealed.

O’Brien delivered the detonator and the Semtex to the warehouse that same evening. In the fading light Preston peered through heat resonance goggles as the Irishman drove up and identified himself to the gook at the outer gate, continued round to the side of the building and climbed the fire escape to the office on the mezzanine floor. At the top of the iron stairway stood two of Habib’s heavies in ski masks toting Mauser SMGs. One of them frisked the Irishman, removed the Bowie taped to his left forearm and opened the door to the office. Jamal sat behind his desk toying with a string of beads. He stood up as O’Brien entered, offered his hand and motioned the Irishman to a straight-backed wooden chair.

“So everything’s in place at last,” Jamal smiled contentedly.

“I’ll be ready to roll in a couple more days,” said O’Brien. “Spot on my chosen schedule. So where’s the nuclear material?”

“Downstairs in the warehouse. One kilogramme of pure weapons grade plutonium.”

“Doesn’t sound like a lot.”

“Enough to contaminate an entire metropolis for a generation. Tirofijo paid a bundle.”

“Where’d you get it from?”

“Ukraine. The place is awash with the stuff. Most of those countries are. This thing goes right, we could start a whole new trend.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“Sure, if you want to. Just don’t spend too much time and don’t get too close. Don’t want you going down with radiation poisoning after all you’ve done for us.” Jamal pressed a button on the intercom. “Switch off the alarm system. We’re coming in.”

He led the way out of his office down a corridor and unlocked a heavy steel-clad door. They stood on an iron platform at mezzanine level looking out over the vast empty space of the warehouse. Two hundred feet away in the middle of the floor was what looked like a large lead coffin. A few yards from each corner of the catafalque a sentry stood toting a Sub-Machine Gun. It looked like a Lying-in-State.

“Won’t those guys get fried?” said O’Brien

“They’re martyrs. Guaranteed a place in heaven.” There was no hint of irony in his smile. “Did you select a target? Tirofijo said he’d leave that choice up to you.”

“The British Embassy has a certain ring to it. At least it does for me. That’s sovereign British territory. Can’t get much more symbolic than that from an Irish point of view.”

Jamal smiled “Yes, I can see that. And the date?”

“Tuesday March 17.”

“And just how do you propose delivering the package?”

“Till just now I hadn’t figured out a way to do that and be sure to get away.” O’Brien grinned. “But a couple of your martyrs might be useful.”

***

44

When the White House announced the upcoming Press Conference featuring the two Irish prisoners the response varied from quiet satisfaction in London to utter dismay in Dublin. Downing Street saw the chance publicly to discredit the IRA as a very positive outcome. The Irish government and Sinn Fein/IRA dreaded the revelations that were bound to emerge. All hope of a united Ireland would vanish for a generation. But among the ranks of a nebulous coterie of senior officers at the Pentagon the reaction bordered on outright terror. When the two Irishmen revealed the Colombian origins of the Dirty Bomb their attempt to implicate Saddam would fail. There would be no pre-emptive strike against Iraq.

Melanie Drake flew in to Dulles International Airport on British Airways flight 0223 and checked in to the Four Seasons Hotel on the fringes of DC and Georgetown. It was two days before the press conference was due and her first thought was to contact Alex Bowman. She hadn’t heard from him in weeks. But Melanie had no idea where Bowman was or how to reach him. So she sent an email to his UK address on the off chance he might pick it up and contact her. Then she phoned down to the concierge and had him send a copy of every available newspaper and magazine to her room.

Melanie speed-read through the pile of journals. It seemed every broadsheet in America had but one preoccupation. The imminent revelations of the two IRA volunteers had relegated even Saddam to the inside pages. But not a single paper even hinted at the fourth Irishman, or the Dirty Bomb. Melanie Drake, it seemed, was in a very privileged position. Knowledge is power. She just didn’t know how to use it. Melanie needed guidance. Come on Alex, for Christ sake call me. I need to talk to you. She looked at her watch. It was well past midnight, London time. She took a shower and ordered a tray in her room in case he called. She spent an hour flicking from one news channel to another before she fell asleep.

The phone woke her in the middle of the night. It rang several times before she worked out what it was. “Alex?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Melanie, it’s Merlyn Stanbridge. Did I wake you?”

“You did. But it isn’t a problem.”

Her journalistic instincts shifted into overdrive.

“The PM has been in discussion with the President. There’s been a bit of a re-think. The President wants you to ask a question about the fourth Irishman. He plans to turn this into a major intelligence triumph. It’s up to you to get the ball rolling. The rest of the media will follow.”

“And I can ask anything I like?”

“Anything. Including the Dirty Bomb. Call the President’s press secretary and set up an appointment. She’ll brief you. But as far as we’re concerned it’s no holds barred. We’re going to nail the IRA.”

Melanie grabbed a pen. “You have a phone number?”

“Just dial the White House switchboard on 202-456-1414 and they’ll put you through.”

Melanie scribbled down the number and scratched out the area code.

“Great. Now, while you’re on the line, do you have any idea how I can contact Alex Bowman? I’d like to see him while I’m here.”

“Bowman? Bowman’s busy.” The line went dead.

When Melanie put the phone down there was no way she could get back to sleep. She was too excited. She was about to pull off the biggest scoop in the history of journalism, dwarfing Woodward and Bernstein. She would become a Fleet Street legend overnight. The Pulitzer was as good as in her pocket.

***

On the afternoon of Friday March 12th every TV channel in America was set to broadcast the same shattering event. Signals were transmitted by satellite around the globe. The worldwide audience was huge, the largest ever recorded for a non-sports event. In the entire history of news broadcasting only Watergate and 9/11 even came close. In Washington London and Dublin politicians of every persuasion were glued to their television sets. The President, the Prime Minister and the Taoiseach cancelled their appointments for the day. A dedicated Satcom link was kept open between the White House, Downing Street and Government Buildings. The Taoiseach had reluctantly agreed to make a conference room available at the Irish Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue. Agents Brown, Sondheim and Wharton shared the security duty at the safe house on 9th Street. McGuire and O’Rourke spent the whole morning playing cards and sipping whiskey in their windowless basement room.

“So this is when the brown stuff finally hits the fan.” McGuire poured them each a final glass of Bushmills. “I wonder what that prick O’Brien is up to now.”

O’Rourke emptied his glass. “Do you think they’ll question us about the Dirty Bomb?”

“I doubt it. The Yanks will want to keep that under wraps. Remember what Hoolahan said? Keep schtum. Besides, there’s enough swill in this pigsty for the media to chew on for a month. Don’t know who’ll come off worse, our lads or Tirofijo. One thing’s for sure, that cosy little relationship will have to end. The Yanks will see to that. Pity. There was lots of money to be made. Bastard Brits will have a field day.”

“What if some smart arse journalist has heard about the bomb? Colombian scribbler maybe? Even a Brit or a Paddy?”

“Then we’ll have to stonewall, old son. Play the thick Paddy. Shouldn’t be too difficult for you, and it always goes down well with the Anglos. Do you think the Fifth Amendment applies to us foreigners?”

At 2.17 p.m. McGuire and O’Rourke were ushered out of the safe house, their faces and upper bodies shrouded under blankets. They wore bullet-proof vests and army issue helmets. The two huddled figures hastened into the armoured limo, crammed between Agents Brown and Sondheim. Wharton sat in the front next to the driver. Police marksmen were positioned on every rooftop with line of sight. Four cops on Harleys rode point. An AH-IG Cobra, on loan from the Pentagon, hovered overhead.

The journey from the safe house to the Embassy was fourteen city blocks. It took less than two and a half minutes. Every cross street was blocked. Every light was green. There were cop cars on every corner. Inside the bulletproof limo nobody spoke. The entrance to the Embassy was packed with TV cameras and reporters from every major news channel, American and foreign. Armed police in helmets and flak jackets lined the pavements, controlling the clamorous crowd. Hordes of placard-waving protesters hurled abuse. A group of IRA supporters bayed for their comrades’ immediate release. In the confusion nobody noticed the army Colonel on the opposite pavement nervously fingering the scar on his right cheek. As the limo pulled into the pavement ready to disgorge its passengers he put a cell phone to his lips and uttered the single word, “Fire.”

Two streets away a truck-mounted mortar discharged three rounds in quick succession. The targeting was very nearly perfect. The limo exploded. A black and orange fireball filled the sky. Panic was unconfined as the hurt and bleeding ran yelling for cover. But the collateral damage was minimal, maybe a couple of dozen fatalities and a few score seriously wounded, mainly among the press corps and police. The Colonel was splattered with blood, but it wasn’t his.

“Great shooting guys,” he chuckled into the phone. “Every round on target.”

