Richard Halliwell took in the nuances of the conversation immediately. Up until now his feelings towards the powerful little advisor had been ambivalent, but he decided that as long as he remained useful, Esposito was someone he could work with. Sharp and ruthless. Esposito’s emphasis of ‘a few words’ had not been lost on Halliwell either.
‘No questions though,’ Esposito stipulated, as if reading Halliwell’s mind. ‘While you’re greeting the members, Mr President, Richard and I will grab a quiet drink on the breezeway.’
‘I want to talk to you about the announcement of your campaign which I think we should do sooner rather than later,’ Esposito said, as they followed the President and the Club Chairman towards the historic clubhouse. ‘I’d also like to talk to you about the threat from Islam and get your views on how you’re going to handle the threat from China.’
‘I have some ideas,’ Halliwell replied, still smarting over Weinberger’s perfunctory response to his card and invitation, ‘but I think China is by far the most serious,’ he added, his thoughts turning momentarily to the defection of Dolinsky. If he could put his program in place, and then gain the White House at the next election, he mused, America’s dominance of the world would be unassailable.
The jaws of Kadeer’s trap were starting to close.
CHAPTER 35
THE VINEYARD RESORT, CALIFORNIA
‘H ow was your golf?’ Simone asked, giving Richard Halliwell a lingering kiss on the cheek.
‘Beat the b’Jesus out of both of them,’ Halliwell boasted, his words a little slurred after several Ancient Reserve Glenfiddichs. The President had been able to relax among like-minded Republican friends and the visit had lasted for quite a bit longer than Esposito had scheduled. The Lincoln Penthouse on the thirtieth floor of The Vineyard Resort boasted sweeping views, and out beyond San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate the fiery red rim of the sun was just disappearing below the horizon.
‘Is that wise, darling, to beat the b’Jesus out of the President of the United States?’ Simone asked, reverting to a term of endearment she only ever used when they were alone.
‘It is when he’s just asked you to run as the next one,’ Halliwell said, squeezing Simone’s bottom.
‘He’s going to back you?’ Simone felt a surge of excitement.
‘Wants me to throw my hat in the ring for the Republican nomination,’ Halliwell replied, careful not to mention the President’s other request for him to re-commence research into the dark world of biological warfare.
‘I had a private drink after the game with his advisor, Dan Esposito, and he thinks I’ve got all the right cards. Solid business credentials, runs on the board, good family background and not only that,’ Halliwell added enthusiastically, ‘Esposito has told me quietly that my links to Jerry Buffett and his church won’t do me any harm either. Buffett’s likely to get behind my nomination and he’ll bring thousands of other churches on board with him. And that,’ Halliwell said, helping himself to a large bourbon, ‘is a very big plus.’
‘I think this calls for champagne,’ Simone said. A little while later she emerged from the penthouse’s stylish kitchen with a bottle of Krug, vintage 1964.
‘To Richard Halliwell, the next President of the United States,’ Simone said, handing him a slender crystal flute and raising her own in a salute.
‘President Halliwell. I think the business world will get behind me, don’t you?’ he asked.
‘Of course, darling. They couldn’t wish for a better champion. Who’s going to run your campaign?’ she asked, already alert to any threats to her own position.
‘Esposito. There isn’t anyone better,’ Halliwell replied, raising his chin arrogantly and staring out over the hills. Around the foreshores lights were glimmering in the distance.
‘It would be good to meet this Dan Esposito,’ Simone said provocatively as she leaned against Halliwell. ‘What would you like for dinner? I thought we’d eat in tonight.’
‘You don’t want to eat in the restaurant?’
‘You’ve just had a game of golf with the President of the United States, Richard,’ Simone replied, immediately taking control of image and PR. ‘The golf club members know about it, so it won’t be long before the rest of the world does. As the next President of the United States, you have a reputation to protect,’ she said, adjusting the collar of his golf shirt and letting her hand slide over his chest. ‘Can you imagine what the Democrats would do with a photograph of you and I having an intimate dinner? That’s an ad campaign we don’t need, darling, even if I am going to be your private secretary in the White House. Besides, I thought a dinner with just the two of us would be rather nice.’
