First Strike (26 page)

Herzfeld frowned, then broke out in a boyish smile.

“But now, Bob, thanks to the fine work of your department, we know for sure Al Qaeda is definitely mixed up with this Dirty Bomb. And from Al Qaeda to Saddam is only a little stretch.”

Herzfeld stood up and began to pace about the room, talking more to himself than the others.

“Now, if our Irishman sets off his device, we should be able to pin the whole thing on Saddam without too much difficulty. Essentially it becomes a matter of news management. Nothing a good PR team couldn’t handle. The anger of the American people will be unconfined. The President and I will have a completely free hand. No one will oppose us. I get my war. The President gets his second term.”

Herzfeld beamed a winning smile at Jennings, as if he were talking to a child.

“The whole thing has… what’s that word I’m looking for?… verisimilitude?”

Bob Jennings was in shock. He reached for the nearest available crutch.

“What about the Security Council?” 

“That bunch of spineless wimps? And where the fuck did the United Nations suddenly get all this great moral authority? What did they do about apartheid? Nothing. When China marched into Tibet? Zilch. Genocide in Rwanda? A big fat zero.” He pummelled his right fist into his left palm. “OK so we have to go through that charade to appease the Brits and the State Department. But defeating terrorism takes more than empty words and vacuous resolutions. What it takes is iron resolve. But let’s get this thing into perspective, Bob. More Americans are killed each year by automobile accidents or peanut allergies than ever died from a terrorist’s bomb - and that includes 9/11. So what’s the big deal? At least these guys will be dying for a cause.”

“Well, Bob? What do you think?”

The President turned to the Director of Counter Terrorism. Was he smiling?

Bob Jennings thought that was the most outrageous thing he’d ever heard, but what he said was,

“Well, Mr President, you did say it was a different take.” He turned to the Secretary of Defence. “Can I ask you a question, Mr Secretary?”

“Fire away.”

“Do you have any intelligence at all that links Saddam to 9/11? If you do I ought to know about it.”

“No, Bob, I don’t.” Herzfeld’s eyes twinkled playfully. “That’s because there isn’t any.”

“Or that links Saddam directly to Al Qaeda?”

“None.” Herzfeld made it sound like Jennings’s reservations were irrelevant. “Matter of fact, Bob, we know bin Laden is much closer to the Saudis than he is to Saddam Hussein. Bin Laden’s a Saudi himself, after all.”

“Or that Saddam even has weapons of mass destruction?” Jennings probed.

“Negative. If we could prove he still has WMDs we wouldn’t have this problem. But intelligence hasn’t come up with a Goddamn thing, zilch; and it doesn’t look likely now they will. Leastways not before this war gets started. But I’m not concerned with the truth, Bob. My concern is what the American people can be persuaded to believe. Fact is we have to move now, while we still can. Do you know how hot it was in Baghdad yesterday at noon? 115º and rising. Our troops just can’t fight in those conditions, leastways not a land war. And it’s going to get worse.”

There was a long silence while President Santos and Secretary Herzfeld scrutinised Robert Jennings to gauge what his response might be. After a protracted pause the President said,

“Something for us all to think about, Bob.” He steepled his hands. “But politically, you must admit, it’s very astute.” He was smiling. “Problem is, it’ll never work.”

“It worked at Pearl Harbour,” Herzfeld interjected. “I agree it’s a calculated risk, Mr President, I’ve always recognised that. The downside is we lose one American city just as we did on Oahu. But that’s a worst-case scenario. Chances are this Irish guy will do very little damage, set off the conventional explosive but fail to disperse the nuclear material. We know he’s not an engineer. He doesn’t have the requisite skills. On the upside, we rid the world of Tirofijo, Al Qaeda and Saddam all in one glorious military operation. Pax Americana. Sounds like a bargain to me.”

President Santos sucked air through his teeth.

“I still say it wouldn’t work. And anyway it’s a risk I can’t afford to take. It’s not just my Presidency that’s at stake. We’d lose the House and the Senate for a generation. I’d be impeached. And as for you, Karl, you’d probably be lynched. It’d be a hundred years before another Hispanic occupied the White House.”

