First Strike (29 page)

“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.