As he hurried along the street he glanced up at the Cobra whirring overhead and stuck his thumb in the air.

Colonel Arthur Preston of the Joint Special Operations Command entered the Pentagon as gridlock jammed the city. The sentry glanced at the blood-splattered uniform, noted the ribbon of the Distinguished Service Cross, checked the Colonel’s security pass and stood at attention to salute the war hero. The Colonel hurried down to the situation room three floors under ground where the Secretary of Defence and a dozen senior officers had gathered to watch the confusion on a giant TV screen. Herzfeld glanced up when Preston entered.

“Great targeting, Colonel,” he beamed. “That really was impressive.”

“Nothing to it, Mr Secretary. At that range there was no way we could miss. All we did was press a button. Technology did the rest.” He took his seat at the table. “We ready to roll?”

“We’ll have tanks on the White House lawn within the hour. Capitol Hill is surrounded. Washington is ours.”

***

45

“Holy shit!” President Santos stared open mouthed at the television screen. “What the fuck?”

He could barely comprehend what was happening. He stood up and began to pace about the room, waving his arms in grandiose meaningless gestures. Then he sat at his desk, picked up the secure Satcom phone and dialled the Taoiseach and the Prime Minister in a conference call.

“Bert? Did you see that?”

“Yes, Mr President.” The Irish voice was barely audible. “I saw it.”

“Your guys do that?”

“My guys?” The Taoiseach’s tone was instantly defensive. “Whadaya mean my guys?”

“You know what I fucking mean. The Goddamn IRA. Mortars are their trademark.”

“Could be the Colombians?” The Taoiseach was trying to be helpful.

“It’s possible,” President Santos agreed. “But if so, Bert, who trained them? And where’d they get the Goddamn equipment? Whichever way you look at it, this has IRA stamped all over it.”

“Aren’t you missing the obvious?” the Taoiseach reasoned. “What about Al Qaeda?”

“I’m no ballistics expert,” the Prime Minister chipped-in, trying to be helpful. “But I do know the IRA. They’ve got some pretty sophisticated kit, but I’ve never known them achieve that degree of accuracy. You ask me, Mike, I’d say those shells were laser guided. The IRA doesn’t have that sort of technical capability. And neither does Al Qaeda.”

“So who the fuck do you think it was?” Immediately he framed the question, President Santos knew the answer. “Look, fellas, I need to consult with my advisors. I’ll have to go on national television within the hour, address the American people. You can watch me on CNN. Hear what I have to say.”

***

Not even 9/11 surpassed the shock of the mortar attack on the nation’s capital. Washington was bedlam. So was Wall Street. The dollar went into free-fall. Stock Exchanges and currency markets were closed. Military jets were scrambled. Commercial flights were cancelled. Offices and factories shut down. Roadblocks were set up around DC solidifying the gridlock and adding to the pandemonium.

Every member of every intelligence agency, the police and National Guard, reported for duty. All leave was cancelled. The President imposed a news blackout in the interest of national security. Martial music filled the vacuum on every radio and TV station. Tanks surrounded the White House and Capitol Hill. Air Force One stood by at Andrews Air Force Base, fully fuelled and ready to fly. The Vice President and his family hurried from the capital to a secure underground location in Nebraska. Against this chaotic background President Santos prepared to address the nation.

Along with almost every other American citizen, Bob Jennings had watched the events unfold on television. But unlike every other American citizen he understood exactly what was going on. His first thought was to rush to the White House to be at the President’s side but getting through the security cordon would be impossible. The TV screen showed tanks and armed personnel carriers rumbling up Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House and along the Mall towards the Capitol as Herzfeld tightened his control of the city.

Jennings tried the phone but the White House switchboard was jammed. He was wondering what his next move should be when his cell phone rang in his pocket. The President was calling him.

“Look, Bob.” The President’s voice was calm. “Aside from Herzfeld and his people you and me are just about the only two Americans who know what’s going on. What do you think our next move should be?”

“Depends what you plan to tell the American people, Mr President.”

“I haven’t worked that out yet. What’s your advice?”

“I wouldn’t mention the Dirty Bomb. There’s chaos out there now. Dollar’s sinking fast in Tokyo and Europe. If you cite the bomb there’s no telling what will happen. I were you, I’d blame the attack on the IRA and the Colombians. At least that has credibility; it gels with the two Irish guys. And then I’d announce you’re relieving the Secretary of Defence of his responsibilities. You can claim the attack was a major intelligence failure, just like 9/11. Responsibility for that lies squarely with Military Intelligence. That means Herzfeld. Nail the bastard. Case closed.”

“The American people won’t buy that, Bob. It’ll look like a knee-jerk reaction. What about due process? After 9/11 every head of every intelligence agency stayed in post. Nobody resigned. Nobody got fired. Dismissing the bastard on the eve of battle would have worse consequences than the Dirty Bomb. No, Bob, Herzfeld’s position is more secure now than it’s ever been. The man’s untouchable.”

The President looked out of the window and watched armoured personnel carriers manoeuvre onto the lawn. Special Forces were digging in. President Santos was a prisoner in his own White House.

“I just have to come up with a way to out-manoeuvre Herzfeld so he takes the fall. Question the bastard’s honour. But that won’t be easy, Bob. Right now he’s about the most respected politician in America. Meantime what news of your man Bowman and the bomb?”

“Not good, Mr President. Military Intelligence is way ahead of us. They may even have made contact with O’Brien.”

***

At 6 p.m. Eastern Standard Time every TV set in America and around the globe was tuned to the same signal. In London and Dublin the Prime Minister and the Taoiseach sat encircled by their military and intelligence chiefs. At Trujillo’s apartment in Baltimore Bob Jennings and Special Agent Hoolahan had joined Bowman, Ambrose and Moreno. In the nuclear shelter buried deep below the Pentagon the Secretary of Defence had convened a group of officers from the Joint Special Operations Command. Senior among them was Colonel Arthur G. Preston.

On the TV screen Old Glory fluttered disconsolately over the White House. The martial music playing in the background was cut short in mid-stanza and a disembodied voice announced,

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States.”

The Stars and Stripes faded from view as the camera zoomed in on the ashen face of President Michael Santos. Beads of sweat showed on his brow but his gaze was steady. He spoke without notes. Faint traces of his Hispanic roots were evident in his firm clear voice.

“My fellow Americans, our Nation is in grave peril. Once again the forces of evil are ranged against us. Once again we are called upon to defend ourselves. Today’s attack in the Nation’s Capital was an assault on Liberty itself. I must now warn you that intelligence sources have revealed that further yet more dastardly aggression may take place. We must expect another more deadly attack. Casualties next time may be numerous. The economic consequences could be catastrophic. I have therefore instructed Secretary of Defence Herzfeld to mobilize the National Guard. Our capital must be defended. For the first time since the Civil War armed troops will patrol our streets. Every Public Building and National Monument will be protected. Extraordinary events call for unprecedented measures. As of now Secretary of Defence Herzfeld will personally assume full responsibility for all military and intelligence matters. Against the counsel of my advisors I will remain at the White House as your Commander in Chief. The First Lady will stay by my side. I have given instructions that no resources be devoted to our protection which might be better deployed elsewhere. In case of adverse developments I have directed the Vice President and his family to leave Washington for a secure location removed from harm’s way. Secretary Herzfeld will remain at the Pentagon for the duration. What I ask of the American people is to be vigilant and not to panic. Stay calm. Go about your normal daily business. Demonstrate to the forces of evil that the American people will not bend to the cowardly attacks of a treacherous few. Beyond that I ask only for your prayers.”

The screen faded to Old Glory fluttering above the White House.

Martial music once more filled the airwaves.

***

“Bastard.” Herzfeld pummelled his right fist into his left palm, got up and began to pace about the room. “The fucking bastard.”

“Mr Secretary?” Colonel Preston ran a finger down his livid cheek.

“Don’t you see? The bastard’s backed me into a corner.

Making me responsible for everything that happens. If that bomb goes off I’ll have no option but to resign, or commit Hari-Kari. Down here I can survive a nuclear blast. But if that bomb detonates I won’t survive the wrath of the American people.”

There was silence in the windowless tomb-like room. Then Colonel Preston cleared his throat and said,

“What the President announced was quite specific, Mr Secretary. Every Public Building, every National Monument must be defended. But what if it’s not a Public Building? At least, not an American one?”

Herzfeld came to a halt opposite the seated Colonel and scowled at him across the table.

“Like what?”

“Like the British Embassy.”

Herzfeld froze. Then he smiled. Then he began to laugh.

“The British Embassy? But, my dear Colonel, that’s sovereign British territory. The American government has no jurisdiction there. It’s outside my remit!”

