‘That’s not a bad thing for us, Amon. If we’re not competing too hard, then no one will be taking much notice. Do we have enough stingers for the first attack?’
‘I purchased them in Darra Adam Khel and,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘they should have been transferred to one of the Pakistan Intelligence Agency’s own trucks. The ISI will deliver them to Karachi. The stingers for the other warning attacks have already been delivered by tugboat. You were right, Khalid. The infidel’s security concentrates on container ships. Tugboats don’t attract much attention; and if the first attack is to succeed the tugboats and the stingers will be vital,’ al-Falid acknowledged, pointing to a critical weak point in the Islamists’ plan. ‘The infidel’s soldiers are among the best in the world, Khalid, and they’ve been training for an event such as this.’
‘The infidel’s soldiers are formidable, Amon, but they’re only lightly armed. You’re confident of getting the stingers out of Pakistan?’ he asked. al-Falid nodded. ‘If Allah, the Most Kind, the Most Merciful is willing, both the tugboats and the stingers will make it to their destination. We have many friends in the Pakistani Intelligence, Khalid, and all of them are dedicated to Islam resuming its rightful place in the world. I’m hoping that the wharves of Karachi will not be a problem.’
It was one of the CIA’s and the US Administration’s great frustrations. The ISI, the powerful Pakistani Inter Service Intelligence agency had its own hard-line Islamic agenda and it was not about to change for even the Pakistani President, let alone a country like the United States which provided India with so much support against the Muslims in Kashmir.
‘The tugs are ready?’ Khalid asked, pouring some green tea from the ornate Russian samovar standing on a brass tray. al-Falid nodded. ‘My son, Malik is in charge of them,’ Amon said proudly, then his face darkened at the thought of his son. Malik had lost his wife and two young daughters at the hands of the notorious Egyptian secret police that were part of the US Administration’s ‘Extraordinary Rendition Program’; a program that used secret prisons in third countries around the world to get around the Geneva convention on torture. Amon’s daughter-in-law was caught up in a demonstration near the Sa’d Zaghlul shrine in Cairo. The opposition party Kifaya, or ‘enough’ in Arabic, had been protesting against twenty-five years of the dictatorship in Egypt when the riot police had waded into the crowd. The two little girls had been trampled and when Malik’s wife had tried to shield them, she had been beaten to death by plainclothes security men. It had not escaped either al-Falid or his son Malik’s notice that the Egyptian regime received more than US$2 billion a year from the United States, the second highest funding support in the world after Israel. Now al-Falid and his son Malik would get their revenge.
In the port of Monrovia, three battered-looking ocean-going tugboats, the Winston Churchill, the Montgomery and the Wavell, were preparing to put to sea. The Winston Churchill was completing a final delivery of radioactive teletherapy heads in case a subsequent warning attack became necessary. The Montgomery and the Wavell ’s first destination was Karachi, where they would pick up the consignment of stinger missiles. From there, after some stinger missile training en-route, they would head towards one of the world’s finest harbours and set in devastating motion the plans for the first warning attack.
CHAPTER 41
PORT OF MONROVIA, LIBERIA
T he 1800-ton ocean-going tug, the Montgomery, and her sister tugs, the Wavell and the Winston Churchill rode uneasily on the restless harbour swell that alternately pushed and pulled at the United Towage Company berths in the capital of Liberia. The thick mooring ropes strained and creaked against the rusted bollards on the broken concrete of the dimly lit, dilapidated main wharf in the Freeport of Monrovia. Low asbestos warehouses, holes in the roofs, garish green paint peeling from their sides, stretched the length of the 600-metre pier. Halfway down the pier the wreck of a small 5000-ton container ship lay on its side. It had been there for over three years and rusted containers were still half submerged on the decks and in the holds, the result of a disastrous miscalculation on ballast. Like the piles of rotting rubbish in the main streets of the city, the Port of Monrovia was a symbol of more than a decade of civil war. For al-Qaeda, the location was perfect.
