do the Irish.” She poured more wine. “You have to realise, Alex, Washington is in total chaos. The intelligence community above all. The full story why they failed to anticipate 9/11 won’t come out for months but it looks like a massive intelligence failure. Nobody wants to take the fall for O’Brien. Too many senior people already have egg all over their faces. Everyone except Bob Jennings.”
“Who’s Bob Jennings?”
“Director of Counter Terrorism at FBI headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue. He was appointed after 9/11. Drafted in from MIT. He wrote the definitive paper about the mishandling of intelligence at Pearl Harbour.”
“What about my record?”
“Jennings will have to know you’ve done time. If we don’t tell him and he finds out it would be a disaster. But all that’s in the past, Alex, you won the appeal, everybody knows they were trumped-up charges. Far as I’m concerned your record’s clean. All I’m really interested in is your sheer bloody competence. By the way, Alex, how’s your gun arm?”
“Getting there.” Bowman winced as he flexed his right shoulder.
“Good. I’ve a feeling you’re going to need it.” She summoned the waiter and signed the bill with a flourish. “Well, Bowman? Will you help us?”
“I don’t think I have any choice. But in exchange there’s one thing you must do for me.”
“Name it.”
“Keep an eye on Melanie Drake for me. She’s about to publish an article about the coke farm over in Morocco. Somebody out there isn’t going to like that very much. They may try to silence her.”
Merlyn Stanbridge folded her napkin neatly.
“It’s a deal, Bowman. Don’t worry about Melanie Drake, we’ll keep an eye on her.”
She warmed to Bowman. She liked a man who cared about his friends.
They stood together on the steps of White’s club, looking down Saint James’s Street, hoping for a taxi. Merlyn Stanbridge looked Bowman over from head to toe. She evidently liked what she saw.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Alex.”
“What’s that?” Bowman smiled.
“Do you like dogs?”
“Dogs? Not particularly. Why?”
“Nothing. It isn’t important.”
The first taxi came along and Bowman insisted Merlyn Stanbridge should take it. He watched the cab turn left into Piccadilly heading towards Knightsbridge, waited a couple of minutes and went back inside to the porter’s desk.
“I need to make a phone call.”
The uniformed flunky pointed to a phone box in the far corner. Bowman fumbled through his wallet and found the card he’d picked up at the reception desk at the Palais Jamaî. A minute later he had Ben Ambrose on the line.
“Ben? It’s me, Bowman. How quickly can you get to London?”
“Shit man, I was sleeping.”
“Christ, Ben, this is important, more than important, it’s a fucking world class emergency.”
“London? I can’t come to London, man, Willowby’s here. Acting kinda strange as a matter of fact.”
“Strange? What sort of strange?”
“It’s weird, Alex. I think he’s trying to entrap me. Keeps offering me stuff. Watches. Money. Jewellery. It’s like he’s one of the bad guys. Scares the shit out of me, Alex.”
“Look, Ben, forget about London. Get yourself to the States. Miami if you can, but anywhere will do. Email me when you get there with a contact number. Don’t talk to anyone. Just do it.”
“Alex? This has to do with Willowby, doesn’t it? He is one of the bad guys, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Ben. He’s one of the bad guys,”
Bowman lied. Or so he thought.
***
At 8 a m next morning Alex Bowman was shown into Merlyn Stanbridge’s office on the twelfth floor at Vauxhall Cross. He signed receipts for two credit cards, ten thousand dollars in cash, one airline ticket to Miami, business class, and a diplomatic passport. Merlyn Stanbridge handed him a sheaf of papers.
“Something for you to study on the plane. There are two distinct lines of enquiry you
“Who’s Bob Jennings?”
“Director of Counter Terrorism at FBI headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue. He was appointed after 9/11. Drafted in from MIT. He wrote the definitive paper about the mishandling of intelligence at Pearl Harbour.”
“What about my record?”
“Jennings will have to know you’ve done time. If we don’t tell him and he finds out it would be a disaster. But all that’s in the past, Alex, you won the appeal, everybody knows they were trumped-up charges. Far as I’m concerned your record’s clean. All I’m really interested in is your sheer bloody competence. By the way, Alex, how’s your gun arm?”
“Getting there.” Bowman winced as he flexed his right shoulder.
“Good. I’ve a feeling you’re going to need it.” She summoned the waiter and signed the bill with a flourish. “Well, Bowman? Will you help us?”
“I don’t think I have any choice. But in exchange there’s one thing you must do for me.”
“Name it.”
“Keep an eye on Melanie Drake for me. She’s about to publish an article about the coke farm over in Morocco. Somebody out there isn’t going to like that very much. They may try to silence her.”
Merlyn Stanbridge folded her napkin neatly.
“It’s a deal, Bowman. Don’t worry about Melanie Drake, we’ll keep an eye on her.”
She warmed to Bowman. She liked a man who cared about his friends.
They stood together on the steps of White’s club, looking down Saint James’s Street, hoping for a taxi. Merlyn Stanbridge looked Bowman over from head to toe. She evidently liked what she saw.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Alex.”
“What’s that?” Bowman smiled.
“Do you like dogs?”
“Dogs? Not particularly. Why?”
“Nothing. It isn’t important.”
The first taxi came along and Bowman insisted Merlyn Stanbridge should take it. He watched the cab turn left into Piccadilly heading towards Knightsbridge, waited a couple of minutes and went back inside to the porter’s desk.
“I need to make a phone call.”
The uniformed flunky pointed to a phone box in the far corner. Bowman fumbled through his wallet and found the card he’d picked up at the reception desk at the Palais Jamaî. A minute later he had Ben Ambrose on the line.
“Ben? It’s me, Bowman. How quickly can you get to London?”
“Shit man, I was sleeping.”
“Christ, Ben, this is important, more than important, it’s a fucking world class emergency.”
“London? I can’t come to London, man, Willowby’s here. Acting kinda strange as a matter of fact.”
“Strange? What sort of strange?”
“It’s weird, Alex. I think he’s trying to entrap me. Keeps offering me stuff. Watches. Money. Jewellery. It’s like he’s one of the bad guys. Scares the shit out of me, Alex.”
“Look, Ben, forget about London. Get yourself to the States. Miami if you can, but anywhere will do. Email me when you get there with a contact number. Don’t talk to anyone. Just do it.”
“Alex? This has to do with Willowby, doesn’t it? He is one of the bad guys, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Ben. He’s one of the bad guys,”
Bowman lied. Or so he thought.
***
At 8 a m next morning Alex Bowman was shown into Merlyn Stanbridge’s office on the twelfth floor at Vauxhall Cross. He signed receipts for two credit cards, ten thousand dollars in cash, one airline ticket to Miami, business class, and a diplomatic passport. Merlyn Stanbridge handed him a sheaf of papers.
“Something for you to study on the plane. There are two distinct lines of enquiry you
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