Free First Strike by Jeremy Rumfitt Page A

inside page. My lead from MI6 definitely involved a Dirty Bomb. And another thing. There were supposed to be four Irishmen. Not three.”
    She crushed the paper in her hands.
    “Maybe the facts didn’t check out. Maybe it was all just speculation after all. But I should at least have been consulted before they pulled my stuff. Either way Merlyn Stanbridge owes me.”
    Next day after church they rode out to an isolated country pub in the middle of the Downs where Bowman had reserved a table for Sunday lunch. Bowman ordered a pint of London Pride and insisted on a straight thin glass. Melanie quaffed half a pint of draught Guinness. They sat in the cosy bar flicking through the broadsheets. Bowman browsed the Echo while Melanie scrutinised the opposition.
    “Oh shit!” said Bowman.
    “What?” said Melanie.
    Bowman read aloud, “Chief Investigative Reporter Melanie Drake exposes Moroccan Cocaine Plantation on Europe’s Doorstep. See next Saturday’s edition. Order your copy from reputable newsagents now.”
    “So? What’s wrong with that?”
    Melanie thought it sounded fine.
    “Nothing,” Bowman sighed. “I’m sure it’ll be OK.”
     
    ***
     

13
     
                                                                 
    It was years since Frank Willowby had seen action of any kind. But he had kept himself in shape, went to the gym most days and did small arms practice twice a week in the firing range beneath the Embassy in Grosvenor Square. So he reckoned his reactions were still pretty sharp. He flew into Tangier, rented a car, drove three hundred clicks southeast to Fez and checked in to the Palais Jamaî.
    “My name’s Willowby.”
    He handed the receptionist his diplomatic passport.
    “Mr Ambrose reserved a room for me.”
    “Welcome to the Palais Jamaî,” said the desk clerk. “I’ve allocated the same accommodation as Mr Ambrose’s English friend. Mr Bowman commented how much he enjoyed the view of the Medina.”
    “Bowman was here?” said Willowby. “I didn’t know that. I’d have liked to meet him.”
    “He checked out yesterday,” said the clerk.
    Alone in his room Willowby unpacked his suitcase, reassembled the sub-compact Beretta semi-automatic and thanked God for diplomatic immunity. He rammed home the clip, checked the safety and tucked the little weapon in his trouser pocket. Then he went down to the terrace overlooking the gardens, ordered tea and waited for Ambrose to get back from his language class. He wasn’t sure exactly how to play it. The revelation the DEA’s top man in Europe was working for the other side would be too much for Ambrose to swallow at one bite. Willowby would have to feed it to his subordinate a morsel at a time. Make it easy to digest. It was only later when they were having dinner on the terrace that Willowby had his first opportunity to plant a seed.
    “How was your vacation?” Ambrose enquired.
    “Great,” said Willowby. “Spent ten days at my ranch in Colorado, which was nice. Don’t get to go there much. You should come visit sometime. I have a three hundred acre spread just outside of Aspen. Great skiing in winter.”
    Ambrose wondered what a place like that would cost and how much a guy like Willowby could earn. Certainly not enough to pay for three hundred acres of prime Colorado real estate. Family money, Ambrose surmised. Inherited wealth. Maybe a profitable marriage. Later in his room Ambrose got out his laptop and dialled into the DEA’s website. In seconds he had Frank Willowby’s bio on the screen. Born and raised in a hick town in rural Pennsylvania. Father a mechanic. Educated at the local public school. Scholarship to Penn State. Married a primary school teacher. Family money was definitely not the answer. Nor was a profitable marriage. Next Ambrose scrolled through Willowby’s early career in Miami. He’d made a succession of impressive busts, nothing really major but good