‘Which is precisely why we do need to think about it, Imran,’ Curtis responded, with more conviction than he felt.
‘How much time do I have for this decision?’
‘Not a lot. The President is pretty toey so I’ll need your answer by the end of the week. I’m talking to your colleague later this afternoon.’
Imran nodded. ‘I think I should warn you, Doctor Braithwaite is likely to tell you guys what you can do with the rough end of a pineapple,’ he said with a smile, remembering one of Kate’s expressions. ‘She’s Australian and not afraid to speak her mind. Braithwaite is more than a little upset over the present experiments on the Great Apes at CDC, and not without justification.’
‘What’s she like as a scientist?’
‘Kate Braithwaite is undoubtedly the best young scientist I have encountered in my entire career. I would not be at all surprised if one day we see her in Oslo being awarded a Nobel.’
‘That good?’
‘That good.’
‘Then I will do my best to get her on board. Do you have any influence with her?’
‘A little and if I’m going to be a part of this she would be my first and last choice as a colleague, but that would involve me being able to talk to her.’
‘From what you’ve told me it may come to that, and if that will make the difference I’ll authorise you to do it.’ O’Connor had never been afraid to bend the rules if it meant getting a result. ‘After I’ve spoken to her, I’ll let you know.’
CHAPTER 38
PESHAWAR, NORTH-WEST FRONTIER
A mon al-Falid walked unhurriedly down the Street of the Storytellers and through the teeming Kissa Khawani Bazaar. He was in good spirits but he remained alert and watchful; where there was one CIA agent there were likely to be more. Another infidel had been dealt with and the Americans still had no idea who he really was. Like the London bombers, he was one of their own, and he said a silent prayer of thanks for Kadeer’s foresight in persuading him to stay the course and endure the campus taunts against Islam, something for which the infidel would now pay and pay dearly. al-Falid was very confident that Kadeer’s plans could be executed successfully, and at last, Allah be praised, the one true religion of Islam could be spread the length and breadth of the earth.
He paused at a leather goods stall in the crowded bazaar and casually looked around to make sure he wasn’t being followed. The Urdu-speaking al-Falid mingled effortlessly among the teeming humanity of the Old City. He moved on, glancing at a sign outside what passed for the lobby of a hotel. It read ‘Guns cannot be brought into the hotel. Gunmen must check their arms at reception’. al-Falid smiled to himself. The wild west of Pakistan was one that the US would come to fear, and unlike the Dodge Cities of US history, Peshawar and the North-West Frontier Province would never be tamed. A little further down the Street of the Storytellers, he passed a barber’s shop. The first customer was already seated in the old wooden chair out the front, his head resting on a tattered leather headrest that had been tied to a stick poking up from the chair’s back, and the barber was sharpening a fearsome-looking blade on a black leather strop. Next to the barber’s, above a grubby corrugated iron awning, an alarming 2-metre high painting of gleaming white teeth and garish pink gums announced that a dentist was open to those who might be brave enough to enter. al-Falid shook his head good-naturedly to yet another offer of ‘tuk-tuk?’, and he stopped briefly in front of a brazier stall, feigning interest in the kebabs that were sizzling on the grate. Again he mentally photographed the narrow thoroughfare with its brightly coloured tuk-tuks competing with the donkeys pulling tongas that were overloaded with sacks of spices, seeds and potatoes. Satisfied, al-Falid turned off into a twisting side alley, pausing for a final check before he reached the entrance to the al-Qaeda safe house. The doors were solid teak and the understated but delicate carving was an exquisite example of the very architecture he claimed to be studying.
After the pre-arranged knock, the heavy doors opened and one of Kadeer’s bodyguards beckoned him inside with a wave of his Kalashnikov. al-Falid followed the man down some worn wooden steps into a cellar that was nearly 12 metres below the ground. It was similar to those of many of the houses in the Old City, designed to keep food and other stores cool during the scorching summers. This one served the same purpose, but it also provided protection against eavesdropping.
