Authors: Jeremy Rumfitt
“You have any messages for me? Name of Bowman?”
Sweat trickled down his back and chest. The heat and humidity were stifling. He loosened his collar. The two hookers smiled back at him. The taller of the two put the neck of a coke bottle between her lips and grinned.
“Ambrose left word he’s out to lunch. Back about five.”
The clerk dumped the room key on the counter.
“Room’s on the third floor. Ain’t no lift. I know the air-con’s broke, so don’t bother phoning down.”
“Thanks.” Bowman picked up his key. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”
“No problem.”
Bowman carried his bag up to the third floor. The room was cramped and sparsely furnished, but at least it was clean. He stripped, showered and changed into fresh dry cloths. Then he went downstairs to find a cab. As he squeezed past the hookers one of them made a grab for his crotch and whispered,
“Eras maricón?”
The second hooker pouted and blew him a kiss.
At the head of the line of cabs was José, who had driven Bowman from the airport.
“Olá amigo. Dondé vamos?”
“Necesito una pistola.”
Bowman climbed gratefully into the air-conditioned cab.
“Una pistola? Si, Hombre. No hay problema ninguna. No problem.”
He put the cab in gear and minutes later deposited Bowman outside a gun store in the middle of a suburban shopping plaza. Bowman entered the store and looked around at the array of pistols, shot guns, rifles, sub-machine guns, all in pristine condition.
“And what can I do for you today?”
The salesman was an overweight Hispanic with a high-pitched voice, several chins and a hanging gut.
“I need a hand gun. Browning GP35FA if you have one. If not maybe the Beretta 92FS. Something not too large.”
“Let me check.”
The salesman disappeared to a storeroom at the back of the shop. Moments later he returned, carrying a shoebox.
“There we go. Thought we had one. Browning GP35FA. Not new but it’s in mint condition.”
Bowman balanced the weapon in his hand. It felt good. He examined it expertly under the salesman’s watchful eye.
“I’ll take it.”
“Ammo?”
“Two boxes.”
“I guess you won’t be needing any lessons?”
“Just the gun and the ammo.” Bowman reached for his wallet.
“Yes, sir.” The salesman mentally calculated his commission. “Will that be cash or charge?”
***
Bowman returned to the hotel, went up to his room and flicked through the directory of contacts Merlyn Stanbridge had provided. Bowman didn’t want to worry about status; he wanted someone he could talk to as an equal, no please and thank you, someone he could share a beer with if things got really tough. Special Agent in Charge at the FBI’s Miami field office was listed as Patrick Hoolahan, who sounded like he might have political affiliations of his own. Most Irish Americans did. Many of them raised funds for the cause. But Bowman decided to take the chance and dialled Hoolahan’s office on Second Avenue in North Miami Beach.
“Special Agent Hoolahan.”
He spoke with a slight Irish brogue.
“My name’s Bowman. Alex Bowman. Mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing, my Limey friend. Not a Goddamn thing.”
There was the slightest hint of hostility.
“Would you do something for me?”
“What did you lose?”
“Call Robert Jennings.”
“Which Robert Jennings would that be?”
There was a subtle change of tone as Hoolahan’s curiosity ratcheted up several notches.
“You know which Robert Jennings.”
“Counter terrorism?” Hoolahan’s voice was hushed.
“Director of Counter Terrorism at Pennsylvania Avenue. Tell him Alex Bowman made contact. Ask him if it’s OK for you to talk to me. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.”
Bowman put down the phone and tinkered with the air-conditioning unit to see if he could fix it but no dice. Then he strolled down the corridor and got a chilled Tres Equis from the coin-operated icebox. He sipped the beer from the bottle and re-dialled Special Agent Hoolahan’s direct line at North Miami Beach.
“Mr Bowman? Sir? How can I help?”
Hoolahan sounded like he might be standing at attention.
“Do you know someone who could fix my air-con?”
“Your air-con? Seriously? What is this? Some kind of…”
“Sorry. Listen, there’s a couple of things I need done. Can someone in your office make a few enquiries? First, is any liquor store selling an unusual amount of Bushmills?”
“Bushmills?”
“Most liquor stores in Miami won’t carry an Irish brand in stock, like they would in Boston or Philly. They’ll sell mainly Scotch, Rums and Tequilas but not much Irish. Second, get someone to do a tour of the S&M clubs and bars. See if any of them has a customer called O’Brien. Declan O’Brien.”
