First Strike (24 page)

“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?”