Below the decks of the Montgomery, Hani Bassnan, a wiry, wizened engineer of indeterminate age, was going through the start up procedures for the two huge, reconditioned Daihatsu diesel engines. The turquoise paint gleamed under the soft lights of the engine room. The massive diesels each put out 5000 horsepower to two enormous propellers that were encased in large nozzles beneath the hull. Rudders were now unnecessary. Protruding deep into the ocean, the propellers could swivel through 360 degrees in an instant. The engine room was spotless and packed with air and hydraulic hoses and a myriad of other pipes connected to heavy gearboxes, hydraulic pumps and steering. Towards the aft of the engine room, a small soundproof control room served as Hani’s office; a mass of warning and control lights quietly winking on the console. Further aft, a hydraulically controlled watertight steel door was open. Once they were underway the hydraulic door would be sealed. If the aft compartment housing the propeller units and the engine room were to flood the Montgomery would go straight to the bottom.
Hani checked the big sumps on the diesels. The oil was constantly circulated through a purifier and it looked clean. He opened the sea valves that provided the seawater cooling, then he checked the big steering pumps. Next he started one of two huge caterpillar generators, checked that the banks of compressed air cylinders were full, and disconnected the shore power. Satisfied, he moved back to his control room and pushed the ‘Start’ button for the starboard main engine. A burst of compressed air exploded into the number one cylinder and then into successive cylinders as each massive piston passed through top dead centre. The fuel-air mixture followed and the main engine burst into life, the big flywheel settling down to just under 100 revs per minute. Hani grinned to himself as he went through an identical procedure for the port engine, doubling the noise in the confines below decks. Hani had been around tugs for nearly fifty years and nothing gave him greater satisfaction, other than doing the will of Allah, than to be below decks among the diesel and the oil, the raw power pulsating beneath his feet.
On the bridge, nearly 18 metres above him, Captain Malik al-Falid was preparing to put to sea. In this cell, he knew how critical the tugs were to the success of the mission. He scanned the weather forecasts with an increasing sense of foreboding and glanced at the black gradations inside the brass casing of the barometer above his head – 980 hPa and falling. Beyond the breakwater lay two oceans, both of them renowned for angry mood swings.
Malik al-Falid had just turned 28 and was young for a tug captain. His dark face was pockmarked and his hair was black and curly. His alert brown eyes reflected a deep sadness that could never be eased, at least not in his lifetime. Malik glanced at the framed photograph that had a permanent place to the left of the depth sounder on the polished marine ply console. It was a photograph of his wife and two daughters aged four and five. It wouldn’t be long now and if Allah willed it he would be able to avenge their death at the hands of the hated secret police and their American allies. In just a few weeks he would join his wife and daughters in paradise.
As Malik al-Falid waited for the massive diesels below him to come up to operating temperature, he pulled open the chart drawer beneath the table on the starboard side of the wheelhouse and took out the chart for the approaches to the target city. It was highly unlikely that anyone in Monrovia would ever ask why he might have that particular chart, but just in case, the drawers held the charts of forty other major cities that an ocean-going tug might need at short notice. Malik had already committed this one to memory but somehow it gave him a sense of satisfaction to have the details of the infidel’s city out on the chart table, and he scanned it once again. The traffic in and out of the port was tightly regulated and the Jerusalem Bay would be restri
cted to an arrival through area Alpha to the north. Departures came out of the port through area Bravo. A new separation zone was marked on the chart between Alpha and Bravo, brought in because of a rivalry between incoming and outgoing vessels seeking to use the same set of navigation leads, and the port authorities had imposed a strict requirement for arriving ships to keep to the north of the leads at all times. Both he and the masters of the Wavell and the Jerusalem Bay would obey the regulations to the letter, and so would the Captain of the Ocean Venturer. He would have no choice. A pilot would board the big tanker at a point 4 miles due east from the lighthouse on the very edge of area Alpha. Malik traced the route they would take. The tanker would be allowed in first and once it reached the sea buoy inside the entrance, the pilot would turn the lumbering giant from area Alpha towards the Western channel, a channel that was 210 metres wide with a minimum depth of 13.7 metres at low water. The Jerusalem Bay would be next on the schedule. The authorities would log that the Montgomery and the Wavell were midway through an ocean voyage and that they were scheduled to visit for refueling. With a bit of luck, their arrival at the same time as the tanker and the Jerusalem Bay would be put down to coincidence. If Allah willed it, Malik mused, when the port authorities discovered that the Montgomery and the Wavell were no ordinary tugs, it would be too late.
