First Strike

by Jeremy Rumfitt

  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 n
umber 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 go
in’.”

  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.”