***

46

Many of America’s most respected journalists and commentators had died outside the Irish Embassy and many more of the survivors were either wounded or in shock. So the presence in Washington of a respected English columnist was fortunate. Though primarily a print journalist, Melanie Drake had worked in television often and was undaunted by the occasion. She had interviewed Prime Ministers and Presidents before.

Melanie had met with the President’s Press Secretary and been over the difficult ground, so there could be no misunderstanding. Nothing the Press Secretary said was binding but Melanie was not to mention Saddam or Al Qaeda and the words “nuclear” and “Dirty Bomb” were banned. But Melanie thought her job was journalism not propaganda. Guidance was acceptable. Instructions were not.

At 10 a.m. the next morning an official car collected Melanie from her hotel and drove her to the White House. After a thorough security check and body search she was ushered into the Oval Office by an intern and told where to sit. She had chosen a sombre grey business suit without lapels that revealed a mere suggestion of cleavage. Her hair was tied back and she wore a silver broach Bowman had brought back from Morocco. She wondered if he was out there somewhere, watching her performance. She hoped so. She liked to think he was close.

The Oval Office was a muddle of cables, lights, cameras, technicians and security personnel. It was uncomfortably hot. A young woman from make-up dabbed at Melanie’s face with a cosmetic brush. Someone held a light meter to her face and took a reading. Melanie flicked through her notes and practiced her yogic breathing. Suddenly the room went quiet. The minions scurried away and Melanie was left alone with the cameraman and the President’s Press Secretary, out of shot. The silence was palpable. A Secret Service agent hurried in, quickly followed by the President and two more guards. The President smiled and nodded at Melanie but addressed his Press Secretary.

“Is this going out live?”

“No, sir. It’ll go out with the mid-day news. In case we need to do an edit or a re-take.”

The President sat in an upright chair identical to Melanie’s with a low ornate table between them. He pulled at the cuffs of his shirt, making sure they protruded beyond the sleeves of his jacket by just the right amount. He felt for the knot of his tie to make sure it was exactly centred. Since the broadcast wasn’t live there was no countdown. The President smiled at Melanie to put her at her ease.

“You’ve been adequately briefed?”

Melanie was struck by his absolute calm.

“Yes, sir.”

“So you know the rules?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you comfortable with that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s begin.”

He sat erect and made a final check of his cuffs and tie.

The cameraman made a minor adjustment to the focus and muttered a barely audible “OK.” There was a low whirring noise as the tape began to roll.

Melanie cleared her throat, glanced down at her notes and took a couple of good deep yogic breaths.

“Mr President, if I may begin on a personal note, I understand you intend to go on residing at the White House during the crisis?”

The President nodded.

“That’s correct. This is my home, for as long as the American people choose to make it so.”

“And the First Lady will remain with you?”

“My wife is a very brave woman.”

“Mr President, if you’ll forgive my being blunt, that might be considered foolhardy. Given the present circumstances. Wouldn’t it be wiser if you flew to the facility in Utah?”

“I have asked the American people to stay calm. Not to panic. To go about their normal daily business in an orderly fashion. The least I can do is to share that burden with them.”

“Mr President, if I may contrast your example with that of some of your subordinates, the Vice President and the Secretary of Defence?”

“The Vice President and Secretary Herzfeld have no choice in the matter. They’re both following my instructions. They will both remain in secure quarters until this clear and present danger has passed.”

The President paused. Melanie noted a subtle change of tone.

“Miss Drake, I do hope you’re not suggesting…”

Melanie referred again to her notes.

“With regard to yesterday’s events, Mr President, I understand your present thinking is that the mortar attack was the work of the IRA and the FARC, acting in unison?”

“Our enquiries are not yet complete, but that seems the most likely explanation, given the provenance of the two prisoners. The IRA and the FARC had the most to gain by silencing them. Mortars are an IRA trademark, and we know they’ve been training the FARC for urban warfare. That’s how they got caught. But all that remains to be confirmed. Military Intelligence is still looking into the matter.”

“Military Intelligence? Not the FBI or CIA?”

“That’s correct. To simplify the chain of command and shorten lines of communication, Military Intelligence has overall responsibility for all security matters.”

“So Secretary Herzfeld has unprecedented powers? He has control of all the Military and Intelligence assets?”

“Secretary Herzfeld has my full confidence.”

“In your address to the American people yesterday you spoke of the likelihood of further violence. Are you able to elucidate further?”

“I wish I could. But there are certain facts…suspicions rather…I’m not yet ready to share with the American people. On grounds of national security. I’m sure the American people will understand that.”

“So you can’t be more specific as to the type of threat? Or where it might occur? Or the scale of the disaster, should it happen?”

Melanie was pushing at the bounds of what was prudent, exploiting her own knowledge of the situation.

“No, Miss Drake; I’m afraid I can’t.”

For the first time the President began to look uncomfortable.

Melanie took a deep yogic breath.

“So the fact the Vice President and the Secretary of Defence are both housed in nuclear shelters has no significance?”

This was an unscripted question. The word “nuclear” was taboo. But it seemed like the natural thing to ask in light of what had gone before.

The President glanced at his Press Secretary who was sitting out of camera shot. There might have been the faintest hint of a smile but there was a distinct hesitation before the President answered.

“No significance. None at all. As I said, they’re both working to my explicit instructions. They have no discretion in the matter whatsoever.”

Melanie was emboldened by his response.

“Mr President, one final question. Can you specifically state that the assault you are expecting is not a nuclear attack?”

Melanie sensed the Press Secretary’s sharp intake of breath. She had gone too far. This would end up on the cutting room floor. They would have to shoot a re-take.

But the President kept his poise.

“I can confirm I have no intelligence whatsoever to suggest a nuclear attack. If any such intelligence did exist, you can rest assured Secretary Herzfeld would have brought it to my attention. As I’ve said before, Secretary Herzfeld has my complete confidence. The American people can rely on his good judgement.”

The camera stopped rolling. The Press Secretary was on her feet.

“That’s it. Cut.”

She glared across at Melanie.

“You’re out of line. The word “nuclear” was forbidden. You knew that. We’ll have to do a complete re-take.”

“It’s OK. It’s OK,” The President interjected. “Let’s just run the tape and assess the damage. It’ll only take a few minutes. We can always re-shoot if we have to.”

He turned to the cameraman, looking at his watch.

“Do you mind waiting outside while we discuss this?”

The President resumed his seat and watched the tape in silence.

Then he turned to his Press Secretary and said,

“It’s fine. Let it go the way it is. Except there’s one brief moment when I lose eye contact with Miss Drake and smile inappropriately. Cut that footage out. It’s no more than a few seconds, but it doesn’t look right. Otherwise I’m happy.”

The President had achieved the only thing he wanted - to position Herzfeld to take the fall if things went disastrously wrong. He stood up, shook hands with Melanie and left the room, surrounded by his Secret Service guards.

***

47

In Trujillo’s apartment in Baltimore Bowman, Ambrose, Hoolahan and Jennings watched the interview on television. Agent Moreno slept late after the night shift at Social Security.

“Hey,” Ambrose punched Bowman playfully on the shoulder. “That your girlfriend?”

“She’s a girl and she’s a friend.” Bowman looked over his shoulder towards the room where Cal was sleeping. “It’s not the same thing.”

“She done good,” Ambrose beamed.

“She sure did,” Jennings confirmed. “Made the President look great and painted that bastard Herzfeld right into a corner, hunkered down in his nice safe nuclear bunker underneath the Pentagon while the President and the rest of us stay above ground with our families.”

“I don’t give much for our chances,” said Bowman. “Not with Herzfeld controlling all the assets. He’ll be in contact with O’Brien by now. They’ll have worked out a plan.”

“The President still has the Secret Service,” said Jennings. “They’ll always stay loyal to him. They won’t take any orders from the military.”

Cal Moreno breezed into the room, dressed in her usual tee shirt and chinos but no shoes. Her hair was still wet from the shower. She sat on the couch between Hoolahan and Jennings, directly opposite Bowman.

“So how’d the President do?”

“He did great.” Jennings turned to Moreno. “Anything happen on the night shift?”

“I have my sniffer system all set up. I’ve hacked into the Pentagon mainframe. Herzfeld’s home and private office are covered. But so far nothing. They must have imposed radio silence. Can’t say I blame them. They’ll expect us to monitor the airwaves.” Cal stretched and yawned. “The most exciting thing I’ve picked up so far is a load of garbage about some black-tie function at the British Embassy that Herzfeld is supposed to attend.” She smiled at Bowman. “How come you’re not invited?”

“Forgot to bring my tux.” Bowman looked apologetic. “Otherwise we could go together, Cal. You could wear your Pashtu.”

