First Strike Read Online Free PDF Page B

analogue, though to O’Brien’s well-trained eye it looked primitive but effective.
    Tirofijo sat in a swivel chair behind his desk, blowing cigar smoke up into the whirring fan above his head. A hand rolled Cohiba, Castro’s gift, was clamped between his teeth. He shoved the humidor across the desk at Declan.
    “Bienvenido, hombre.”
    The two war hardened warriors had done business a couple of times before. They respected one another. O’Brien represented Europe’s most feared and most effective terrorist group. Tirofijo commanded the best-equipped and most lavishly financed guerrilleros in the western hemisphere. They thought of themselves as equals.
    The Colombian got up, went to a cupboard and extracted the bottle of Bushmills he’d procured especially for his friend. They drank a Cuban toast. “Socialismo o Muerte” – Socialism or Death. Then Tirofijo resumed his seat, opened a draw, pulled out a battered dog-eared manual and slid it across the desk at the Irishman.
    O’Brien picked up the document and flicked through its torn and fading pages. His evaluation took several minutes, during which he didn’t utter a single word. Then he put his lips together and let out a long low whistle.
    Tirofijo noted the Irishman’s hesitation.
    “If you’ll do it, Declan, I’ll let you choose the target and the date. Any place you like. Any day you like. Anything that suits you.”
    O’Brien shook his head and placed the manual face down on the desk.
    “I don’t think I can do it.”
    It wasn’t a moral judgment. O’Brien was concerned about the logistical complexities of the operation.
    “Soy viejo, Declan,” Tirofijo explained. “Y soy cansado de la lucha.” He refilled both their glasses. “I’m an old man and I’m tired of fighting. I’ve been fighting all my life. I need to do something big. Now. Before it’s too late.”
    Tirofijo unlocked a metal cabinet, pulled out a suitcase, placed it on the desk and opened it. The case was packed with scores of see-through plastic envelopes, each stuffed with half a kilogram of fine white powder. Tirofijo grinned.
    “Half a million dollars says you can.”
     
    ***
     

6
     
     
    In the hills above San Vicente del Caguan, deep inside the FARC safe-haven, four Irishmen sat incongruously around a campfire. O’Brien had linked up with Gerry McGuire, the IRA’s chief engineer, Niall O’Rourke, Sinn Fein’s accredited representative in Cuba and interpreter for the group, and Kevin Kelly, the youngest of the team, who wrote the training manuals. Beneath the triple canopy of jungle the night sky was black. No moon. No stars. All they could see in the flickering flames was their own hands and faces. The dank night air was loud with the chatter of birds and insects. Twenty feet away, unseen, an anaconda slithered by. A group of armed guerrillas watched the four Irishmen from a distance. Declan O’Brien poured the last of the Bushmills.
    “You’ve got to admit, Gerry old son, this is a sweetheart deal.”
    Gerry McGuire swatted the mosquito on the back of his hand.
    “The politicals sure as hell won’t like it.”
    “Then we won’t tell them. They say our war is over. But what are we to do, old son? We have to make a living, or the end of the war will be the end of us, and our families. We have all this marketable know-how. The guerrilleros are keen to buy it. All they want from us is training for Christ sake, not direct involvement. They’re used to fighting in the mountains. They have to move on from there, learn to bomb cities and towns. That’s what we’re good at. We have years of experience. We have the ordnance and we have the expertise.”
    “It doesn’t bother you?” said Gerry McGuire. “Getting paid in drugs?”
    “This is the modern world, old son. Drugs is the new currency.” O’Brien emptied his glass. “And anyway, we’ve always been involved in drugs. You know that as well as I.”
    “To finance the war. Not as an end in