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Authors: Jeremy Rumfitt
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knows about Ambrose too. She said something really odd, as a matter of fact. About the two of you.”
“And what was that?” Bowman’s brow was furrowed.
“I told her you’d gone to Fez to spend some time with Ambrose. She said ‘Oh dear, I do hope they’re not going to be a nuisance.’ Something like that. I thought it was really strange.”
“Strange? I’ll say it was strange. I wonder what she meant by that?”
“She wants to meet you.”
“Merlyn Stanbridge wants to meet me?”
Bowman emptied his glass. He had a sinking sensation in his stomach. The wound in his shoulder began to ache. Maybe he should have gone straight back to Spain. He had a business to run. Clients to look after.
“I don’t think I was there to interview her, Alex. I think I was there so she could interview me. But maybe I was just the decoy. I think it’s you she really wants to meet. She wants us all to have supper at her club. Would you like to?”
“No way, Mel. I’ve had enough for now. I’m tired. I need some time to myself.”
“Wouldn’t it be good for your career? It isn’t every gumshoe gets to dine with the head of MI6.”
“Some other time, Mel. Just not now. Just not this year.”
Bowman cleared the table and stacked the dishes in the sink, ready for the morning when the cleaner would come from the village. It was good to be with Melanie again. Of all the women he knew she was the one he most admired. It wasn’t a sexual thing. It was more than that. He admired her guts. Her independence. After everything she’d been through Melanie Drake had kept her self-esteem intact. And then there were the things they had in common. Hitchcock in black and white, Almódovar in colour. Ellington and Lester Young, Telemann and Tallis. Turner and Goya. Nielsen and The Beachboys.
Bowman made coffee, joined Melanie in the sitting room, and scanned the collection of CD’s the cottage owner had thoughtfully left on the shelves along with some old vinyls. One or two choice items caught Bowman’s eye. He slotted a copy of Oscar Brown Jr’s ‘Sin and Soul and Then Some.’ in the CD player and sat down to listen to the lyrics. Melanie was stretched out on the sofa flicking through a glossy magazine. Reflections from the fire danced on her auburn hair. She had taken off her shoes and her legs had disappeared inside her dress. Bowman went to the drinks cabinet, poured neat Glenlivet into a shot glass and took a little sip. It was a perfect moment. Talk would spoil it. Neither of them spoke for quite a while. Then Melanie stretched, yawned, looked up from her magazine and said,
“Alex, what exactly is a Dirty Bomb?”
“A Dirty Bomb?” Bowman froze. “How did we get to Dirty Bombs?”
“Merlyn Stanbridge passed me a lead for a story in the Echo. There’s a rumour the IRA could be in the market for a Dirty Bomb. We’re running a major piece in tomorrow morning’s paper.”
Alex Bowman went to the window and looked out over the illuminated garden. It was an idyllic, peaceful scene. It resembled his life the way he wanted it to be. Quiet. Well ordered. A little past its best. He spoke with his back to her.
“A Dirty Bomb has three components. A conventional explosive, like Semtex or TNT. A detonator, which is the only tricky part, and some nuclear waste. Strontium 90. Iridium 192. Cobalt 60. There may be others. I’m no expert. There’s hundreds of places you can get the stuff. Russia. China. Israel. The Ukraine. Right here in the UK. Sellafield’s awash with it. You set off an explosion with the TNT and disperse wind-born nuclear waste over as large an area as possible.”
“But it’s not a nuclear bomb?”
“That’s right. But it is the ultimate terror weapon. It’s called a weapon of mass disruption, not destruction. The killing zone may be no more than a square mile, so it wouldn’t wipe out that many people, say several thousand in a densely populated area. But it would cause massive panic and the
“And what was that?” Bowman’s brow was furrowed.
“I told her you’d gone to Fez to spend some time with Ambrose. She said ‘Oh dear, I do hope they’re not going to be a nuisance.’ Something like that. I thought it was really strange.”
“Strange? I’ll say it was strange. I wonder what she meant by that?”
“She wants to meet you.”
“Merlyn Stanbridge wants to meet me?”
Bowman emptied his glass. He had a sinking sensation in his stomach. The wound in his shoulder began to ache. Maybe he should have gone straight back to Spain. He had a business to run. Clients to look after.
“I don’t think I was there to interview her, Alex. I think I was there so she could interview me. But maybe I was just the decoy. I think it’s you she really wants to meet. She wants us all to have supper at her club. Would you like to?”
“No way, Mel. I’ve had enough for now. I’m tired. I need some time to myself.”
“Wouldn’t it be good for your career? It isn’t every gumshoe gets to dine with the head of MI6.”
“Some other time, Mel. Just not now. Just not this year.”
Bowman cleared the table and stacked the dishes in the sink, ready for the morning when the cleaner would come from the village. It was good to be with Melanie again. Of all the women he knew she was the one he most admired. It wasn’t a sexual thing. It was more than that. He admired her guts. Her independence. After everything she’d been through Melanie Drake had kept her self-esteem intact. And then there were the things they had in common. Hitchcock in black and white, Almódovar in colour. Ellington and Lester Young, Telemann and Tallis. Turner and Goya. Nielsen and The Beachboys.
Bowman made coffee, joined Melanie in the sitting room, and scanned the collection of CD’s the cottage owner had thoughtfully left on the shelves along with some old vinyls. One or two choice items caught Bowman’s eye. He slotted a copy of Oscar Brown Jr’s ‘Sin and Soul and Then Some.’ in the CD player and sat down to listen to the lyrics. Melanie was stretched out on the sofa flicking through a glossy magazine. Reflections from the fire danced on her auburn hair. She had taken off her shoes and her legs had disappeared inside her dress. Bowman went to the drinks cabinet, poured neat Glenlivet into a shot glass and took a little sip. It was a perfect moment. Talk would spoil it. Neither of them spoke for quite a while. Then Melanie stretched, yawned, looked up from her magazine and said,
“Alex, what exactly is a Dirty Bomb?”
“A Dirty Bomb?” Bowman froze. “How did we get to Dirty Bombs?”
“Merlyn Stanbridge passed me a lead for a story in the Echo. There’s a rumour the IRA could be in the market for a Dirty Bomb. We’re running a major piece in tomorrow morning’s paper.”
Alex Bowman went to the window and looked out over the illuminated garden. It was an idyllic, peaceful scene. It resembled his life the way he wanted it to be. Quiet. Well ordered. A little past its best. He spoke with his back to her.
“A Dirty Bomb has three components. A conventional explosive, like Semtex or TNT. A detonator, which is the only tricky part, and some nuclear waste. Strontium 90. Iridium 192. Cobalt 60. There may be others. I’m no expert. There’s hundreds of places you can get the stuff. Russia. China. Israel. The Ukraine. Right here in the UK. Sellafield’s awash with it. You set off an explosion with the TNT and disperse wind-born nuclear waste over as large an area as possible.”
“But it’s not a nuclear bomb?”
“That’s right. But it is the ultimate terror weapon. It’s called a weapon of mass disruption, not destruction. The killing zone may be no more than a square mile, so it wouldn’t wipe out that many people, say several thousand in a densely populated area. But it would cause massive panic and the
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