Pat Hoolahan made notes on a pad but didn’t see any immediate link with the Director of Counter Terrorism. What he did see was the Irish connection. And when he thought Irish he thought IRA. And when he thought IRA he thought what every law enforcement officer across the United States was thinking at that time. The IRA and the guerrilleros were coming to Little Havana. Now it all made perfect sense.
“How do I reach you, Mr Bowman?”
“I’m at the Hotel Buena Vista on Calle Ocho.”
Hoolahan noted Bowman’s crisp Castilian accent. He didn’t much care for spics.
“You speak Spanish, Mr Bowman?”
“Yes I do.”
“Anything else you need from me?”
“Can you get me a lap-top with all the bells and whistles? Something I can carry with me without a lot of wires.”
“You got it. I’ll call you immediately I have something to report.”
***
At five thirty-five Ambrose came in from what must have been a mainly liquid lunch. He squeezed past the hookers in the narrow hallway and managed to cop a feel. Bowman got a couple of beers from the icebox and joined Ben in his room, where the air-conditioning worked.
“Jesus, Ben, you could have picked a hotel where things work. This place is the pits. Even the hookers are jail-bait.”
“Nice though. Had me a little piece. You should try some. Or is it just your Limey upper lip gets stiff?”
Ambrose sat up and peered around the room.
“May not be Tit City but this place ain’t so bad.”
He touched the side of his nose with his index finger and grinned.
“Good cover. They won’t come looking for us here, right in the middle of spicsville.”
“Who won’t come looking for us?”
Bowman sipped beer from the bottle.
“Ortega’s people.”
“Ortega’s people? Why would Ortega’s people come looking for us?”
“I ran out on Willowby. Set the alarm bells ringing.”
Bowman hadn’t thought about Ortega till now. Merlyn Stanbridge had mentioned Pablo briefly, something about a contract killing. It probably wasn’t important and had no connection to the matter in hand. But Bowman could see Ambrose was scared. Shit scared. Bowman had never known Ben get loaded in the middle of the day. But if Ambrose was right about Ortega he had every reason to be terrified.
“What you need, Ben, is something a little more serious to worry about than your own scrawny black arse.”
“Something more serious than four inches of Colombian steel in the middle of my back? And what would that be, you Limey sonofabitch?”
His eyes closed and his head fell forward to one side. He looked like a stuffed doll.
“Tell you what, Ben. Take a nap. When you wake up take a shower. A cold shower. Meet me in the lobby at eight. Then we’ll talk. Give you something else to think about, other than your own lousy black behind.”
Bowman didn’t want to go through two lots of explanation in one day so he called Special Agent Hoolahan at his office.
“You free for dinner, Agent Hoolahan?”
“Sure am.”
The Director of Counter Terrorism had told Hoolahan to make himself available and besides, he was curious to know what was going on in his own back yard that would merit the attention of a man as senior as Robert Jennings.
“Pick me up at the hotel about eight. Make reservations somewhere we can talk, where the tables are far enough apart. There’ll be three of us.”
“You got it. Yes, sir, Mr Bowman.”
There might have been the slightest edge of irritation in his voice. Maybe Special Agent Hoolahan didn’t like to take instructions from a Limey.
“One more thing,” said Bowman. “Can you check something out for me?”
“Whatever you say, Mr Bowman.”
“Colombian Independence Day. Assuming they have one. It’s probably not important but I’d like to know the date.”
***
At eight o’clock precisely Agent Hoolahan pulled up outside the Hotel Buena Vista on Eighth Street in a beat-up Chevy Impala. He refused to think of it as Calle Ocho. It was OK for Hispanics to be here, every American was an immigrant if you went back far enough, but they should leave their language behind and learn to talk American like everybody else. Hoolahan wound down the window and spotted the unmistakable Brit with his ramrod back and jutting jaw, chatting with the dishevelled looking spade. Hoolahan leaned across the car and yelled,
“You Bowman?”
Bowman opened the passenger door and climbed in. The spade got in the back. Bowman held out his hand.
“Alex Bowman. And this is Agent Ambrose. He’s with the DEA.” Bowman saw Ambrose glare at him. “Sorry, was with the DEA. Can you forget I said that?”
“Whatever you say, Mr Bowman.”
Hoolahan was considerably over-weight, in his late fifties with slicked-back greying hair and matching steel rimmed glasses. He was sweating heavily and when he breathed he wheezed. Agent Hoolahan was not a healthy man. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. He didn’t check his rear view mirror. He said,
“We have a sighting of your man,” Hoolahan’s tone was casual.
