First Strike

by Jeremy Rumfitt

  “I doubt it,” said Clare. “Director Jennings kept this on a need-to-know basis.”

  “I bet he did. Otherwise the President’s own position would be compromised. The spic’s too smart to take that risk.”

  The younger man said,

  “This guy Bowman? What’s he look like?”

  “I never saw him. He never came to the Director’s office.”

  “Where’s he staying?”

  “One of the safe houses, I should think.”

  “Is there a list of safe houses?”

  “Shouldn’t think so. That’s what makes them safe.”

  “Who else at FBI knows about this guy Bowman?”

  “Agents Hoolahan, Moreno, Brown, Sondheim and Wharton.”

  “Any of them know exactly what Bowman’s doing in the States?”

  “Hoolahan. And probably Moreno.”

  “Do you know what he’s up to?”

  “I’m just a secretary. I only have entry-level clearance.”

  “If you were us, ma’am, trying to find him, what would you do?”

  “I’d talk to Agent Moreno.”

  “Why Moreno?”

  “Moreno’s a girl.”

  Next morning they drove mother and child to Ronald Reagan National Airport and put them on a plane to Detroit with onward reservations to Traverse City.

  “Let’s not do anything silly now,” said the man with the scar. “Don’t want baby Jack here taking a nasty fall.”

  ***

  Cal Moreno left her office at 8 p.m. that evening and switched the system to automatic. The Cray SV1 supercomputers would go on scanning the airwaves throughout the night. Anything interesting came up, her cell phone would vibrate. She drove across town in her beat-up ’97 Cherokee, parked in the basement of her apartment building overlooking Lincoln Park and rode the elevator to the ninth floor. As she came out of the lift fumbling for her keys, she noticed the faint odour of tobacco. Hers was a non-smoking floor. She put down her bag and pressed the Star of David to her lips. She turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door and stepped silently inside, the Colt Anaconda .44 magnum gripped tightly in both hands. She didn’t switch on the light but the glow from the hallway flooded into the corridor. Cal moved noiselessly to the sitting room. Moonlight shone through the open curtains.

  “Put away the shooter, ma’am. It won’t be necessary.”

  The voice came from the kitchen hatchway that gave onto the dining area. A tall man in shirtsleeves blocked the kitchen door. An older man with a scar on his right cheek stood behind him. Cal noticed the faint aroma of coffee. Then the nickel barrel of a Schofield .45, holstered under the man’s left shoulder, caught the light.

  “And who the fuck are you?”

  Cal levelled the Colt at the first man’s chest. At close range the .44 Magnum could drop them both with a single shot, the way they were aligned.

  “We’re with Military Intelligence if you want to check us out.”

  The man didn’t move, both eyes glued to the four-inch steel barrel of the Anaconda, knowing she would use it if she had to. He’d read Moreno’s file. The agent had killed twice before, claimed self-defence on both occasions. So at least she wasn’t squeamish.

  Cal grinned.

  “Military Intelligence? That’s an oxymoron. Come on; gimme some ID.”

  Her voice was loud but controlled.

  “Don’t got none, ma’am.” The big man shrugged. “We’d like to keep this as informal as we can.”

  “OK, Mister. Don’t move an inch. I’m going to pick up the phone now, call the cops. Stay still and nobody gets hurt. You make a move I’ll blast ya.”

  Cal transferred the piece to her right hand and reached for the phone with her left. Go for your gun you bastard. Just go for your fuckin’ gun.

  “Name of Bowman mean anything to you, ma’am?” It was the second man who spoke, the one with the scar, peering over his colleague’s shoulder. “Alex Bowman?”

  Cal replaced the phone in its cradle.

  “Not a fucking thing.”

  She switched her weight from one leg to the other, the Colt still trained on the intruder.

  The man said,

  “Bowman’s a foreign national operating on American soil on behalf of a foreign power. That’s illegal. You should know that, Agent Moreno. Aiding and abetting him would be illegal too. Could jeopardise your career.”

  “Nothing wrong with my record. Far as I know, my superiors are more than satisfied with my performance.”