Bob Jennings took the President’s words to mean the meeting was at a close but it was the Secretary of Defence who got up to leave. When he had gone President Santos turned to the Director of Counter Terrorism.

“Bob, I wanted you to hear that from the man himself. So you’ll understand just what it is I’m up against.”

“Mr President, that’s the most outrageous thing I ever heard. Why don’t you just fire the guy? The man’s unhinged.”

“Not easy, Bob. Karl Herzfeld controls an important wing of the party. Plus he has the backing of some major interest groups, most notably big oil – the most powerful lobby in the country. How else do you think the bastard got appointed? Besides, we’re almost certainly on the brink of a major conflict with Saddam, whether your Irishman detonates his bomb or not. Firing the Secretary of Defence on the eve of battle would not inspire the American people with confidence in my judgement. Morale in the armed forces would plummet. No, Bob, unless he actually commits a treasonable act Secretary Herzfeld will have to stay in post.”

***

Colonel Arthur Preston of the Joint Special Operations Command was waiting to drive the Secretary of Defence across the bridge to Arlington and on to his office at the Pentagon.

“How was your meeting with the President, Mr Secretary?”

“I’m afraid the Commander in Chief is going to wimp out on us, Colonel. But he’ll come round to our way of thinking when he recognises he has a choice between our way and electoral defeat. This economy is about to go belly up. Mike Santos desperately needs an issue and if the French use their veto, which I’m sure they will, he has no one to turn to but us.”

Herzfeld gazed out across the silver-grey Potomac. Small islands of ice moved sluggishly down stream.

“Jesus. Why can’t we find any WMDs? Just a handful would do. If not, we’ll have to come up with another reason to justify the war.”

“If we can’t find any WMDs,” Preston mused, “how about ‘weapons of mass destruction
programmes’
? That way we don’t have to come up with any hard evidence. All we need is some paperwork, like correspondence files, diary entries, computer printouts - stuff like that.”

“Come on now, Colonel. Get real. That’s far too wishy-washy.”

“Maybe we could
liberate
the Iraqi people?” Preston persisted. “What do you think?”

“That wouldn’t work either. It’s just too darn dramatic. And much too altruistic. How many Americans really give a shit about the Iraqi people? The public would never buy it. We need something a lot more subtle. Besides, if we’re into liberating the oppressed peoples of the world there’s a very long list of candidates – Zimbabwe, Burma, China. Are we supposed to liberate them all?”

Preston was silent for a while. Then he said, “How about ‘Regime Change’?”

“Umm. Yes, Arthur, that does have a certain ring to it, you may have something there. Regime Change. Yes, I like the resonance of that – it sounds kind of… uplifting, almost noble.” Herzfeld smiled. “Yes, Colonel, let’s go with that. Meantime we have a more pressing problem on our hands. Director Jennings is going to be a nuisance.”

“You want me to take care of him?”

“Not yet, Colonel. I understand he has someone working with him. Probably FBI. Definitely a killer. He’s supposed to stop the Irishman. We have to eliminate the assassin to ensure our Irish friend gets a free hand. But we need Jennings to lead us to the marksman. Then you can take care of them both in a single hit.”

“What about anybody else knows about the Dirty Bomb?”

“Santos has done a pretty good job keeping this under wraps. Far as I know, there’s just a handful of people at FBI in the picture. Problem is, we have no way of identifying them. Plus there’s still those two Irish bastards holed up in a safe house somewhere in the city. If they ever get to tell their story, nail this whole thing on Tirofijo, they’ll blow us out of the water. Christ knows how we get to them, but one way or another we have to take them out.”

Colonel Preston took off his glove and nervously fingered his scar.

“And how do you propose we do that, sir? Given we don’t even know where they are?”

“At this precise moment Colonel, I have absolutely no idea. They’ll have protection twenty-four hours a day, that’s for sure. But somebody out there is going to make a mistake pretty soon. And when they do we’ll nail the bastards.”

***

38

Robert Jennings returned to his office, buzzed his secretary on the intercom and told her to hold his calls and cancel his meetings for the rest of the day.

“And bring me the Bowman file.”

A couple of minutes later Clare White came in carrying a slim buff folder. She was nine weeks pregnant but it didn’t show. Jennings emptied the contents of the folder into the shredder he kept beside his desk and turned the Bowman file into confetti.