“Like you said he showed up at one of the S&M bars a couple of days ago down in the docks area. Paid $350 cash. Even ordered a Bushmills, which they didn’t stock, so he made them send out for some. We traced where he’d been staying but he’d already checked out. The desk clerk remembers him though. Cocky little bastard. Arrived in a rented car but left by taxi. Rental’s still there, if you want to see it. We also traced the cab that dropped your man off at the airport. Could’ve been heading anywhere except none of the airlines has a record of anyone called O’Brien buying a ticket. So either he’s using another identity or he’s still here in Miami. That’s all we know. Except he had a suitcase weighs a ton. Wouldn’t let nobody touch it.”
Nobody spoke again till they pulled up outside the Blue Door in the art-deco section of South Beach. Hoolahan had always wanted to eat there but was never able to afford it. But tonight was on the Director of Counter Terrorism. “Whatever Bowman wants he gets,” were Robert Jennings words. Hoolahan had never spoken to a Director before. Probably never would again. Whoever this guy Bowman was he had connections at the very top. Hoolahan handed the car keys to the valet and followed Bowman into the restaurant, puffing and wheezing as he climbed the steps.
They were shown to an isolated table in a far corner of the spacious room. Bowman sat in the middle with the two American’s on either side.
“You’re sure we can talk here?” he turned to Hoolahan.
“Place was swept an hour ago. It’s clean. That guy with his back to us at the bar is with bureau, hasn’t moved since he checked it.”
Hoolahan spread his napkin across his lap and loosened his tie in anticipation. “Look, Mr Bowman…sir?”
“Alex. Call me Alex.”
“Fine...Alex.” Hoolahan looked decidedly uncomfortable, out of his depth with the stylish Englishman and the scruffy spade, who used to be with the DEA. “Would you mind telling me what I’m doing here?”
Bowman had memorised the file.
“You’re an experienced middle ranking officer. But you have the highest possible security rating. That’s unusual for someone of your grade. There are people far senior to you who don’t have your level of clearance.”
“That’s right,” Hoolahan smiled. It was something he was very proud of.
“I out-class some of the brass where security’s concerned. ‘Cause of my record in ‘Nam.”
“On top of that, you’re experienced in bomb disposal.”
“Right again. I was with Special Forces in ‘Nam. Specialised in bomb disposal. Charlie made some pretty cute devices but I got to know all his little tricks. Got so I could disarm most of his toys blindfold.”
“So how come you left the army, with such a distinguished record?”
Not everything was on the file and motivation was important.
“Had a dispute with a superior officer. He got the medal. I got the can. Shoulda been the other way around.”
Hoolahan didn’t want to discuss this; it had nothing to do with the Limey.
“Look Mr...Alex, don’t tell me anything I’m not supposed to know, but I’m beginning to get a picture here. The Irish connection. My security clearance. My expertise in bomb disposal. Our friend here, who used to be with the DEA. Even Little Havana. It all adds up to the three IRA guys got caught in Bogotá with their pants around their ankles. Am I right?”
“Spot on, old chap.” Bowman was impressed.
“And this Irish guy you’re looking for, cruising the S&M bars? There’s been an APB out for him for the last three or four days. But nobody knows why. Five foot two, short fair hair, clean shaven, blue eyes. Sound like him?”
“Trouble is, there’s a million others look just like him and anyway he probably doesn’t look like that by now.” Bowman paused while the waiter took the drinks order. “Now let me explain my mission to you, Pat. I haven’t even put Ben in the picture yet, so this will come as a blow to you both.”
By the time Bowman had finished both Americans were in total shock.
“Jesus, Alex,” Ben was horror-struck. “How can you be so fucking calm?”
“I’m calm because I need to be. We all need to stay calm; otherwise we’ll lose the plot. Besides, this isn’t going to happen overnight. Putting together a Dirty Bomb is a very complex proposition. He has to get hold of some explosive. OK, that’s the easy part. Then he has to find someone to make a sophisticated detonator. Apparently he doesn’t have the skills to do it himself. Now I’m no technician but I imagine that’s a pretty complicated piece of engineering. And unless he’s prepared to die in the explosion it has to be triggered by remote control. But the really difficult part is handling the radioactive material. There’s literally tons of it lying about in hospitals, laboratories, power stations. Most of it is under guard and has to be accounted for. But not all. It moves around by truck and on the railways. Sometimes by cargo plane. Some of it goes missing. So procurement isn’t that much of a problem. It’s handling to stuff. How to avoid getting burned.”