  “I’m sure they are, mam. But what we need is an accurate description. Better still, you could lead us to him. Set up a honey trap. Good lookin’ kid like you should be easy. And you’d be doing your country a great service. Why don’t you call him?” He pointed to the phone. “Ask him to come over. You don’t have to promise him anything, maybe just some heavy breathing. Let him work it out for himself.”

  “Sorry, Mister. No ID. No dice. I take my instructions from the FBI.”

  The two men looked at one another, perplexed. They made ready to leave.

  “One of two things is going to happen,” said Preston. “Either we find him with your help, or we find him without it. The result is the same. That’s your choice, Agent Moreno. But just don’t think you’re not involved. Don’t think there isn’t a price you’re going to have to pay, somewhere down the line.”

  The one thing Cal Moreno was absolutely certain of was the quality of her own work. She’d graduated top of her computer science class at Quantico, second from top in math and cryptology. She retrieved her handbag from the corridor and dialled Bowman on the cell phone she knew was absolutely secure. Please don’t say the words, Alex. Please don’t say those fucking words. The encrypted signal found Bowman at the safe house in Georgetown. She told him what had just happened and gave him an accurate description of the two men.

  “They’re pissed off at you, Alex, cos you’re a Brit operating on American soil. They say that’s illegal. And I guess they’re right.”

  Bowman was not surprised, his meeting with Jennings that morning had alerted him that something was awry. He just couldn’t figure out what it was. The most likely explanation was an inter-agency jurisdictional dispute, and the advent of Military Intelligence confirmed that.

  “Do something for me, Cal. Phone Jennings at his home, put him in the picture. I know it’s late, but this could be important. He’ll understand what’s going on much better than you or me.”

  Bowman hung up, pocketed the cell phone and holstered the Browning, wondering just how safe an FBI safe house could be. The pimpmobile was parked in the street below. Using an FBI registered vehicle he’d signed for was a risk, but one worth taking. He could be in Baltimore within the hour.

  ***

  40

  As Bowman drove north on the Parkway Declan O’Brien checked in to a cheap motel just inside the Beltway. He went to his room, showered, saved and changed his clothes. Then he went to the dimly light bar and ordered neat whiskey and a soda water on the side. The hooker sat on a stool further along the bar. She was about forty, past her prime but still attractive with jet-black hair, ebony skin, good legs and tits that were probably enhanced. Declan made eye contact in the mirror that lined the back of the bar. O’Brien grinned. The hooker lowered her eyes and smiled demurely. O’Brien told the barman loudly to charge the whiskey to room 118 and brushed against the hooker as he squeezed past behind her. Back in his room O’Brien went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth with mouthwash. When he came back into the bedroom the hooker was framed in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the hall. She looked good. O’Brien already had a hard-on.

  “So what’s the deal?” he grinned.

  “Depends on what you want.”

  She walked in and closed the door behind her.

  O’Brien opened his overnight bag and showed her some of his equipment. The mask. The knuckle-duster. The leather thongs.

  The hooker shook her head a
nd moved back towards the door.

  “I don’t do kinky. I just fuck. BJ if you want but not bareback. I don’t do the full GFE and definitely no anal. But if just a fuck is what you want it’ll cost you a hundred bucks; but that’s all I do. Take it or leave it.”

  She didn’t seem very enthusiastic.

  O’Brien’s wondered what was left but his hard-on already had control of his brains so he said,

  “OK, we’ll kick off with a face fuck. See how we go from there.”

