‘The vials of Ebolapox, Amon?’ Dolinsky asked, worried. ‘They are extremely dangerous.’
‘You are to crate the liquid nitrogen trolleys and mark them ‘medical supplies’. They’re to be in the loading bay at precisely 4 p.m. tomorrow afternoon. I’ve arranged for one of Halliwell’s vehicles to pick up the crate. The drivers will be instructed to make sure it’s securely fastened to the floor of the truck but on no account are they to be told what’s in it. The paperwork being prepared will release the vaccines and the trucks will be met outside the port, as you will be, and I’ve arranged for your paperwork as well. Familiarise yourself with what is in this and destroy it,’ al-Falid commanded, handing Dolinsky a brown envelope. ‘This contains your new identity papers,’ he said, handing Dolinsky another smaller envelope. ‘Keep them on you at all times.’
The moonlight was reflected on a placid Savannah River as the George Washington, her cargoes safely loaded, eased away from the Ocean Terminal. Eduard Dolinsky felt some satisfaction at having achieved what many scientists a few years before thought was impossible; he also felt a strange sense of foreboding. He was confident in the vaccines in the hold but very worried about what might happen to the deadly vials stored in the big freezers alongside them. As they passed the Tybee Lighthouse and the tug’s massive bows rose to meet the swell of the Atlantic beyond, Eduard Dolinsky’s foreboding increased.
Sixteen days later, as Kate and Imran flew back into Washington and with just one week before the Opening Ceremony of the Beijing Olympics, the captain of the George Washington eased the twin throttles back and the tug steamed slowly into the Chinese port city of Qingdao. Situated on the Yellow Sea roughly 800 kilometres east of Beijing, Qingdao was the sixteenth largest port in the world with vast warehouse storage and loading facilities capable of handling more than 100 million tons of cargo and containers each year.
Dr Eduard Dolinsky scanned the shoreline, contempt in his dark eyes. In the city of seven million people the western influence was unmistakable. Terracotta tiles dating back to the days when the city was run by the Qing dynasty in the seventeenth century were overshadowed by crowded apartment buildings and soaring high-rise office blocks. Further to the north-east, clouds obscured the top of the 915-metre Mount Lao, the highest mountain on the Chinese coast. The Qingdao Bear Farm nestled in the foothills below the mountain’s ancient Tao palaces and temples.
The captain of the George Washington felt relaxed and confident. al-Qaeda tentacles reached into hundreds of large cities around the world, and given the Chinese government suppression of the Muslim Uighurs in Xinjiang, an al-Qaeda presence in Chinese cities had been inevitable and Qingdao was no exception. The sealed silver trunk with the vials of lethal Ebolapox was stored at the bottom of the tug’s big freezer near the galley. With over 100 million tons of cargo coming in every year, the authorities focused on containers, and even then they were only able to physically check a fraction of them. Like their western counterparts, Chinese customs officials relied on intelligence and tip-offs for interceptions of drugs, pornography and any western publications that might be considered harmful to the State. al-Qaeda’s finances ensured that both Dr Dolinsky and the trunks marked ‘medical supplies’ were driven out off the wharves in a Qingdao Port Authority four-wheel drive without inspection. After a simple vehicle change in nearby Mengzhang Road, Dolinsky and the Ebolapox were taken north through the big Renmin Road roundabout and then east towards the Qingdao Bear Farm 30 kilometres away at the base of Lao Shan in rural Shandong Province.
CHAPTER 87
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
‘W elcome back guys,’ Curtis said, refraining from giving Kate a kiss on the cheek. He shook hands with her and Imran as they arrived at his office. ‘Coffee? It’s my own machine you know,’ he said, giving Kate a wink.
‘So what’s been happening while we’ve been away?’ Imran asked.
‘Usual suspects on the TV,’ Curtis replied. ‘President Bolton’s closing the gap on Halliwell but if either of those get up it’ll be bad news in my book. I suspect the average American is beginning to get very nervous about Kadeer’s final solution threat and Bolton’s taking a hard line. We’re not getting anything definitive on Beijing but the hooplah is in full swing and the American athletes leave for the Games shortly. How was Singapore and the world of microbiology?’
‘Singapore was a good break but the world of microbiology is more dangerous than ever I’m afraid,’ Imran said somberly. ‘I think we should be suggesting that this program be shut down. Dolinsky’s proved it can be done and we can store his vaccine; that’s been a truly remarkable achievement, but I think the Ebolapox stocks should be destroyed.’