Richard Halliwell walked unsteadily across the penthouse to where Simone was now reclining on the lounge that faced the big windows overlooking the vineyards far below. Simone’s red hair cascaded over her shoulders, the low-cut, black evening gown accentuating her generous cleavage.
‘I think we should fuck,’ Halliwell said thickly, grabbing at her breast.
Simone groaned inwardly. She never missed an opportunity to exploit Halliwell’s weakness for sex but when he was drunk, and he was now very drunk, it was a case of humouring him and getting it over with, although drunk or sober, getting it over with was the usual.
Halliwell put his drink on the coffee table, spilling champagne on the polished glass. He unzipped his fly and fumbled for his small, half-erect penis.
‘Suck my cock,’ he demanded, pushing his groin towards Simone’s face.
‘More comfortable in the bedroom,’ she answered in a throaty voice.
Halliwell fell over while he was trying to get his trousers off and had to clamber into the bed from the floor. He crawled on top of Simone and, to her surprise, she found that he was hard, despite the alcohol. Even though his erection was tiny she winced as he forced himself into her.
‘Fuck me, Mr President, fuck me,’ she whispered huskily. ‘Oh yes! Yeeesss.’ It was a well-practised routine for Simone Carstairs but tonight the faked orgasm was not really needed. Richard Halliwell groaned as he came almost immediately, farted, rolled off her and fell asleep.
CHAPTER 36
PESHAWAR, NORTH-WEST FRONTIER
B ill Crawford slowed his vehicle as he approached the Old City of Peshawar and the Street of the Storytellers. The narrow road was almost impassable. Pashtun tribesmen mingled with the Taliban as donkey carts competed with brightly coloured buses, tuk-tuks and bicycles. The air was thick with the aroma of spices, pomegranates, goat cheese and the smell of greasy slices of mutton sizzling on braziers beside the crowded thoroughfare. In the back of the shops and bazaars that were crammed together, hot forges were fired by old tyres and hundreds of gunsmiths were turning scrap metal into rifles of dubious quality. An acrid smoke hung heavily over the city. Every few minutes the sound of gunfire could be heard as the gunsmiths took their life into their hands and tested their newly manufactured wares. Photographs of Osama bin Laden, Mullah Omar and al-Zawahiri hung proudly above stalls that offered tea brewed in Russian samovars. Alongside the gunsmiths other merchants were peddling fruit, ceramics, carpets and prayer mats.
Instinctively Crawford felt for his shoulder holster. Every man in the city was armed with a Kalashnikov and a lot of them had bandoliers of ammunition over their shoulders. The few women around were covered from head to toe in black burqas, their eyes hidden behind fine mesh. Suddenly, in among the chaos, he saw it. The Hyderabad Laundry Company Toyota pulled out of a laneway about 100 metres ahead, scattering a herd of goats that had added to the impossible congestion on the Street of the Storytellers.
A more experienced agent might have held back and wondered if this sudden appearance was mere coincidence or something more sinister, but Crawford was keen to make up for his mistake earlier that day. He forced his car past the goats, ignoring the shouts and remonstrations of the gnarled and bearded goatherd.
The Toyota turned left and Crawford followed it down a na
rrow dirt road. As they headed towards the more upmarket area of University Town, the gunsmiths’ bazaars and roadside stalls gradually gave way to large villas on spacious grounds, hidden behind big whitewashed walls. Bill Crawford slowed as the Toyota stopped 200 metres ahead of him. Unfamiliar with the area, and with the lectures on Pakistani culture a distant memory, Crawford unwittingly pulled over past a set of iron gates. If he’d had more experience he would have chosen a safer place to stop. The gates shielded the driveway and entrance to one of Osama bin Laden’s madrassa compounds. He might also have locked his doors, but he didn’t.
Sitting in the passenger seat of the Toyota, al-Falid dialed a number and allowed it to ring three times. He hung up and moved his head slightly so that the side mirror gave him a clear view of the infidel’s red Suzuki. Three minutes later twenty students slipped out of the front gates of the madrassa and approached the Suzuki from behind. al-Falid knew the infidel would be totally focused on his Toyota and he watched with satisfaction as the young Islamic students closed in on their quarry. One of the CIA’s newest recruits was about to discover how dangerous Peshawar could be.