  He took a $100 bill from his wallet and added an extra $20 to generate a little enthusiasm. He thought of offering her a line of coke but the stuff he had was so damn pure she’d probably OD. The hooker took her handbag to the bathroom and did whatever hookers do in there. O’Brien stripped, unstrapped the Bowie from his left forearm and placed it on the floor on his side the bed. Then he flicked on the TV in case she was a moaner. When the hooker came back into the bedroom she was naked. O’Brien was impressed. The surgeons had done a pretty good job. Nice taut thighs. Great hubcaps. The hooker knelt on the bed beside him, put a condom in her mouth and slid it onto his rigid dick. Then she began to drill for oil. O’Brien closed his eyes and tried to think of something else. He didn’t want to come too soon, he wanted his full money’s worth. He was trying hard to listen to the late night news on television. The desensitising condom was working in his favour. The main news item was an inquiry into the apparent suicide of a senior customs official in Annapolis. The hooker came up for air, brushed the hair from her face and adjusted her position. The coda to the news piece was an appeal for the public to look out for a container with a serial number O’Brien didn’t catch. The hooker began to wonder if there was something wrong with her technique, any normal john would have come by now. The news segment closed with an interview with a black maid, something about an incident a year ago when two foreign gentlemen had forced their way into the house and roughed her up. She was helping the authorities with their enquiries. But all this meant nothing to O’Brien, he’d never even heard of Henry Libitch. The hooker moaned. She could tell O’Brien was about to come. Declan put his hand behind her head so she could springboard on the down stroke.

  “Come on baby,” she moaned some more, “come for momma.”

  Declan came.

  “Jesus baby, what took you so fucking long?”

  She got up and went to the bathroom to rinse her mouth and dispose of the soiled condom.

  O’Brien was about to flip channels when his own face filled the TV screen. A body had been fished out of the Potomac. An Irish national was the only suspect in what was presumed to be a sexually motivated killing. There was a warning the man should not be approached by members of the public, he was a psychopath, armed and extremely dangerous. O’Brien saw the hooker framed in the bathroom doorway staring at the TV screen. His hand dropped to the floor and made a grab for his silent friend, the gleaming Bowie.

  The hooker continued gazing at the screen. Then she said,

  “Just look at that fucking creep. Ain’t nobody safe.”

  For those were not O’Brien’s features on the screen. The man on TV had short fair hair. O’Brien’s was long and dark. The man on TV was clean-shaven. O’Brien had a full luxuriant black beard. The man on TV was described as short. With his built up shoes and Cuban heels, O’Brien stood over five feet seven inches tall. The man on TV didn’t resemble O’Brien at all. For reasons Declan did not begin to understand somebody somewhere had tampered with the TV station’s archives.

  O’Brien idly switched channels and incongruously found himself watching a delayed broadcast from the British House of Commons. The Right Honourable Member for Little Piddlington was on his feet telling an appreciative Prime Minister of his certainty the people of Baghdad would be grateful for having the crap bombed out of them.

  “Jesus Christ,” O’Brien muttered. “How do those neo-colonialist bastards think this shit plays in the Middle East? The days of the Empire are long gone, old son.”

  ***

  41

  Bowman joined Ambrose at Paco Trujillo’s apartment in Baltimore shortly before midnight. The penthouse was large and ostentatious, garishly furnished in the fake French Imperial style Trujillo had adopted after visiting Ortega’s palatial headquarters in Medellin. Paco lived alone save for the series of transitory companions who shared his bed. He summoned the present incumbent, a feisty sixteen year old imported from the Balkans who was working her apprenticeship before he passed her over to the trade. He stuffed five hundred dollars in her bra, patted her backside and told her to get lost. In the corridor outside a pair of heavies shared the night security duty. Two more were downstairs in the lobby and a couple more across the street watching the outside of the building in case the Feds tried abseiling down.

  Trujillo was in a state of outright panic. Henry Libitch’s suicide was the biggest scandal to hit Baltimore since the Howard Street Tunnel fire. It had even made the national TV news and set alarm bells ringing throughout the international drug trafficking community. Now investigators from half a dozen federal agencies were swarming over every aspect of Libitch’s life, his bank accounts, his lavish lifestyle, his business contacts, his friends. Ortega’s entire east coast operation was beginning to unravel. Paco Trujillo knew it was only a matter of time before the Feds finally got to him. Paco was desperate to work out some kind of deal but Ambrose could not guarantee Trujillo immunity, he wasn’t senior enough. What he could offer was advice. Paco could perform one great public service. He could help Ambrose with his enquiries and document everything he knew about Ortega’s operations in the States. That way by the time the Federales finally got to The Caribbean Fine Foods Import/Export Company Trujillo would be ready to cop a plea.