‘I suspect we won’t have much more luck with that than we’ve had with smallpox but we can give it a shot. The DDO’s still tied up, he’ll give me a yell when he’s ready.
‘I grabbed this before I left Halliwell just in case your in-tray gets low,’ Kate said with a grin, retrieving ‘The Halliwell Report’ from her bag and handing it to Curtis. She relaxed back into a chair that would not have been out of place among the relics in Tom McNamara’s office. ‘The latest piece of extravagance to come out of the thirty-seventh floor.’
‘Must have cost a fortune,’ Curtis said, as he idly thumbed through over a hundred glossy pages covered in marketing hype and coloured photographs. A sizeable proportion of them were of Richard Halliwell presenting cheques to charity organisations or hosting luncheons and dinners for visiting dignitaries. He was about to put the report back on his desk when he came to the start of the financial pages. The section began with a letter confirming the outstanding financial position of the company and predicted even greater growth for Halliwell in the years ahead. At the end of the letter was a signature – Dr Alan Ferraro, Chief Financial Officer, but it was the photograph of Ferraro that caught Curtis’ attention.
‘Have you met Halliwell’s Chief Financial Officer, this Dr Ferraro?’ Curtis asked.
Kate shook her head.
‘I’ve been introduced to him very briefly; he works on the floor below us so we don’t have any contact. Why?’ Imran asked.
‘I have the distinct feeling I’ve seen a photograph of this guy or someone very like him somewhere before,’ Curtis said, racking his brain, then he remembered. It was the nose.
‘I wonder.’ With a mixture of anticipation and rising anger at the memory of it all, Curtis turned to his computer and called up the gruesome images of the young agent’s burning car outside the Taliban madrassa in Peshawar. Although Dr Alan Ferraro was no longer sporting a beard, the resemblance was uncanny.
‘Have a look at this,’ Curtis said to Kate and Imran, turning his screen so they could see the images. ‘Some time ago we lost a young agent near Peshawar. We’ve been looking for that guy there,’ Curtis said, pointing to the image of al-Falid’s bearded face and hooked nose, ‘and I’m wondering if Dr Alan Ferraro might also be Dr Amon al-Falid.’
‘There’s a strong resemblance,’ Kate agreed. Curtis knew only too well that al-Falid had left the country on an academic sabbatical but despite extensive efforts to track his return, he hadn’t shown up on any of the Customs or Homeland Security’s crosschecks and Michigan University had never heard of him.
Curtis typed in a request to Homeland Security for a report on Alan Ferraro’s movements in the past two years. Even with the most sophisticated checks, if the two passports had never been matched, it was still possible for someone to leave as Dr Amon al-Falid and return as Dr Alan Ferraro.
CHAPTER 88
HALLIWELL TOWER, ATLANTA
O n the front page of Atlanta’s major daily newspaper, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, two headlines shared the front page: SEVEN DAYS
UNTIL BEIJING OLYMPIC OPENING CEREMONY: TIGHT SECURITY SURROUNDS
OLYMPIC FLAME SOME HARD CAMPAIGNING AHEAD: BOLTON GAINS ON HALLIWELL
AS REPUBLICAN CONVENTION LOOMS
The advantage of incumbency and t
he fear of another attack was beginning to tell. President Bolton’s position and rhetoric against Muslim terrorists had moved even further to the right than the tough stance he’d been renowned for when he was Vice President. In many parts of Europe, his refusal to negotiate with anyone who was not with America in the war on terror, including Iran and Syria, was seen as arrogant. He was known as the ‘ugly American’ in Europe but his speeches had started to resonate with the American people who increasingly saw themselves under siege from the rest of the world.
‘Richard Halliwell might have a big smile,’ Chuck Bolton was fond of saying, ‘but this is war and this country needs more than dental floss to defeat an enemy who’s hell bent on destroying our way of life.’
With just five primaries to go, the Republican Convention was going to be won and lost in the next few weeks. The photograph on the front page of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution showed Richard with his arm around Constance, campaigning in Louisiana. He’d dismissed the latest polls but Simone thought he looked to be in trouble and she decided she would give it one last try to get on the team. She picked up the phone and pressed the speed dial for Richard’s mobile.
‘Halliwell.’
‘Richard, it’s Simone,’ she said. Knowing that her name would have come up on Richard’s phone she kept her anger at his curt response in check. ‘I saw the vote tallies and I thought I’d let you know that the offer of help on your campaign is still open.’ Simone couldn’t remember feeling this powerless.