“You mean my Pashmina, Alex,” Cal laughed. “Pashtu’s a language. I know that.”

“That’s it? Nothing else?” said Jennings.

“The Ambassador reported his limo’s been stolen,” Cal yawned.

“Jesus!” said Bowman. “With everything that’s going on we have to worry about a stolen limo?”

Hoolahan cleared his throat.

“What’s the date?”

“Excuse me?”

Cal looked at him as if he were demented.

“What date is the function?”

Hoolahan coughed blood into a soiled handkerchief.

“March 17. Why?”

Cal remembered the date exactly, it coincided with her grandma’s birthday.

“That gives you a couple of days, Alex; you’ve got time to rent a tux.”

Hoolahan looked across at Bowman.

“And since when did the Brits start to celebrate Saint Paddy’s Day?”

“Saint Patrick’s Day?” said Jennings. “Jesus. I can see that. But why the British Embassy? Not much symbolism in that.”

“There is for Declan O’Brien,” said Bowman.

It took just one phone call to establish all social functions at the British Embassy had been cancelled until further notice. Bowman was confident his job was almost done. With the date and precise location of the attack now pinned down beyond doubt there was no way they could fail to prevent it.

Within the hour Secret Service Agents under direct instructions from the White House had taken up positions surrounding the British Embassy and its approaches. No one considered the question of jurisdiction or thought to brief the Ambassador. There simply wasn’t time. Brightman was completely out of the loop. All exits and entrances were covered. Snipers were positioned on nearby rooftops. NEST teams searched every corner of the grounds and buildings. Nothing and nobody moved in or out of the Embassy without being intercepted and examined.

Shortly after 5p.m. Bowman, Hoolahan and Moreno were admitted to the Embassy past the Secret Service security check. Jennings and Ambrose remained at FBI Headquarters in the Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue as backup, in case things went disastrously wrong. Hoolahan carried a battered metal case with the insignia of the 202nd Explosive Ordnance Disposal Company emblazoned on its lid. He was sweating and when he breathed he wheezed. They made straight for the communications room in the basement reserved for Bowman’s use. There was nothing to do now but wait. Bowman did a tour of the grounds and buildings, searching for some loophole in the Secret Service’s defences. He found none. They had every angle covered. Bowman just didn’t see how the bomb could be delivered without him spotting it. On his way back through the lobby he bumped into Ambassador Brightman.

“Would you kindly tell me what the hell is going on?”

Brightman snapped. There was still no news yet of his stolen limo.

Bowman brushed past him and headed for the basement stairs. He found Hoolahan checking the contents of his toolbox.

“How confident are you, Pat?”

Bowman placed an encouraging hand on Agent Hoolahan’s shoulder.

“I haven’t done anything like this since ‘Nam,”

Hoolahan coughed nervously.

“And I’ve never even seen a nuclear device. Thing’s bound to be booby-trapped and I’m way behind with the technology. Everything’s gone digital now.”

He wiped the sweat from his face and hands with his handkerchief and began coughing violently.

“Maybe we should use a robot. Trouble is, I don’t know how to drive one. Sure wish I had some drawings.”

“Drawings?” Moreno was on her feet. “Bet I can get you drawings. Bound to be a fax machine around here some place.”

She ran along the corridor and disappeared back up to the ground floor. It was almost an hour before she returned, triumphantly brandishing a sheaf of fax paper.

“You wanted drawings? I got you drawings!”

“Where the…?” Bowman looked at her in amazement.

“You’re a smart man, Mr Bond,” Moreno grinned. “It’s just that I’m quicker than you are. I called the Sheriff’s office in Warm Springs Ridge. Had them do a search of Murphy’s place. They came up with his working drawings.”

Cal slumped into a chair and closed her eyes so Bowman wouldn’t recognise she was already on a high.

***

48

Five floors below the Pentagon, in the air-conditioned situation room at the hub of the nuclear bunker, Herzfeld and Preston met to re-assess the damage of the President’s two broadcasts, his address to the nation and the televised interview with the British bitch.

The extensive suite of rooms could accommodate a hundred men in luxury. The food supply could last a year, more if they were careful. Limitless fresh water was available through boreholes that pierced the bedrock beneath the water table of the Potomac that would be contaminated by a nuclear attack. There was a gym, a poolroom and a cinema. The greatest threat to the inmates was boredom and the scarcity of sexual partners. The situation room was linked by satellite to capitals across the world and by landline to the underground facility in Nebraska where the President should be but wasn’t. A bank of plasma screens covering one entire wall scanned the eerie streets of the deserted capital. Nothing out there moved. It looked like nuclear contamination had already taken hold.

“That bastard Santos made me look like a fucking coward.”

Herzfeld thumped the table with his fist.

“Why not call his bluff, sir? Move about above ground. Be seen on TV talking to the troops.”

Preston wasn’t hopeful. The Secretary of Defence had not seen active service. Never even donned a uniform.

“Let me think about that,” was the best Herzfeld could manage. “Where are we with the Dirty Bomb?”

“It’s still at the warehouse in Fells Point. It’s probably armed by now. O’Brien’s already delivered the detonator and the explosive.”

“Does this guy O’Brien know of our interest?”

“No, sir.”

“So how the fuck do we facilitate delivery?”

“We have units posted all around the warehouse, sir. Hand-picked men. O’Brien doesn’t know it but the bomb will be escorted into Washington, so it gets past the security cordon. We’ll have armed personnel carriers front and back of their vehicle. Once we get them inside the barricade the rest is up to them. But that part should be easy.”

***

On Tuesday March 17 Saint Patrick’s Day parades across the States were cancelled or abandoned. In Ireland celebrations were muted. Declan O’Brien stood on the mezzanine at the warehouse peering through a small window in the reinforced steel door, sheltered from any risk of radiation leakage He watched the martyrs load the device into the trunk of the vehicle. Stripped of its lead cladding the device was not much bigger than a suitcase and, from the way they handled it, weighed no more than fifty pounds.

With so much chaos on the roads no one would be looking for a stolen car, not even an Embassy limo, a humorous touch Declan was rather proud of. Jamal gave his final instructions in Arabic and embraced the four young heroes. There were tears in their eyes. The tears of pride. They were about to lay down their lives for the Faith. Their place in heaven was assured. As the limo edged out through the gates Jamal gave a military salute and returned to his office to pray. O’Brien waved. Four hours from now he would be far away in New York City, watching the action on TV.

On the third floor of the building opposite the warehouse entrance an army sergeant spoke into his two-way radio,

“They’re on the move.”

The long black limo climbed away from the docks, travelling at a sedate hearse-like speed. The Ambassador’s Union Jack pennant fluttered from a chrome mast fixed above the left front mudguard. Traffic was light. Nobody was out of doors unless they had to be. It took twelve minutes to reach the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. The limo proceeded south at a steady legal 50mph. North bound traffic on the opposite carriageway was heavy but disciplined as Washingtonians with any sense fled the doomed city. A succession of military vehicles travelling south at breakneck speed overtook the slow-moving vehicle with its diplomatic plates and fluttering pennant. Then an armed personnel carrier pulled into the slow lane and took up a position in front of the limo. One of the martyrs looked out of the rear window and saw another like it, following at a discreet distance.

“We’ve got company,” he said to his companions as they readied their SMGs behind the darkened glass. Then a third personnel carrier appeared alongside the limo, trapping it in the slow lane.

“Is that thing primed?” the driver spoke over his shoulder and gestured towards the trunk.

“Sure is,” said one of the martyrs. “All I have to do is throw this little switch.”

His sweaty hand hovered over the simple firing mechanism.

“If we get stopped, just do it.” said the driver. “Allahu Akbar.”

“Allahu Akbar.”

By now they were well inside the Beltway, moving south at a steady legal 50mph. The lead personnel carrier exited the Parkway onto the John Hanson Highway. The boxed-in limo had no choice but to follow. The little convoy hit an army roadblock at the junction with South Dakota Avenue. The three armed personnel carriers surrounding the limo came to a halt, forcing the martyrs to do the same. The sweaty hand hovered.

Colonel Preston jumped briskly down from the lead vehicle. He was in full dress uniform and made sure the young sergeant got a good look at his badge of rank and the insignia of the Distinguished Service Cross pinned on his chest. The sergeant saluted and clicked his heels, awaiting an instruction. Preston pulled out a bunch of authorisation papers under the seal of the Department of Defence but the sergeant barely even glanced at them.

“We’re escorting the British Ambassador in the limo, sergeant,” said Preston with authority. “As you know, they’re our closest ally. No country’s been more supportive. I’d be glad if you would extend the Ambassador every possible courtesy.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant saluted again and waved the convoy through the barrier.

