First Strike (17 page)

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.”