First Strike by Jeremy Rumfitt Read Free Book Online Page A

in and out of Medellin on one of Pablo Ortega’s private jets. Attached to the memorandum was a report from MI6’s Head of Station in Bogotá, that noted O’Brien travelling south into the safe-haven. The IRA’s contacts with the narco-terrorists weren’t new, they’d been supplying training and expertise to the FARC for three or four years, but as far as Merlyn Stanbridge knew the Irish Republican Army had no dealings with Ortega. The IRA’s criminal fringes had a profitable sideline dealing drugs but they weren’t into mainstream trafficking. So Merlyn deduced O’Brien must be engaged on some private business of his own. And given what she knew about the Irishman that meant a contract killing. A matter too small to interest the head of MI6. Except that nothing that involved Ortega was ever small. As she pondered the significance of these events the inter-com on her desk brought Merlyn Stanbridge back to reality. It was her secretary, Vincent.
    “Miss Drake is here for her appointment, ma’am.”
    “Show her in.”
    The head of MI6 rarely spoke to reporters one on one, but the days when the identity of the country’s top spy was a secret were long gone. And Melanie Drake was not just any journalist. Melanie Drake had knowledge. Melanie Drake had contacts. Direct access to the White House put this journalist in a class of her own. Properly handled, Melanie Drake could be very useful.
    The Chief Reporter of the Echo wore a dark blue business suit, no jewellery, and carried a briefcase but no handbag. There was a freshness about her, a frailty almost, that Merlyn Stanbridge found very appealing. They sat together on a sofa near the window. Merlyn Stanbridge handed Melanie a sheaf of papers.
    “It’s just a standard press release I’m afraid but I’ve added some handwritten notes, some anecdotes, to make it sound more personal. But I’ll need to see the piece before it’s published. You have any problem with that?”
    “None.”
    Melanie knew her place. But with luck and a little journalistic licence she could come up with a new and interesting angle, maybe work something in about the rumoured Russian lover.
    “In return there’s a couple of things I need from you. First, I want a story planted in the Echo. Front page. Banner headline. Saturday’s paper would be perfect. We think the IRA is up to no good in Colombia, training and equipping the local bad boys. Echelon spotted three of their senior operatives heading for Bogotá.”
    “Echelon?”
    Melanie grabbed her pad and a ballpoint pen. She’d heard the acronym before but never knew for sure the organization actually existed. The authorities always denied it. This alone would make the interview worthwhile. It could be dynamite.
    Merlyn Stanbridge knew the journalist was hooked, which was just what she intended.
    “This is not for publication, Miss Drake, but if we’re going to work together you have to understand how these things are done. You just didn’t hear it from me. OK?”
    “OK.”
    “And if this does leak out, take it from me, you’ll never work in journalism again. And that’s a promise. Got that?”
    “Got that.”
    Melanie put away her shorthand pad and pocketed her pen.
    “Echelon is the secret computer network we share with the cousins, dating all the way back to the Cold War. Echelon straddles the handful of key choke-points that process ninety per cent of the world’s computer traffic.”
    She lit a cigarette, exhaling the smoke through her nose.
    “Echelon captures staggering volumes of data, randomly harvesting three billion messages a day. We have sniffer devices hooked up to computer systems around the globe that scan the data constantly. Arrays of SV1 supercomputers sift the data, distilling it through artificial intelligence programs like Memex and Dictionary, searching for key words like “Bomb” and “Pope” appearing in the same communication.”
    Merlyn Stanbridge paused to check the journalist was suitably