“Sit down, Clare.”

“Sir?”

She folded her hands across her abdomen. She was blushing. She’d never known Director Jennings do a thing like that before.

“You didn’t see me do that, Clare. There never was a Bowman file. You never even heard of Bowman.”

“No, sir?”

Clare White struggled to compose herself. She had worked for Director Jennings for over a year now but had never known him this agitated before. Nor instruct her to lie on his behalf. She was a good Catholic girl. She didn’t know if she could do it.

Jennings said,

“Who else at FBI knows about Bowman?”

“Far as I know just you, me and Agents Hoolahan and Moreno. That was what you wanted. Total secrecy.” She frowned. “No, wait. There’s Agents Brown, Sondheim and Wharton at the safe house, guarding the two Irishmen.” She shrugged. “I guess that’s it. On this side of the pond.”

Jennings went to the window and looked out. His back was to her as he spoke.

“You have family in Michigan, don’t you, Clare?”

Clare White felt suddenly very anxious.

“My sister Chloë has a cottage on the lake near Traverse City.”

“Go there. Just pack a bag, tell nobody, and get out of town. Don’t come back to Washington till you hear from me personally. Got that? Me, personally. And if anything happens to me, just forget you ever worked here. Make a new life as far away as possible.”

Clare White was deeply worried now. Her allegiance was to the flag, not to anybody personally. But she knew and trusted Robert Jennings. Knew he had the confidence of the President of the United States. She would do what he asked. Lie for him if she had to. Grab her son and run.

Jennings searched his desk for any items that could be traced to Bowman, printouts of emails from Vauxhall Cross, his CV and background material. It was bad enough to be working with a foreign national on American soil, but using an ex-con with a drugs conviction was sheer bloody madness.

“One last thing before you go, Clare. Call Bowman on his cell phone and tell him to meet me at twelve o’clock. Then forget you ever heard the name.”

“Meet you where, sir?”

“He’ll know.”

As Bob Jennings hurried across the Mall he reflected on the morning’s events. He did not believe any President of the United States would sacrifice an American city whatever the cause, least of all Michael Santos. But Secretary of Defence Karl Herzfeld was quite another matter. The leading hawk in the cabinet was a loose cannon, many of his colleagues thought him unhinged, though large sections of the public adored him. This was a man who would calculate the odds, evaluate the risks, and arrive at a conclusion that left the human cost out of the equation entirely. To the Secretary of Defence casualties were statistics, not people.

Jennings found Bowman sitting on a bench in front of Dalí’s eerie masterpiece. From up close you couldn’t see the death’s head clearly. What you saw was detail. Jennings sat next to the Englishman and appeared to talk directly to the painting.

“Alex, this might sound alarming but if any government official gives you an order, or countermands my instructions, I want you to ignore them. No matter how senior they are. No matter what happens to me.”

Bowman reflected on this for a full minute before he replied, thinking through the outer limits of its meaning.

“What if it’s the President himself?”

Jennings didn’t answer right away but went on gazing at the canvas. Then he said,

“If the President of the United States gives you a direct instruction, then I guess you’ll have to obey him. God help us, we all will.”

***

39

If Clare White had done what she was told to do, when she was told to do it, things might have turned out differently. But instead she chose to go shopping. The weather at her sister’s cottage on Lake Michigan at this time of year could be bitter and she’d need an appropriate wardrobe.

She arrived back at her apartment just north of Dupont Circle at four in the afternoon, laden with parcels from Bloomies and Saks. Eighteen-month-old Jack lay gurgling on the carpet. Clare picked up the sweet-smelling bundle and was rewarded with a sloppy kiss. She paid the babysitter and explained she was going away on an unplanned trip and might not be back for several weeks. Then she sat at the computer and went online to book space on the early evening flight to Detroit and on to Traverse City.

When the doorbell rang she thought it was the babysitter returning to pick up something she’d forgotten. It happened all the time. The girl had a mind like a sieve. So Clare pressed the buzzer on the entry phone without thinking, left the apartment door ajar and returned to the computer with her back to the room. When she heard the door close she said,