The martyrs looked at one another and shrugged in disbelief as the three armed personnel carriers peeled away and disappeared.

“Allahu Akbar,” they repeated. “Allahu Akbar.”

***

The limo made its way slowly into the centre of the capital. Inside the security cordon Washington was abandoned. In spite of the President’s example hundreds of thousands of its citizens had fled town. Most foreigners had gone days ago. A majority of countries, led by France, had recalled their diplomatic staff as rumours of a nuclear attack persisted. The limo rounded Capitol Hill, turned left into Massachusetts Avenue, cruised past a deserted Union Station and headed away from the centre, out towards the British Embassy at the top of the distant rise. But at Dupont Circle it made a sudden turn onto New Hampshire Avenue and disappeared down the ramp into the basement of the Embassy of Saudi Arabia.

“I thought we were headed for the British Embassy?” said one of the martyrs.

“Jamal changed his mind,” said the driver. “This place is a lot more central, just a few blocks from the White House. And for us it’s more symbolic. Anyway what difference does it make, the whole city is a write-off. Besides, the Brits are still in post while this place is deserted. The Saudis aren’t crazy, they left town days ago. But those gallant Brits are still manning their desks. What’s the point of penetrating their security cordon just to please the Irishman, when this place is abandoned? Let’s face it; O’Brien is never going to know the difference.”

***

49

By mid-afternoon the British Embassy was practically deserted aside from a few key staff. Bowman had insisted on sending everybody home. Ambassador Brightman refused to leave his post and obstinately remained in his office gallantly manning the phones. Intermittently throughout the day he fielded phone calls from the Pentagon, updating them on progress. Each time he reported the same lack of activity. There was no sign of the Dirty Bomb. He refused to acknowledge his Embassy could be a target when so many other iconic buildings were available and began to think the whole thing was a hoax, or another cock-up by those misinformed idiots at Legoland. Out of courtesy he agreed to call the Colonel immediately anything noteworthy happened. But nothing did.

Bowman, Hoolahan and Moreno remained on site not knowing what to do. To fill the time Special Agent Hoolahan pored over the drawings, committing every wire and fastening and switch to memory. He was puzzled by the timer. There seemed to be erasures that indicated Murphy might have made last minute alterations to someone else’s original design. Hoolahan had difficulty deciphering exactly what the quarryman had done. As the hours progressed Hoolahan’s cough got steadily worse. Bowman wondered just how confident Special Agent Hoolahan really was. Cal Moreno kept busy monitoring the secure link she’d set up to the Oval Office and Jennings at the Hoover Building. NEST teams re-commenced their search of the Embassy, knowing there was nothing to be found. Yet another detail of Secret Service agents patrolled the grounds and the approaches. Snipers on rooftops overlooking the Embassy struggled to remain alert. By 6 p.m. Bowman began to wonder if they had got the whole thing wrong, made one assumption too many. He called Jennings at the Hoover Building on the secure phone line.

“How many NEST teams can you muster?”

“Many as you need, Alex. What’s the problem?”

“Nothing’s happening here. There’s no movement. Nothing. There should’ve been some sign by now. Maybe we should look elsewhere.”

“Where, Alex?” There was frustration in the tired voice.

“How the hell should I know? The Washington Monument. The Library of Congress. The Supreme Court. Anywhere else you can think of. You’ve got the manpower. You might as well put them to work.”

At 7 p.m. Bowman was startled by the shrill tone of his cell phone. “Bowman.”

“This is Imam Siddiqui. I have some information for you. I don’t have their names or even a good description, but four men corresponding to your requirements came to the States just over a year ago. Just like you said, they entered into arranged marriages with local girls. They’ve been living quietly in Baltimore ever since.” He paused. “All four are electronics engineers. All four spent time at an Al Qaeda training camp outside of Kandahar.”

“So they’re Afghans?”

“No, sir. I’m ashamed to say they’re Saudis.”

Bowman switched off the phone and called Jennings on the secure line.

“Where’s the Saudi Embassy?”

“What is this, Alex? Another hunch?” Jennings sounded exhausted.

“Hunches is all we’ve got to go on, Bob. There’s nothing happening here.  So where the fuck is it?”

“601 New Hampshire Avenue. That’s right off Dupont Circle.”

“How far from here?”

“Traffic the way it is? Coupla minutes.”

“The Secret Services guys patrolling the Embassy grounds, how many will have Special Forces training?”

“A lot of them. Maybe most.”

“This is a whole new situation, Bob. We’re going to have to storm the Saudi Embassy. We’ll need some kit. Stun grenades. EMOE charges. Metal jackets. Two-way radios. And protective clothing. We must have some protective clothing. Don’t know why Hoolahan didn’t think of that before. And we’ll need a set of plans of the Saudi Embassy. Whatever else you can think of, bring. How long with all that take?”

“Everything you need is right here at the Hoover Building, Alex, except maybe the plans. I’ll have the check the archives but it’s possible they’re on file, a lot of sensitive buildings are. I just need time to get it all together.”

“Be here in an hour. What you haven’t got by then, we’ll do without.”

Bowman shook Hoolahan awake.

“Pat, what rank did you hold?”

Hoolahan didn’t stir. Bowman slapped him gently around the face. “What rank, Pat? What rank did you hold in Special Forces?”

“Captain,” Hoolahan coughed. “The bastards finally made me a Captain.”

Ambassador Brightman peered around the door, looking for an update. Bowman waved him away and summoned the Secret Service detail patrolling the grounds outside. He singled out a dozen men with Special Forces backgrounds and sent the remainder back outside.

“Any of you men out-rank a Captain?”

Bowman addressed the room. None of them did.

“Then I guess you’re in command, Captain Hoolahan.”

“In command of what?”

“I’ll explain,” said Bowman, “soon as Jennings gets here with the kit.”

The Ambassador re-appeared, still in a foul mood. His cherished limo hadn’t turned up yet. But he’d improvised a rudimentary supper for the men and sat at the back of the room following developments closely. Bowman politely ignored him. So Brightman withdrew to his office where he called the Colonel at the Pentagon to bring him up to speed.

Jennings arrived with the equipment Bowman had requested plus some other stuff he’d thought about himself. Most importantly, he had a complete set of plans of the Saudi Embassy. Jennings had also contacted the security firm that installed the electronic surveillance systems at the Saudi Embassy. He’d even got hold of a copy of the CCTV tape that showed the British Ambassador’s limo entering the basement car park.

“You mean the CCTV system’s still live?”

Bowman could not believe their luck.

“Seems so,” Jennings replied. “The security firm can monitor the whole building remotely from their offices in Arlington. Right down to the temperature in the Ambassador’s private john.”

“Jesus Christ.” Bowman was elated. “And I’d stopped believing in the tooth fairy.”

“Could be a problem here,” Moreno cut in.

“How come?” Bowman frowned. Things were going so well.

“If the bad guys find the control room they’ll have an eyeball on the approaches and the grounds. They’ll see us coming.”

“Shit.” Bowman was deflated. “Any way we can check?”

“Security company might help.”

Jennings called the number and established that at that precise moment the control room at the Saudi Embassy was unattended. The limo was still in the basement car park. The four martyrs were at evening prayers, their Mausers laid out on the ground beside them. Anything changed, the security company would be sure to call Jennings right away.

Secret Service agents began loading the assault equipment into unmarked cars. Bowman picked out a 9mm Colt SMG that was light, compact, and ideal for close quarter combat. A single clip held thirty-two rounds and it fired one thousand rounds per minute. Bowman, Jennings, Hoolahan and Moreno took the lead in Jennings’ car, sped down Massachusetts Avenue to Dupont Circle and came to a halt fifty yards from the Saudi Embassy at 601 New Hampshire Avenue. Jennings called the security company’s HQ in Arlington. Nothing had changed. The control room was unattended. The martyrs were still at prayer. Bowman checked the plans of the building. The CCTV control room was a small office off the main lobby to the right of the reception desk. Access to the basement car park was via a narrow staircase wrapped around the lift shaft.

Jennings drove through the Embassy gates and sped up to the main doors. In the rush to get away Embassy personnel had left them unlocked. Bowman and Hoolahan were first into the lobby. A bunch of Secret Service agents followed.

“OK, guys,” Hoolahan bellowed, “you know the procedure. Secure this floor.”

A group of agents dispersed to cover all exits and entrances. Bowman and Hoolahan made for the control room to find Moreno and Jennings already there.

Cal was looking at a TV screen that showed the four martyrs standing about smoking.

“My God. See that?” She pointed at the dude passing a joint around between them. “They’re getting stoned. Give the bastards enough guts to throw the Goddamn switch.”

“How long does it take to get stoned?” Jennings enquired.