Bill Crawford concentrated on the Toyota ahead of him. Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted as the door of the Suzuki was wrenched open and he was dragged onto the dirt road. He tried to reach for his shoulder holster but his arms were being forced behind his back and his hands were securely tied, the thin wire tearing into his flesh. His assailants turned him around, slamming his head against the Suzuki’s door pillar with bone-crunching force. Searing pain flooded his body.
Bill Crawford tried to keep his focus on the group of young men that surrounded him. There seemed to be a big crowd of them all dressed in loosely fitting robes and black turbans and they were seething with anger, their chants getting louder and louder. ‘ Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allah is Great! Allah is Great!
Young Taliban, Crawford thought, but how… where had they come from? He knew there were still remnants hiding in the mountains of the Hindu Kush, yet here they were in broad daylight on a public road in the capital city of the North-West Frontier. The station chief’s last words about Peshawar not being a tourist resort suddenly came home. Crawford looked from left to right vainly hoping for assistance. He fought against a rising panic as he saw a man get out of the passenger side of the white Toyota and walk towards him. There was no mistaking who he was – al-Falid, the Cairo-born American whom he’d been assigned to tail from the Islamabad International Airport.
‘ Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allah is Great! Allah is Great.’
Crawford felt a chill run down his spine as the chants echoed off the whitewashed walls.
‘Death to the Infidel! Death to the Infidel!’
As al-Falid reached the group the chanting died down and the young Taliban parted respectfully.
‘Why are you following me?’ al-Falid asked. Crawford was taken aback at the hatred in the man’s dark eyes and he remained silent. al-Falid nodded to one of the young students wielding an AK-47. Crawford grunted in pain as the butt of the rifle smashed against his chin.
‘I asked you a question, infidel. Why are you following me?’ al-Falid demanded, the fury of his hatred for America and her allies colouring his voice. al-Falid again nodded to the gun-wielding student and the young CIA officer choked back a bellow of pain as the rifle butt smashed into his face again, breaking his jaw. Bill Crawford began drifting in and out of consciousness as the group once again started up their chant.
‘ Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! God is Great! God is Great!’ al-Falid spat on Crawford’s bruised and shattered face, then nodded to one of the young students fingering a jambiyyah, a viciously curved dagger. The young Islamist started to chant ‘Buzkashi! Buzkashi! Buzkashi!’ As the realisation of what the chant meant penetrated through the mists of pain, Bill Crawford could feel his legs beginning to give way. Buzkashi was the traditional game of polo that was played in Afghanistan, and the students wanted a ball.
Bill Crawford’s eyes widened in horror as the huge blade whistled through the air towards him, taking his head off in one brutal sweep. Bill’s head bounced twice before rolling into a dusty hole in the road, leaving a trail of blood. Jerky streams of bright red blood sprayed out of his aorta as his still frantically beating heart found little resistance. al-Falid stepped back as the students bundled the headless corpse of the infidel back into the Suzuki and doused the small four-wheel drive in petrol. Just before the match was lit Bill Crawford’s mobile rang but al-Falid motioned for the students to ignore it. As the phone rang out, it beeped as Natalie left a message. ‘Tabatha wanted to say goodnight, darling. We both love you very much and we miss you.’ The Suzuki burst into flames. al-Falid looked on in satisfaction as he watched the students tossing the infidel’s head to one another as they walked back up the drive of the madrassa. One of them stepped back and dropped the head, laughing as he tried to avoid the spattering of blood. The discarded head lay facing the clear blue sky, the last moments of pain permanently frozen in the lifeless eyes.
CHAPTER 37
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
B ack in his office the next day Curtis O’Connor scanned the satellite photographs of the burning Suzuki. There was something about the grainy image of the older man in the loose-fitting shalwat kameez that bothered him, but the late nights were taking their toll and even the best could miss a vital clue.