Malik put the chart away leaving the chart table bare. There was no chart for the soundings of Monrovia Freeport. In a country like Liberia one had to depend on local knowledge. Taking hold of one of two radio microphones dangling from the roof of the wheelhouse, Malik acknowledged his engineer’s signal that control of the big diesels had been transferred to the bridge and he radioed the deckhands to cast off.
Malik grasped the two gleaming throttle levers in his left hand and the steering joystick in his right and expertly moved the big tug sideways away from the pier. Rather like the control stick in a modern jet fighter, the joystick spun the big enclosed propellers in any direction and the dial on the console enabled him to read the precise direction of thrust. Malik eased the big throttles forward and 10,000 horsepower of diesel throbbed into life. The massive steel bow on the Montgomery was protected by huge tractor tyres. It dipped and then rose on the swell of the inner harbour, parting the waters. The Wavell followed in her wake as they powered towards the gap between the two rocky breakwaters where, beyond the entrance, a stormy Atlantic was waiting. In the half light of the approaching dawn, Malik could make out a bank of dark clouds rolling down the coast of Africa from the north and he checked his watch: 4.30 a.m. The Jerusalem Bay would have left the waters of Sierra Leone about midnight but he calculated that she would still be a good 40 nautical miles to the north-west. This would be the last delivery of fertiliser they would need. Malik had no idea that thousands of kilometres away two other cells were already inside the targeted country, preparing for attacks that would be launched at the same time. He steadied himself as the Montgomery reached the breakwater and the bow rose alarmingly against the first of the Atlantic swells before it smashed back down in a cloud of spray. The foam crashed against the reinforced glass that encased the wheelhouse and the big wipers worked furiously to clear the excess water as the two tugs headed into the gathering storm.
CHAPTER 42
UNITED STATES ARMY MEDICAL RESEARCH INSTITUTE FOR INFECTIOUS
DISEASES, FORT DETRICK, MARYLAND
P rofessor Sayed took a seat beside Kate’s desk.
‘This is my resignation, Imran,’ Kate said, holding up a piece of paper, furious at what the Administration was up to and the deception of people like Wassenberg. Ever since his meeting with Curtis O’Connor, Imran had concluded that the Administration had no real idea of the catastrophic implications of their decision to restart the biowarfare program. He had decided that it would be far safer for the whole program, and ultimately perhaps even humanity, if he stuck around to influence things.
‘So you told him no?’ he asked.
‘In a way that there wasn’t any part of “no” he wouldn’t understand,’ Kate replied angrily. ‘I even drew him a diagram, Imran, and explained how science can replicate even the smallest strand of DNA. Didn’t make a scrap of bloody difference.’
‘You drew him a diagram of DNA?’
‘Pentoses, phosphates, pyrimidine bases, the bloody lot!’
Imran grinned, his eyes twinkling.
‘I don’t see what’s funny!’ Kate remonstrated, letting out a loud sigh.
‘I think the diagrams on DNA and polymerase chain reactions might have been a touch superfluous,’ Imran replied, still smiling.
‘Why?’
‘Because although Curtis O’Connor might be a CIA agent he did his honours chemistry thesis on polymerase chain reactions and he’s a Doctor of Science. He did his Doctorate on the probable effects of lethal viruses and biological weapons. He’s one of the few people in the CIA qualified to work in a hot lab.’
Kate put her head in her hands. She could feel her cheeks burning as she pictured Curtis O’Connor looking on at her furious explanations of hydrogen bonding, hydroxyl ions, monophosphates and a raft of other structures. ‘Oh fuck,’ she said softly. She looked up at Imran through her fingers. ‘You’re kidding!’
‘He was awarded his postgraduate Doctorate by the School of Biochemistry and Immunology at Trinity in Dublin.’
Kate shook her head in acute embarrassment. ‘Double fuck,’ she whispered, mortified.
‘Come on,’ Imran said. ‘It’s been a very long day. I’ll shout you dinner at that little restaurant in Foggy Bottom. I could do with a drink too.’