“Depends on what they’re smoking, sir.”

Cal was amazed he even had to ask. But then Director Jennings was really kinda cute, sort of boyish.

“But whatever it is, I expect these guys have a pretty high threshold.”

“Where’s the device?” said Bowman urgently.

“Probably in the trunk of the limo,” said Cal.

“Can you manipulate the cameras?”

“Sure.”

Cal rotated the remote cameras round the basement, scanning every alcove and corner. The good news was the external garage door was locked and bolted to the floor.

“Hold it, guys,” said Cal. “The devise isn’t in the trunk. It’s right there on the back seat. I guess they musta moved it.”

“Whadaya think, Pat?”

Bowman turned to Hoolahan who was poring over the basement drawings. Hoolahan watched as the cameras panned around the room.

“Doesn’t look too bad,” he coughed. “Multiple points of entry and egress but we have enough men to cover every one. Outside door is shut and bolted, which is great. Stun grenades will have maximum effect. We have the radios and we can eyeball everything that moves from here. Cal can let us know immediately anything down there changes. I say we go in pronto. Just stay well clear of the device, Alex. Don’t want you getting burned.”

“Why not wait a while?” Cal seemed relaxed. “Let the bastards get real high; in half an hour they’ll be legless.”

“Too much at stake.” Bowman touched Hoolahan on the shoulder. “C’mon, Pat. Let’s go.”

Hoolahan assembled a group of Secret Service agents and briefed them quickly, indicating the points of egress on the plan. The men dispersed to take up their positions. Bowman and Hoolahan ran down the staircase to basement level and paused at the internal garage door. Hoolahan began to wheeze. Sweat was pouring off him. Cal confirmed everything was as before except now the martyrs had begun to chant. She thought it was a prayer. Hoolahan checked with the other agents. All exits and entrances were covered.

“OK, guys,” Hoolahan spoke into his radio. “On my count of three I’m gonna lob in a couple of stun grenades. Then Bowman and me will make our play, take the bastards out. Nobody else moves. Don’t want no messy blue on blue. OK, guys. Here we go. This is show-time so let’s boogie. One. Two. Three.”

Hoolahan eased open the door, lobbed two stun grenades into the centre of the basement and closed the steel-clad door immediately. Two deafening explosions followed in rapid succession. Bowman was first through the door, raking the room with rapid fire from the SMG. Three martyrs fell at the first burst. The fourth made it to the limo. He had the rear door open when Bowman dropped him with a single round. Hoolahan rushed to the device, slamming the door of the limo behind him to shield Bowman from any radiation leakage. Bowman watched from as far away as he could get, so he wouldn’t distract the Captain from his task.

“We have control of the devise.” Bowman spoke quietly into his radio. “Four martyrs are already on their way to heaven. Case closed.”

Then Cal heard him say “Oh shit!”

“What?”

“Hoolahan isn’t wearing a protective suit!”

Hoolahan was inside the limo for several minutes before he emerged, sweating and shaking. His hands were trembling and he could hardly speak. At last he managed,

“OK, Alex. Let’s get the fuck out of here before you get irradiated.”

He couldn’t get the trembling under control.

“You OK?” Bowman was concerned. “What happened in there, Pat? And why aren’t you wearing a protective suit?”

“C’mon, Alex; gimme a break will ya? Let’s go.”

Hoolahan made a dash for the stairs. As he entered the lobby a loud cheer went up from the assembled crew. Hoolahan looked down at his trembling hands.

Then Cal’s disembodied voice came over the loudspeakers.

“Steady, guys; I think we might have a problem. The army’s here.”

Cal was looking at the bank of CCTV screens whose cameras scanned the approaches.

“Looks like they have the place surrounded. There’s an armed personnel carrier coming up the drive. Cancel that. There’s more. Dozens of the things. They’re deploying round the grounds.”

Then Colonel Preston and a Special Forces detail burst into the lobby at the double, automatic rifles at the ready. When Preston spotted Hoolahan he froze.

“Hoolahan?”

“Preston!”

“You two know each other?” Jennings peered out from behind the control room door.

“We knew each other in ‘Nam.” Hoolahan spat on the ground between them. “That ribbon on his chest shoulda been mine.”

“Where’s the device, Captain?” Preston bellowed, pulling rank on his subordinate.

“In the basement,” Hoolahan coughed. “Back seat of the limo.”

“Let’s go.”

Preston rushed towards the stairwell, followed by his troop of men.

“Oh, Arthur...” Hoolahan’s voice was flat and without expression.

Preston paused at the top of the basement stairs.

“I wasn’t able to disarm her.”

The room went deathly still.

“You what?”

Preston walked back into the centre of the lobby.

“That’s right, Arthur.” Hoolahan looked at his watch. “Thing’s set to go off about ten minutes from now. Timer looks real complicated. Cross wires all over the place. I’m just not up with the technology anymore. The whole damn world’s gone digital.”

He looked suddenly very tired.

“Things have moved on a lot since ‘Nam, Arthur.”

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Nobody knew what to say. Nobody knew where to go. Nowhere was safe.

“You’re lying,” Preston whispered. The two men were eyeball to eyeball.

“Am I, Arthur? Maybe. Maybe I am lying.”

Hoolahan looked again at his watch.

“I reckon you have about seven minutes left, if you’d like to take a crack at her yourself. Then you’ll know for sure. But if I can’t fix her, Arthur, I very much doubt you can. You never were much good at the practical stuff. You were always too darned jumpy.”

Hoolahan dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief.

“But with traffic the way it is, seven minutes should just about get you back to the Pentagon in time to catch the show on TV. You’ll be nice and safe in your bunker, Arthur. Just like you were in ‘Nam.”

“Oh yeah!” Preston began fingering his scar. “So how come you’re so fuckin’ calm?”

Hoolahan spat into his handkerchief and showed Preston the blood.

“Fact is, Arthur, I don’t have a problem. What I have is terminal cancer. I’ll be gone in a couple of months anyway, whatever happens now.  I gonna die anyway; here with my friends is as good a place as any.”

A murmur of agreement echoed around the room.

Preston was out the door in seconds, heading for the safety of the bunker.

Bowman breathed for the first time in minutes.

“Jesus, Pat, how much of that was true?”

“None of it. The device is safe. But I couldn’t have done it without these.”

Hoolahan waved the sheaf of fax paper at Moreno.

“Just the bit about Vietnam was true. And the cancer. I do have terminal cancer.”

The whole room froze.

“Come on, guys,” Hoolahan continued, “you don’t think I’m dumb enough to sit in the back of a limo with that thing without protective clothing, unless I had terminal cancer. You guys think I’m crazy?”

Jennings was eager to report personally to the President but first he hurried to his office to oversee the nationwide hunt for O’Brien. The arrest of the Irishman was still the FBI’s number one priority. And through him the destruction of the Al Qaeda network in the States. Jennings didn’t rate his chances very highly. O’Brien had a head start and access to considerable funds. He could buy himself a new identity, new life. Maybe he’d already gone back to Colombia to continue working with the FARC. Tirofijo would be itching for another shot.

Echelon was put back to work. Every super-computer at the FBI’s disposal was enlisted. Security at airports and train stations was re-doubled. Car rental companies were continuously checked, roadblocks erected on every major highway. O’Brien’s face as it probably looked now appeared on television screens across America. The National Enquirer offered a reward of five million dollars.

Back at the Saudi Embassy Agent Hoolahan disappeared down to the basement and took charge of the safe removal of the device. Bowman and Moreno found themselves alone in the CCTV control room. Bowman could tell Cal was on a high. So was he. He looked her in the eye.

“Your place or mine?”

“Yours is closer.”

They grabbed one of the Secret Service cars and were in Georgetown in minutes. Power had been cut off in the building and the lift didn’t work. They ran up to the penthouse. Bowman couldn’t find his keys, pulled out the Browning and shot off the lock.

Cal was stripped to the waist in seconds.

“Talk to me, Alex, talk to me. Just say those fucking words.”

***

50

Declan O’Brien had never reached Manhattan. The weight of traffic on the roads was such he only made it to Philly. But Philly was far enough. Philly was safe. He sat drinking Bushmills in a crowded Irish bar on Chestnut Street watching Old Glory flutter on the TV screen. Remotely controlled cameras scanned the capital’s most emblematic monuments and buildings. The streets were deserted save for a sparse military presence. Anyone with any sense had left town days ago. Nothing seemed to be happening out there. The same dreary martial music played in the background. The mood in the bar was solemn. Rumours of an IRA/Sinn Fein involvement had swept America, leaving the Irish community with a profound sense of shame. Fears of a backlash were rife.

