First Strike (7 page)

“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.