Imran held the wine glass against the white linen tablecloth and inspected the colour. He savoured the bouquet and tasted the wine before nodding to the waiter.
‘One of yours,’ he said, clinking his glass with Kate’s.
‘Pardon?’
‘Australian. A shiraz from Pepper Tree in the Hunter. Winemaker seems to know what he’s doing,’ he said, tasting the dark cherry and blackcurrant flavours.
Kate smiled wanly. ‘Sorry, I’m a little distracted and still embarrassed. I can’t believe O’Connor let me rabbit on like that,’ she said, taking a healthy sip from her own glass. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘Don’t be embarrassed. He isn’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he called me. He really wants you on this team.’
‘Team?’
‘He’s asked me to come onboard as well and he’s authorised me to talk to you. I’ve given this a lot of thought over the last few hours, Kate. You and I both know that this Administration hasn’t got a clue what they might be unleashing, which is all the more reason for trying to control it. O’Connor’s got a barn full of things on his plate already and he’s not going to be able to oversee what goes on in that lab every day.’
‘Maybe,’ Kate agreed reluctantly. ‘But if he’s so up on all of this how come I’ve never heard of him,’ she said.
Professor Sayed waited until the main course of Chesapeake Bay scallops and crabs in a creamy wine sauce with a hint of parsley was served and the waiter had retreated. Imran had chosen a discreet booth that was to one side of the main restaurant, but even so, he lowered his voice. ‘CIA agents don’t go around advertising themselves or who they work for.’
‘I guess not,’ Kate agreed, ‘and if they come up with reports and facts that don’t support this Administration’s policy the White House will blow their cover anyway,’ she added ruefully. Her cynicism towards politicians who so easily turned on their own was deepening. ‘Do you know O’Connor well?’ she asked, intrigued by the charming and intelligent man who worked in the shadows.
‘Only by reputation, and if that’s anything to go by, he’s one of the best. He’s not only highly intelligent but he’s also one of the few non-Muslims in this Administration who understand that it is not Islam that threatens the West, but the fundamentalists who misinterpret it.’
‘Do you think this Kadeer really wants everyone
to be under Islamic rule?’ Kate asked, keen to explore her mentor’s knowledge of a subject she knew little about.
Imran shook his head. ‘Some of his more fanatical lieutenants are convinced that’s the only path. If they have their way, ultimately western countries like the United States and Australia will be taken over by pan-Islam and subjected to Sharia law. To counter that we need ordinary Muslims onside. O’Connor knows that in addition to preparing defences against biological attacks, which is where you and I come in, the key to getting those moderate Muslims onside is to take a more even-handed approach.
‘To Muslim countries generally?’
Imran nodded. ‘Starting with Palestine. Those who support the fanatical view come from desperately poor backgrounds like the Israeli Occupied Territories. The West should have given much more support to the Palestinians,’ Imran explained, ‘because to escape from the misery imposed by the Israelis and the West, young Palestinian men and women are now attracted to madrassas like those on the Pakistan-Afghanistan border.
‘I know very little about Islam,’ Kate admitted, ‘but I’ve sometimes wondered if the Qu’ran encourages suicide bombings.’
‘Quite the opposite, and if you’re interested, I’ll give you one of my Qu’rans. Verse 46 from Chapter 29 in the Qu’ran is called “The Spider”. It should be compulsory reading for anyone who wants to understand Islam, although I don’t want to turn dinner into a lecture on it,’ he said with a smile.
‘You’re not,’ Kate assured him, intensely interested.
Imran quoted the verse. ‘“Do not argue with the People of the Book unless it is in the politest manner, except for those of them who do wrong. Say: We believe in what has been sent down to us and what has been sent down to you. Our God and your God is the Same One, and we are committed to observe peace before Him.” In essence, what Muhammad is making very clear is that Muslims must respect other religions unless the people that profess those faiths attack Islam. Unfortunately the huge numbers of innocent Muslims who’ve been killed since we invaded Iraq is enough to convince even the moderates that Islam is under attack from the West, and particularly from the United States, Britain and Australia.’
The Beijing conspiracy Page 17