O’Brien looked at his watch. It was way past time. What are those bloody Arabs up to? What the fuck are they waiting for? It should have been done by now! O’Brien’s nerves were fraying. He began to sweat. He hadn’t showered for days and thought he probably stank. He sensed the rest of the bar examining him. In a pub patronised exclusively by locals nobody knew him.

“Who is this asshole? Looks like that guy’s picture on TV. Yeah. That’s him. The one who cut off his victim’s dick”

A White House spokesman appeared on the TV screen. The President of the United States was about to address the nation. There was no hint of what he might say. Speculation in the bar reached fever pitch. Washington was ashes. Washington was safe.

Hail to the Chief filled the airwaves. Immediately the President appeared, smiling broadly, it was evident things had gone badly wrong. Fuckin’ Arabs. How could they cock up a simple delivery?

President Santos stood in the March sunshine in the middle of the White House rose garden. He was dressed in casual grey flannels, open-necked button down shirt and an Air Force bomber jacket. Members of the world’s press were hemmed in behind a security cordon, jostling for position, desperate to catch the President’s eye. The mood was jubilant as President Santos smiled into the TV cameras.

“My fellow Americans,” he began, “our clear and present danger has passed. Your capital is safe. I can report that in the early hours of this morning agents of the Secret Service and the FBI foiled a plot to cause severe damage to this city. For their own protection and wellbeing, the identities of the individuals involved and other details concerning this operation must remain secret. But the American people owe these anonymous men and women an enormous debt. I am happy to report there were no casualties on the American side. Four foreign nationals were killed.”

Secret Service agents moved forward to surround the President as he stepped back from the microphones. A cacophony of journalists’ questions ensued. It was impossible to tell one voice from another. The President walked back to the mikes and held up his hand for silence.

“I’ll take one question only.”

He surveyed the ranks of baying reporters, American and foreign. This was a career defining moment. Someone’s reputation was about to be made or shattered. A blaze of auburn hair caught the President’s eye.

“Miss Drake,” he smiled in recognition, “to you falls the honour.”

Melanie was unprepared.

“Mr President,” she paused, “did British intelligence play any part in these events?”

She’d still heard nothing from Bowman. She was hopeful the President might pay him a brief tribute.

“Yes, Miss Drake, the Brits did provide some useful intelligence and support. As always our gratitude to our British friends is immeasurable. Your country’s support has been invaluable.”

The President’s warm feelings towards the Brits were palpable. Melanie decided to press her advantage.

“One last question, Mr President. Was there ever a nuclear threat? There’s been persistent rumours?”

The President’s tone changed subtly. He sounded irritated.

“Conventional explosives were involved. Never nuclear. That’s all, gentlemen. I’ll be making further announcements over the course of the next few days.”

He disappeared into the knot of Secret Service agents and was gone.

***

51

O’Brien recognised the British journalist. The same woman had interviewed the President before. The same auburn haired bitch who’d paid a visit to brother Liam. Journalism might be the bitch’s day job. But she was moonlighting for British Intelligence.

The change of mood in the bar was as complete as it was sudden. The oddball in the corner was forgotten. Washington was saved. They cheered the President loudly. Drinks were on the house. Someone started up a chorus of The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Some drunk responded with Danny Boy. It was impossible for O’Brien to match their mood. Those fucking Arabs had deprived him of his place in history. Everything he’d worked for was destroyed. If this bunch knew who he was, they’d lynch him. And it was all the fault of the bastard Brits, the President had said so. That red-headed bitch for a start. It was then he remembered Ortega’s fee. He hadn’t thought of it for weeks. Ten thousand bucks for each of them. The girl, Bowman and Ambrose. Thirty grand in total. Enough to kit Liam out with the special equipment he needed.

O’Brien sat in a dark corner of the bar and sipped his Bushmills, pretending to get drunk like the others. He felt like finding an S&M club to work off his rage but his mind kept returning to the girl. Finding her should be easy. She’d be staying in one of those smart hotels in downtown DC, feeding her pretty face on a fat expense account. With all that had happened it was unlikely anyone had even thought of protecting the press corps. All the FBI’s resources would be fully committed elsewhere, looking for him. O’Brien fingered the Bowie knife strapped to his left forearm. Perhaps he wouldn’t kill her. Maybe he’d just maim her, disfigure her for life. So she’d always remember Declan O’Brien. He wanted badly to be remembered. But he’d have to fuck her first.

O’Brien walked back to his hotel and started to make phone calls. The Four Seasons was the third hotel he tried. Miss Drake was booked in for the remainder of the week.

***

Bowman and Moreno watched the President’s broadcast from the comfort of Bowman’s double bed. Bowman sipped neat single malt from a shot glass and Cal had found enough fruit in the kitchen to make a salad. They listened to the President in exhausted silence. When it was over Cal said,

“That journalist? The redhead? Ambrose says she’s your girlfriend.”

“She’s a girl and she’s a friend. It’s not the same thing.”

“You ever fuck her?”

“No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“That’s OK.”

“She has a great body. Nice tits.”

“I saw what you saw.”

“Alex? When I talk dirty to you, how come you never respond? Say the words I like to hear?”

“I was brought up that way, I guess.”

“I’d like to meet her.”

“Who?”

“Big red.”

“Why?”

“Compare notes. See if you ever talk dirty with her,” Cal laughed. “Only kidding. But seriously, Alex, I’d like to talk with her, she seems like a very smart woman. Hey, maybe I could get my name in the papers. Be good for my fucking career.”

She felt his dick begin to harden. My God, is this guy insatiable?

“Be my guest, Cal. She’s staying at the Four Seasons. Just around the corner.”

Cal sat up with a start.

“And how d’you know that?”

“She sent me an email. Been too busy to respond.”

***

All Washington’s airports and train stations remained closed so O’Brien stole a car and drove through the night. Southbound traffic was heavy as Washington returned to normal. He encountered a couple of roadblocks where liquor was being passed around, the whole country was on a high. Nobody paid much attention to another beat-up Chevy. He reached DC early the next morning. The security cordon around the capital was still intact but the mood among the National Guardsmen was euphoric and he was waved through the barrier with a cheer. He had no trouble getting a room at the Four Seasons. He could have had a whole floor to himself if he wanted, the hotel was practically deserted. He went up to his room and slept for several hours.

Cal Moreno had no real idea why she wanted to meet Melanie Drake, she just did. Cal wasn’t in love with Bowman and Alex knew her secret, which precluded him taking her seriously, and besides, Cal always put her career first. Good lays were two a penny but she’d only ever have one career. What Cal hoped for was to meet Ms Drake casually, like in the hotel bar, chat about this and that, nothing serious, just one capable professional woman to another, see what developed from there. Cal could feed the journalist some off-the-record stuff about the operation. Maybe Melanie would mention Cal in the articles the journalist was bound to write. Cal could milk the situation some. Even get a promotion.

Late in the afternoon O’Brien got up, ordered a bottle of Bushmills from room service and made himself ready. He showered, shaved and washed his hair, splashing his body liberally with the perfume sample he found in the bathroom. Next he opened his case and dressed in black trousers, black shirt and black shoes. He checked his appearance in the long mirror, tightened his belt one notch and put on the blunt-studded knuckle-duster he always carried with him. He examined his reflection for a full minute, turning this way and that to make sure everything was perfect. Then he went along the corridor and tapped on Melanie’s door. He raised his voice to a falsetto and said, “Maid service.”

Agent Moreno drove up to the front door of the hotel in her battered Cherokee and handed her keys to the valet. She was dressed in her usual sweatshirt and chinos, plus a lightweight tweed jacket to add a little style. The Colt Anaconda was in her leather purse. She went and sat in the bar, knowing it was pointless. She ordered a single malt with water but no ice, the way Bowman had shown her. Bowman was nice. She was going to miss him. Was Bowman why she was here? Cal didn’t think so but maybe that was it.

Melanie had just stepped out of the shower when she heard the knock. It was too early to have the bed turned down, but she put on a robe anyway and opened the door to let the maid in. Melanie pulled the robe tight to her throat as O’Brien hit her hard across the neck, choking off her air supply. Melanie went limp. O’Brien sealed her mouth with packing tape, thrust her face-down on the bed and taped her arms behind her back, leaving her legs free. When Melanie came to she was terrified. She tried to scream but couldn’t. She had no idea who he was but knew why he was there. She kicked out wildly till the effort exhausted her and lay still. She thought of Bowman but Alex was nowhere near. O’Brien showed her the eight inch blade of the Bowie.

“See? It’s sharp on both edges at the tip.”

He made a small incision in her cheek to show how keen the blade was. A trickle of warm blood flowed into her mouth. O’Brien licked it with his tongue. Her skin was silk. Cautiously, he peeled the tape away from those lovely lips.