As al-Falid entered the cellar, the unmistakable figure of Dr Khalid Kadeer rose from the big cushions scattered on the matting covering the dirt floor. He greeted al-Falid with a traditional hug and kisses to both cheeks.
‘Welcome Amon. Your trip was without incident?’
‘Not entirely,’ al-Falid said.
‘They are very arrogant and stupid, these Americans,’ Kadeer observed when al-Falid had finished filling in his spiritual leader on the events of the past 48 hours. ‘That is one of the reasons they will probably not heed the warnings I am about to send them,’ he said, a touch of sadness in his voice.
‘I hope they don’t,’ al-Falid replied angrily. ‘Their religious leaders are now describing Islam as an evil religion. One of them referred to the great Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, as a “demon obsessed paedophile”!’ al-Falid almost choked on the words, determined that his leader should understand what was happening in the land of the great Satan.
‘I heard those remarks,’ Kadeer said quietly. ‘al-Jazeera, Allah be praised, is now providing us all with a great service.’
‘Then you have seen the cartoons Khalid!’
Kadeer nodded. ‘We should not be so concerned about those, Amon,’ he said, cautioning his lieutenant against emotion. ‘Islam is bigger than that. As Muslims we should not forget ahl al-kitab, the Jews and the Christians, the People of the Book. The great Prophet, peace be upon him, was always mindful of the earlier revelations of Abraham, and he always instructed us to treat the people of the earlier revelations, the Jews and the Christians, with respect. It is not the People of the Book with whom we quarrel, Amon. Our quarrel is with the corrupt and lying western and Chinese leaders who persecute our people in the Middle East and in Xinjiang. Our quarrel is with the western Imams who denounce the Angel Gabriel’s revelations to the Prophet, peace be upon him, and who ridicule Islam and the way we dress, encouraging the Jews and the Christians to rise up against us.’ The great Muslim philosopher still hoped for a peaceful solution, but not at the expense of his people and his faith.
‘The plans for the attacks are on schedule?’ he asked al-Falid.
CHAPTER 39
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
K ate Braithwaite fought to keep her anger in check as the government car that had been sent for her sped along Route 123 into McLean, Virginia, but she kept reflecting on the day’s events. The jerk of a Colonel in charge of USAMRIID had refused point blank to see her. After she’d got his letter of reassignment as a liaison officer to Halliwell Pharmaceuticals she’d demanded an interview but she hadn’t got past ‘J what’s-his-number’.
‘The Colonel is very busy with matters of state, Dr Braithwaite, and he regrets he’ll be unable to see you,’ Captain Crawshaw had said very seriously, standing in front of Colonel Wassenberg’s sandbagged door and barring her entry to the inner bunker.
‘Did you have to rehearse that, Crawshaw, or does that sort of official bullshit just come naturally,’ she’d replied, before storming off. Sycophantic fuckwit, she thought. She’d felt like decking him and if it hadn’t been for Imran’s counsel to ‘go with the flow’ to see what the system was up to, she would have resigned on the spot. Kate had enormous respect for the Professor’s judgement; perhaps there was a need to stay and fight the system from within but for the life of her she couldn’t see much chance of changing things. Halliwell Pharmaceuticals, she knew, concentrated on one thing, and one thing alone – profits. Kate Braithwaite’s sense of foreboding increased as the government car slowed, turning into the main entrance to the Central Intelligence Agency.
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‘Why are we turning into the CIA?’ she asked the driver.
‘Sorry Ma’am?’
‘This is the Central Intelligence Agency. Why are we stopping here?’ Kate demanded.
‘I’m sorry Ma’am, my instructions are to bring you here.’
Kate said nothing. No point in taking her frustrations out on the driver, who was only doing his job. Her anger was not diminished by the speed with which she was ushered through security, only to find a rugged and impossibly good-looking man she judged to be in his late thirties to early forties waiting for her just past the main reception desk.
‘Dr Braithwaite. Hi, I’m Curtis O’Connor.’