  But something else was bothering Ben Ambrose. He had seen the late evening news on television and watched the interview with Libitch’s elderly black maid who reminded Ben so much of his own mother. It was plain Dinah May Jefferson had a clear recollection of the two Middle Eastern dudes who had come to Libitch’s home a year ago and roughed her up. This placed Dinah May in very considerable danger. If the bad guys had seen the broadcast too they’d be out there looking for her now. And Dinah May Jefferson would not be difficult to find.

  “Anything you guys need before we turn in?” Trujillo was ready to call it a night.

  Bowman tossed him the keys to the pimpmobile.

  “There’s a white Vette convertible parked across the street. It’s hot. Have one of your boys get rid of it for me, torch it or drop it in the docks. If you can replace it with something less conspicuous in the morning, I’d be grateful.”

  Bowman slept for three hours and woke up in the middle of the night. He found the kitchen, made a cup of instant coffee and sat down to review his situation. He thought he was in pretty good shape. He had somewhere safe to hide. He had Trujillo’s extensive organisation at his disposal. He had Cal Moreno and her communications and surveillance expertise. He had Hoolahan with his Noraid connections and bomb disposal skills. And he had direct access to the President through Jennings. The rest, he thought, was pure detective work.

  Ambrose got up about eight followed a little later by Trujillo. Paco made huevos rancheros and fresh Colombian coffee, shipped direct from Ortega’s personal plantation in the hills above Medellin.

  “OK, Alex,” said Paco, “you seem to be in charge. What’s our next move?”

  “I need to talk to a top Muslim cleric. Any ideas how I can get hold of one?”

  “No, none. But there’s bound to be a way. There always is.” Trujillo probed his cavities with a small gold toothpick. “I’ll just need to made a coupla calls.”

  Bowman turned to Ambrose. “How about you, Ben? You want to come along?”

  “You go, Alex. I’ll drive down to Annapolis and talk to Libitch’s maid.”

  ***

  Trujillo made several phone calls before he came up with a contact who knew a man who knew the Imam at Masjid Ul-Haqq Mosque at 514 Islami
c Way. Bowman had no idea how to speak to a priest, let alone an Imam, how to approach him, what the proper form of address might be. But Bowman saw no point in faking it. He would go as the uninitiated infidel he was. He took a couple of Trujillo’s heavies along for the ride. They drove him to Islamic Way in an old Dodge station wagon and parked in a side street on a meter with some unexpired time that Bowman took to be an omen. Bowman left the pistoleros in the café across the street where they could keep an eye on the approaches and entered the green and white domed and minareted building. He knew enough to remove his shoes and leave them by the door.

  Imam Siddiqui was a second generation native born American of Saudi descent in his mid-forties, five and a half feet tall, with a well-rounded figure and soft feminine hands. He hid the face of a cherub behind an untrimmed luxuriant grey beard. The Imam had a Harvard law degree and a Doctorate in Koranic studies from the Quaraouyine University in Morocco’s Holy City of Fez, the world’s oldest dedicated seat of learning. He was fluent in Arabic and French. He wore a white dishdashha, a taiga covered his head. The Imam reclined on a pile of cushions smoking a hookah, a string of amber prayer beads dangling from

  his plump right hand. His English was Boston Brahmin.

  “9/11 was an un-Islamic act,” the Imam began. “There can be no treachery in Islam. No war that is not announced. He who kills without permission of the law, it is as if he kills the whole of mankind."

  There was no trace of irony in his high-pitched, cultivated voice.

  “Nonetheless, it happened,” Bowman countered.

  “The holocaust happened. Dresden happened. The people who did those terrible things called themselves Christians. Can you denounce an entire religion if a handful of its supposed adherents act against its creed? I think not. Islam abhors all unlawful killing. ‘He is not a true believer from whose mischief his neighbour does not feel safe.’” The Imam flicked the prayer beads in his hand. “I repeat. 9/11 was an unlawful act. We condemn it.”