“Make one small sound and I’ll slit that gorgeous Sassenach throat. But we mustn’t let those lovely lips go to waste, now must we?”

O’Brien undid his belt and took her head in his hands.

“Now just do exactly what I say, my darlin’, and you won’t come to any harm. But I promise you a night you’ll always remember.”

Cal ordered another single malt, sipping it slowly the way Bowman had taught her. She was beginning to think she was wasting her time sitting in the bar. Three different men had tried to pick her up. The chances of Melanie just showing up were remote, Ms Drake had become an overnight celebrity. She was probably at the White House at this very moment, sipping cocktails with Jennings and the President. Cal returned to the lobby and smiled at the reception clerk.

“Could I leave a message for Miss Drake?”

The clerk looked along the rack of room keys.

“Miss Drake should be in her room, if you’d like to speak to her.”

He picked up the house phone and dialled Melanie’s room number. He let it ring for a full minute.

“Sorry, she doesn’t answer. Must have gone out and forgotten to hand in her key.”

“What’s her room number?”

Cal was heading for the lift.

“401. But you can’t go up there.”

“The fuck I can’t.”

Cal flashed her badge and headed for the stairs instead. She reached the fourth floor out of breath, put her ear to the door of 401 and listened. She heard faint whimpering noises and something that sounded like a suppressed moan. Was Bowman in there?

Cal pressed the Star of David to her lips, readied the Colt, shot off the lock and charged into the room.

Melanie was kneeling on the bed stark naked. A mixture of lipstick and semen was smeared across her face. O’Brien held her by the hair, the Bowie at her throat. He wore the knuckle-duster but nothing else. Thank Christ he hadn’t used it yet. Moreno assessed the situation in a second, fired a single shot into his chest, blowing him sideways onto the bed, taking Melanie down with him. She writhed about beneath him, gradually wriggling free. She came up smothered in warm sticky blood and fragments of O’Brien’s shattered sternum. She began to hyperventilate. She just stood there mindlessly wiping the blood from her face and breasts, only spreading it wider.

“Oh Jesus!” she yelled. “Oh shit! Oh fuck!”

“Don’t use that kinda language!” Cal was shocked. “I hate that.”

She grabbed O’Brien by the shoulders and bounced him face-up on the floor.

“You know this creep?”

“Of course I don’t fucking know him!”

Melanie was trembling still.

“What the fuck is he doing here? Why me?”

“Serial rapist by the look of all the toys. Forensics will soon find out.”

Cal bent down to take a closer look at the face.

“Wait a minute. Oh Christ! Oh shit! This is really bad!”

“What’s the problem?”

Melanie was shaking uncontrollably, trying hard to focus.

“Declan O’Brien. He was supposed to lead us to an Al Qaeda cell. Now they’ll get clean away. Director Jennings is surely going to kick my ass.”

Call slumped into an armchair.

Mel said,

“And who the fuck are you?”

“Special Agent Moreno. FBI.” Cal flashed her badge. “Can I buy you a drink? I’m running a tab at the bar.”

***

Secretary of Defence Karl Herzfeld came to the White House two days later and tendered his resignation. The President readily accepted. Mike Santos’s approval rating had soared to ninety nine point eight per cent, the highest ever recorded, and not even the resignation of a senior cabinet member could dent it. There were now no limits to the President’s powers. He could make war if he wanted. Make peace if he wanted. His second term was assured either way. But by now the preparations Herzfeld had put in place had a momentum of their own and the headlong rush to conflict proved unstoppable as men and material continued to pour into the Gulf.

The President’s first act was to nominate Bob Jennings for the post of Secretary of Defence. In normal times such an appointment would have been unthinkable, Jennings was untested and untried. But these were far from normal times and besides, there was speculation in the press about the pivotal role Jennings had played in averting the failed attack. His stock had soared in step with the President’s own. Arthur Preston was found hanging from the balcony of his apartment. The diary of Dinah May Jefferson was discovered among the Colonel’s personal effects. Jamal Habib’s car was traced and he was shot, reportedly resisting arrest. Pat Hoolahan died six weeks later, heavily sedated. He experienced very little pain. He was posthumously awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for bravery under fire in Vietnam. Imam Siddiqui refused any kind of honour. Ben Ambrose remained in the States to break up the remnants of the Medellin drugs cartel with the aid of Paco Trujillo who was granted a Presidential pardon. Pablo Ortega disappeared from Colombia and is thought to be living somewhere in the High Atlas Mountains in Morocco. Frank Willowby is serving time at Club Fed outside of Scottsdale, Arizona. His golf handicap is now in single figures. Cal Moreno was promoted to head the Research and Development department at the FBI Academy at Quantico. She still suffers from Tourette’s syndrome and Coprolalia. These medical conditions are not recorded on her confidential file but Secretary Jennings has apparently become aware of them and understands how they can be triggered. The turmoil on Wall Street took less than a week to settle. The price of gold stabilised at $450 an ounce, at the time an all-time high, leaving Herzfeld with a handsome profit. His investments in Bechtel and Halliburton came good.

In London there was a Parliamentary inquiry into the failures of the Secret Intelligence Service; the unsubstantiated forty-five minute claim, the forged yellowcake documents, the missing mobile laboratories, the non-existent WMDs. Merlyn Stanbridge took the fall. She bought a pair of Boxer puppies called Jake and Elwood and retired to the country where she met a nice man who writes for the local parish magazine and is busy working on her memoirs. The Prime Minister’s reputation briefly hit rock bottom but recovered in good time for him to be re-elected for a third successive term with a reduced but still substantial majority. Alex Bowman went back to the cottage in Surrey, enrolled in a gym and spent the remainder of the summer nurturing his shoulder wound. But when the days began to shorten he found he was missing Spain and so returned to the converted farmhouse in San Roque overlooking the bay of Algeciras and tried to get his security business up and running again. Funds were running low and he needed the work but he’d been away from base for months now and the new assignments just weren’t coming in. He spent his days building up his strength and his evenings playing backgammon with the Anglican Dean of Gibraltar who shared Bowman’s taste for single malt and his passion for the music of Lester Young and Coleman Hawkins.

Melanie Drake returned to England but her career took off in such a way she had no time for cosy romantic weekends in the country. The following September she published incontrovertible evidence that the threat to Washington had indeed been nuclear. From the contents of the article it was clear she had a source close to the action but she never revealed who it was. President Santos continued to deny the nuclear assertion and such was his reputation that the American people accepted what he said without question.

Contact between renegade elements of the IRA and the FARC ceased for a time then resumed at an intensified level. The trade in training and expertise now represents a substantial portion of the IRA’s overseas income. Clandestine Al Qaeda sleeper cells remain dormant throughout the United States and around the globe, awaiting fresh instructions from Osama bin Laden. Recruitment across the Middle East has risen to record levels.

Meanwhile the coalition-sponsored Iraq Survey Group had deployed fifteen hundred experienced weapons inspectors with unfettered access to sites throughout the country. The entire resources of the CIA and MI6 had been placed at the ISG’s disposal. Huge sums had been spent to purchase information leading to the discovery of the missing chemical, nuclear and biological arsenals. High-value Iraqi detainees from scientists and technicians to senior army officers up to the rank of General, the entire deck of cards, including the joker in the pack himself, Saddam Hussein, collaborated in these endeavours in the desperate hope of securing some small reward. Those unwilling to co-operate are subjected to the traceless techniques of torture-lite that leave no scars: disorientation, isolation, sleep and sensory deprivation, protracted thirst and hunger, the dehumanising lack of rudimentary sanitation. Yet to date no weapons of mass destructions had been found. After many months of unimpeded searching, and just like the United Nations before them, the coalition-sponsored Iraq Survey Group is pleading for more time. The disillusioned chief inspector finally resigned, stating before Congress he no longer believed Saddam’s weapons of mass destruction had survived the first Gulf War and twelve years of crippling sanctions.

***

The world’s most powerful man went to the window of the Oval Office, gazed out across the rose garden at the blue and white October sky and pondered his electoral position. The pundits said he was a shoe-in for a second term. But Michael Santos knew political capital could not be set aside for later. You had to spend it while you had it. Sooner or later the polls were going to evaporate. It was only a matter of when and where they stabilised and what the President could accomplish while they were still briefly in the stratosphere. President Santos could already glimpse on the horizon the dangers that imperilled his position. The economy was heading for recession. The dollar was in free-fall. Unemployment was soaring to record levels. The President’s approval rating had plummeted to a high but assailable sixty-eight percentage points. What President Santos needed was an issue. Something big. Something behind which the American people could unite…and if Regime Change had worked in Iraq.

So might it work in …?