Kate shook his hand, taken aback by the warmth of his smile and intrigued by the touch of Irish brogue in his voice, but considering the events of the last 24 hours she was not about to be beguiled by anyone. She glared at Curtis, saying nothing.
‘I can understand that all of this will be somewhat of a surprise, Doctor, but I promise all will be revealed shortly,’ Curtis said easily, ushering her across the 5-metre wide granite seal of the CIA that was set into the floor.
‘Can I get you a coffee? It’s brewed, my own machine,’ O’Connor said with a boyish grin, indicating the Faema espresso machine that he’d somehow squeezed into a corner of a bookcase. ‘The Agency stuff’s undrinkable.’
‘Black, thank you,’ Kate replied, relaxing a little. Curtis O’Connor was charming and she felt her anger subsiding. The few Agency people she had encountered had been excruciatingly boring and bound by regulations, but this man seemed very different. Kate quickly reminded herself that he was probably part of the same team that the Colonel was on, and she remained on her guard.
‘You have an impressive resume, Doctor.’ Curtis O’Connor had decided he would play the feisty Australian by the book. No first names until he had gained her confidence. As he was about to find out, it would be a wise strategy.
‘What I’m about to tell you is classified above top secret, so I’m going to need your agreement that regardless of your decision it doesn’t go out of this room, and that you don’t mention it to anyone without my permission.’
‘You’re calling the shots here, Mr O’Connor.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Curtis said, flashing another disarming smile.
It was hard not to warm to this guy, Kate thought, but as Curtis outlined the real reason for her secondment to Halliwell Pharmaceuticals any softening of her opinion of him disappeared. Kate waited until Curtis had finished. Yet again she had to fight to control her anger over the stupidity of this Administration.
‘Have you any idea of how dangerous this sort of meddling with viruses is?’
Curtis O’Connor looked at her and nodded.
‘I don’t think you do, Mr O’Connor!’ Kate said, her exasperation coming to the fore. ‘I doubt that you people in your cloistered little world have ever heard of polymerase chain reactions, but let me tell you what that technique might produce in the wrong hands.’
He held back a grin. Fascinated by the mysteries of DNA, Curtis O’Connor had done his honours thesis in biochemistry on the very subject he was about to get a lecture on, albeit a lecture from one of the world’s most promising virologists and a very angry one at that. Curtis O’Connor did have strong sympathy for Kate Braithwaite’s views, and her gorgeous looks hadn’t escaped his notice either. He wisely decided against letting her know too much about his background. He wanted her on the program. For the moment it was better to let this explanation run. It might even pay dividends later on, he thought mischievously.
Kate reached across his desk and took the blank yellow pad and pen that were lying near Curtis’ in-tray. She drew the helix for DNA. ‘Deoxyribonucleic acid or DNA, Mr O’Connor, is made up of four nucleotides – adenylate, guanylate, thymidylate and cytidylate.’ Kate’s pencil flashed down the page as she drew the complex structure of phosphodiester bonds and pentose rings that made up the exquisite helix that Watson and Crick, with the help of some others, had discovered in 1953.
‘Otherwise known as A, G, T and C. A always pairs with T, and G always pairs with C. That’s important because if even a minute amount of India-1 strain of smallpox ever gets into the wrong hands, a single strand of smallpox DNA will always pair off with its complimentary sequence, and the bioterrorists can use a probe of known DNA to analyse that sequence. Not only that, Mr O’Connor, using a technique known as polymerase chain reactions, or PCR, means that we only need tiny amounts to produce all of the original DNA. In short, we are getting very close to being able to manufacture the complete genome of smallpox or any other deadly virus.’
Curtis O’Connor listened with wry amusement as Doctor Braithwaite filled three pages, making extremely complex chemistry look simple. She explained the PCR laboratory techniques that would enable a bioterrorist to manufacture new DNA using enzymes that would replicate sequences between primers bound to highly specific sites on the original DNA strand, much the same as DNA replicated itself within a normal cell. As she finished outlining the chilling possibilities of the ‘brave new world’ of biochemistry, her green eyes flashed at him with fury. Doctor Braithwaite would, Curtis thought, make an outstanding Professor if she ever chose to go down that route. Right now he wondered how he might get her on side. He needed her expertise in what would be the most lethal laboratory on the planet.