O’Connor read the short report on the loss of another agent with a rising sense of anger. Both he and Tom McNamara had warned the new Director not to send young and inexperienced agents into countries like Pakistan, but their warnings had fallen on deaf ears. It was an arrogance that was costing America dearly, O’Connor thought bitterly. Another widow, another child without a father.
‘Fucking politicians,’ O’Connor swore softly. Islamabad had their suspicions about who was responsible but the academic had disappeared and there wasn’t anything concrete to link him with the gruesome murder. Curtis made a note to issue instructions to Homeland Security for al-Falid to be detained and questioned on his return to the country. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.
‘Professor Sayed, it’s good to see you again,’ Curtis said, nodding his thanks to the Professor’s escort.
‘Please, take a seat.’ Curtis O’Connor shook Imran’s hand firmly and offered him a chair. ‘I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here?’
Imran Sayed smiled. ‘Nothing surprises me anymore, Curtis, but yes, it did cross my mind. I hadn’t realised Halliwell’s links included the CIA.’
‘Up until a few days ago they didn’t, or at least not official ones,’ O’Connor replied. ‘Do you know Richard Halliwell?’
‘Only by reputation,’ Imran replied enigmatically.
Curtis looked the Professor in the eye, realising that they could spend the next hour fencing or cut to the chase. He already knew that, quite apart from Sayed’s unsurpassed international reputation, the Professor held top-secret clearances at the highest level, which meant he’d been positively vetted – an exhaustive process involving referee’s reports, scrutiny of bank accounts, credit cards, spending habits. In short, Sayed’s public and private life had been put under the microscope. There wasn’t much about Imran Sayed that the FBI, the CIA and Curtis O’Connor didn’t already know, and O’Connor’s respect for the man had only grown as he’d looked through his file. Even though he’d been described as a devout Muslim, Sayed seemed prepared to question anyone whose actions in the name of Islam didn’t benefit the ummah or community, especially fundamentalists like Osama bin Laden. Sayed was a widower and Curtis noted that he had never remarried nor did he seem to have anyone special in his life, preferring instead to devote himself to the pursuit of medical science. Imran’s love of wine was perhaps unusual for a Muslim but then Imran was one whom O’Connor classed as a moderate, and in O’Connor’s view, the world needed as many moderates as could be found, not just from Islam. He decided to come straight to the
point.
‘What I’m going to tell you, Imran, is for your ears only, regardless of whether or not you agree to become part of the program, and I want your agreement that you won’t disclose this to anyone,’ Curtis emphasised.
‘If that’s going to save time, Curtis, I appreciate your candour. You have my agreement,’ Imran replied with a knowing smile.
Curtis grinned. Here was a man he could work with, Curtis thought, and he gave Professor Sayed the background to P LASMID.
‘Halliwell Pharmaceuticals has been chosen because of its isolation, and unlike CDC or USAMRIID, access to the Halliwell Level 4 laboratory can be restricted to those on the program. Once the current experiments with smallpox at CDC have been completed, the staff at CDC will be told those experiments are being closed down. What they will not be told is that the program, together with Dr Richard Meyers, a veterinary surgeon who I think you know, and one or two assistants from the animal room, will shift to Halliwell. Essentially I will provide you and Dr Braithwaite with top-secret briefings on what we think the Russians and the Islamic fundamentalists might have achieved to date, and what they might be capable of in the future, including the genetic engineering of viruses. Your task will be to replicate those experiments, together with whatever other experiments you yourselves might deem necessary to give us a feel for what we’re up against and what vaccines can be developed to protect us here in mainland United States and overseas. That also includes the protection of US and other western teams at the Beijing Olympics.’
Imran took a deep breath. ‘That’s a pretty broad brief, Curtis. I appreciate you have a strong background in this field, but does the Administration have any idea how dangerous this might get? Let me give you one example. If the genome of the India-1 strain of smallpox ever fell into the wrong hands, it would not be beyond a state-sponsored laboratory to completely replicate it using polymerase chain reactions. Today’s genetic engineering of viruses makes Huxley’s Brave New World look like a kids’ picnic, and combining something like Ebola with smallpox doesn’t even bear thinking about.’
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