First Strike

by Jeremy Rumfitt

  Bowman wondered if the Imam was sincere but at this stage he had nowhere else to go.

  “It’s happening again. It will be much worse this time. Infinitely worse. Tens of thousands may die. A whole city could be destroyed.”

  “If you know this you must stop it.” The Imam made it sound so easy.

  “That’s why I’m here. But I need your help.”

  “And what is it you want from me?”

  The Imam’s eyes remained impassive but his moist cherubic lips trembled slightly.

  “Information. I know Al Qaeda is involved, along with others. There’s a cell right here in Baltimore that was activated over a year ago when a cargo of dangerous material arrived by sea from Lebanon. Some time between then and now at least two martyrs, suicide bombers, will have come here. They’ll have entered the country legally, no point in taking chances with the Immigration Authorities. They’re probably living openly within the Muslim community, possibly married to local girls to secure their immigration status. I need to find them and the material. I don’t have much time.”

  Imam Siddiqui rotated the prayer beads in his hands and put aside the hookah.

  “There must be scores of young men just like that, even in a small community like ours, right here in Baltimore. Can you give me something more specific? Something that makes them stand out?”

  “They’ll be in contact with an Irishman, a man named Declan O’Brien whose job is to co-ordinate the project. But I’m betting O’Brien doesn’t plan to sacrifice his own life, he won’t have that level of commitment. Hence the martyrs. But if we find the Irishman, we’ll find the suicide bombers. We find the bombers, we find the nuclear material.”

  “It’s not a lot to go on.” He picked up the hookah and inhaled.

  “We also know the Irishman is trafficking drugs to finance the operation. Drugs with a dangerously high purity, marketed by people with little experience dealing coke. A lot of junkies have ODed in this area.”

  “The same Declan O’Brien who’s wanted for murder? The one I saw on TV?”

  “That’s him. Except he won’t look like that anymore. Somehow all the TV stations managed to screw up the files.”

  Bowman pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and produced an up-dated image of O’Brien.

  “He’ll have changed his appearance for sure, probably looks something like this by now, dark hair, beard, tanned. Maybe wearing built up shoes, to add a little height.”

  Imam Siddiqui scrutinised the drawing and smiled a gentle, knowing smile.

  “Funny. He looks more Arab than Irish. Put him in a dishdashha and he’d blend right in.”

  ***

  The maid’s quarters at the Libitch mansion were surprisingly comfortable. Dinah May Jefferson lived alone above a converted timber-frame boathouse looking out across the water. The sitting room was small but well furnished with a stunning view of the icy Chesapeake Bay. Dinah May was already getting used to receiving company. She wore her best Sunday outfit with a freshly starched apron and insisted on making tea.

  “Mr Libitch always treat me with respek. I knows now he was a bad man. Didn’t know that when he was alive. But he always treat me right.”

  Dinah May wore her uniform with pride. She sat bolt upright, her withered hands resting in her spotless apron.

  Ambrose sipped tea from a china cup.

  “Miss Jefferson, a little over a year ago two gentlemen came to the house. Two Arab gentlemen. Mr Libitch said they roughed you up a bit. Any chance you might remember them?”

  “Sure do. Weren’t no gentlemen though. Wouldn’t give no name. Just barged right into the house. Shoved me on the floor.” She made a tight little fist with each hand. “Ain’t nobody push ole Dinah May around. No, sir. When I was just a little bitty girl I done march with Dr King.”

  Pride shone from those weary, wise old eyes.

  “Mr Libitch gave me a good description, Dinah May,” Ambrose continued. “You remember anything else about these men? Other than the way they looked?”

  “Done took the number of their car.”

  “You did?” Ambrose beamed.

  “I was madder ‘n hell. I woulda preferred charges ‘cept Mr Libitch didn’t want me to.”

  Ambrose held his breath.

  “Dinah May, do you still have the number of the car?”

  “I keeps a diary. Always did. Since my time with Dr King.” She looked down at her hands. “Already gave it to the man.”

  “What man?”

  “Man came here las’ evenin’. Done seen me on TV.”

  She ran a finger down the length of her right cheek.

  “Scar down the side of his face. Was wounded in Vietnam. Said he knew my nephew Bobby got killed out there, fighting’ for his country.”

  “Did he give a name?”

  “No, sir. But I knows he was a Colonel. Ribbons all over his chest. Musta bin a very gallant man. Served with my nephew Bobby.”

  “So you gave him the diary?” Ambrose recalled the description of the heavies who’d been to Moreno’s apartment. “Dinah May, you sure about that scar?”

  “Yes, sir”

  “An’ you ain’t got no other copy of that number?”

  “No, sir.” Dinah May could see Ambrose was upset. “What’s the matter, son? Didn’ I do right?”

  “You did fine, Dinah May. You did just fine.”

  ***

  42

  The President of the United States sat in the Oval Office contemplating the morning’s dismal headlines. Every newspaper on the eastern seaboard led on the same bleak, dispiriting story. A Committee of Congress had been formed to investigate the massive intelligence failures that preceded 9/11. The concerns of FBI field agents about foreign nationals training at US flying schools had gone unheeded. The movement of significant Saudi funds into suspect bank accounts was undetected. The failure to scramble military jets unexplained. The FBI, the CIA and the Immigration Service were all under sustained media attack. Only Military Intelligence was in the clear. The Pentagon, it seemed, was above reproach. Most damaging of all was the re-emergence of that old Watergate refrain,

  “What did the President know? And when did he know it?”

  On that bright March morning Robert Jennings was shown into the Oval Office and sat at his usual chair facing toward the window. President Santos sat with his back to the light, making it difficult to discern his features clearly. When he spoke his voice had an icy metallic quality Jennings hadn’t been subjected to before.

  “Director Jennings, it has been brought to my attention,” the President steepled his hands, “that you have taken it upon yourself to collaborate with a foreign national acting on behalf of a foreign power on American soil, thereby placing me, personally, in a very difficult position.” He paused. “You’ve seen the morning papers? The American people are losing faith in some of their most cherished institutions. I cannot allow that to happen. For Christsake, Jennings, what the hell were you thinking of? This isn’t a game. This country is about to go to war!” The President got up and began to pace about the room. “Well, Jennings? Would you care to comment at this point?”

  Jennings reddened. He didn’t answer right away. Then he said,

  “Mr President, I understood I’d been given a free hand. I chose the best available man. You instructed me specifically not to tell you who I picked, to protect your own position. Resources, as you know, are limited. Secrecy is paramount. Someone from outside the loop seemed the most appropriate choice.”

  Jennings didn’t really feel he needed to defend himself. He knew for sure he’d made the right decision.

  “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 sti
ll 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 sniffer
s 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.”