Kate finished her ‘lecture’ with a final and simple diagram. ‘It’s now possible, Mr O’Connor, to replicate deadly viruses like Ebola, Marburg and smallpox by taking a single strand of nucleic acid and joining it to another to make a double.’
Listening to Kate, Curtis O’Connor almost kicked himself. Of course! Where the single strand meets its double. The chilling words of Khalid Kadeer had suddenly become very, very clear. The final attack would be biological, involving the synthetic manufacture of a virus whose DNA the terrorists had access to.
Curtis O’Connor was only half right. Throughout history science had always had a dark side, and Kadeer was close to harnessing a power that would crush the human race.
CHAPTER 40
PESHAWAR, NORTH-WEST FRONTIER
K halid Kadeer reached for a date in a bowl on the low table, listening intently as al-Falid outlined his plans for the first warning attack.
‘My original plan was to detonate a large amount of explosive on the bottom of the harbour, to be delivered at night by rolling 44-gallon drums off the back of a slowly moving fishing trawler. The infidel has changed the rules and trawling at night is no longer possible. I’m still hoping that we can get some explosives into position, and we’ve been carrying out tests with small aluminium pontoons that have inflatable airbags attached to them. The main attack will have to be carried out on the surface using HEAT – high explosive anti-tank rockets. But don’t worry, Khalid,’ al-Falid said with a sinister smile. ‘I’m having the trawler modified into a floating shaped charge, and it will follow the HEAT rockets to the target, although the timing will be crucial as it can only happen at high tide.’ al-Falid pushed one of the mats aside and drew a diagram of the target city on the dirt floor, using two candlesticks to mark the extremities of a world-renowned icon. ‘Even though they’re minor, the preliminary attacks on the shore will still cause the infidel untold grief. The land attacks are all scheduled to occur just minutes before the major seaborne attack. If the first ship fails for any reason, a second ship will be following in reserve. The reserve ship’s target is here,’ al-Falid said, pointing to another well-known landmark.
‘The crews for the two ships are in place?’ Khalid Kadeer asked.
‘It’s taken more than four years to bring this to fruition, Khalid, but we have a man on the Ocean Venturer and the tanker makes regular trips from the Middle East to the target. If Allah is willing he will succeed. The plan for the reserve ship is also well advanced. We’ve secured a long lease on the Jerusalem Bay, a 7500-ton container ship. It’s only small but it will suit our purpose.’
Khalid smiled. The name of the second ship held a powerful irony. ‘And the fertiliser?’ he asked.
‘We have a contract with the UN to deliver fertiliser to Liberia. The infidels weren’t interested in such a small contract, so it has worked out perfectly.’ It had indeed been a masterstroke. ‘We’re also in the process of having the Jerusalem Bay registered in the target port. As a regular visitor to the port the harbour authorities will get used to it coming and going and they will relax the need for entry with a pilot.’
Nearly 9000 kilometres away, the Jerusalem Bay was to the north of the port of Monrovia, maintaining a steady 12 knots in the pre-dawn darkness. The cargo had been provided by UN funding for the struggling war-torn nation of Liberia. In amongst the badly needed water pumps and generators were twenty containers of fertiliser from the target country. Not all of the contents of the containers would be delivered to the farmers who desperately needed it. Five very special containers would be filled with fertiliser explosive in a heavily guarded warehouse on the outskirts of a Muslim ghetto in Paynesville, 16 kilometres down the coast road from the capital, Monrovia.
‘The regional seed and fertiliser company that we purchased in the target country two years ago is producing everything we need, and we’ve also started up a small trucking company in the city itself. It’s not making much money though,’ al-Falid smiled ruefully, ‘because the infidels are corrupt and the big contracts are always worked out in advance.’
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