‘How many times do I have to say this, Simone. If it were up to me that would be fine,’ Halliwell said irritably. He wasn’t quite ready to fire her as he needed her to run things back in Atlanta, but the time was fast approaching. ‘I’ve discussed this with Esposito before. He’s given a flat no and you’ve as good as said it yourself, image is everything. I’m running a campaign on family values, and Constance is going to be in every photo opportunity we get. Unless there’s a problem down there, don’t interrupt the campaign.’ The line went dead.
Simone glared at the photograph. Despite Esposito’s instructions, the well-endowed blonde she had seen in some of the earlier campaign photographs was there again, almost out of shot. When Simone had asked what the woman’s role was Halliwell had been defensive. ‘For Christ’s sake, Simone,’ Halliwell had exploded. ‘She’s a political science graduate from Georgia University.’
The reminders of the man she had hoped she would one day accompany into the White House were everywhere. The previous month’s copy of Pharmaceutical, the industry’s major glossy magazine had a picture of Richard on the front cover. Simone had already read the article, but she picked up the magazine again and had begun to flick through it when a small advertisement in the classifieds caught her eye. ‘Executive Assistant For High Profile CEO’. The company wasn’t named but the job description seemed uncannily like the one she’d applied for eight years before; then she saw Richard’s private box number. Jealous and angry, Simone searched for the spare set of keys she had for Richard’s desk drawers. Up until now she’d never felt the need to search them but if there were any job applications in the drawers or in his safe, Simone was determined to find them.
Other than some of his personal papers, the first drawers drew a blank. In the larger bottom drawer, there was a file containing the folders from applicants for her job. The first five had been rejected. Probably wouldn’t come across, Simone thought angrily. The sixth file contained a letter of appointment as Executive Personal Assistant to Dr Richard Halliwell, Chief Executive Officer of Halliwell Pharmaceuticals. The letter was a copy of one that had been sent to Ms Sally McLeod. On the inside of the file was a photograph of a leggy blonde matching the one on the front page of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Simone pushed the button on the side of Halliwell’s desk. As the liquor cabinet swung out from the wall, she walked over and reached for the bottle of Chivas Regal.
CHAPTER 89
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
‘F rom the boys in imagery – Dr Amon al-Falid alias Dr Alan Ferraro,’ Curtis said darkly after they’d returned from the DDO briefing. The computer-enhanced photographs of the senior Halliwell executive matched the satellite images of the man beside agent Bill Crawford’s car in Peshawar. ‘Amon is a variation on the Egyptian Amun , meaning hidden, which is pretty bloody apt.’
‘Doesn’t seem much doubt there’s a link between al-Falid and the Taliban madrassas, but I wonder if that link extends to al-Qaeda?’ Imran mused.
‘We’re about to find out. I’ve asked young Corey Barrino to come up.’
‘An expert on al-Qaeda?’ Kate asked, puzzled as to how the CIA would have a young expert on the complex and sinister workings of the Islamic fundamentalists.
Curtis shook his head. ‘In a previous life he was a computer geek. Used to get his rocks off hacking into the Pentagon and NASA’s classified networks and leaving messages for them. He hacked into here once and left a message for the Director and I think you can still see the spot where the paperweight hit the wall. He got caught when he went into a big merchant bank. They wouldn’t accept their systems had been breached until he left a message for their CEO with a list of all his top clients’ bank account numbers and then the shit really hit the fan. Fortunately for us, after he served out his good behaviour bond, we found a better use for those talents and I’m hoping he might be able to get into Ferraro’s computer at Halliwell. The al-Falids of this world keep dual identities for a reason but sometimes they think they’re infallible and they keep encrypted files as well.’ Curtis was interrupted by a knock on the door.
‘That’ll be him. Corey, come on in. Professor Imran Sayed, Dr Kate Braithwaite – Corey Barrino.’
‘Hi, good to meet you,’ Kate said, holding out her hand.
‘Hi,’ Corey said shyly. Kate thought he looked about sixteen, but to be working for the CIA he was probably quite a bit older.
‘Any particular area you want in Halliwell,’ Corey asked after he’d taken over Curtis’ computer and dialed up the website.
‘Several but we’ll start with a Dr Alan Ferraro,’ Curtis said.
‘The Chief Financial Officer?’ Corey asked, his fingers tapping the keys.
‘He’s the one.’
‘Access Denied’ flashed up on the computer screen and Kate watched, fascinated, as Corey’s hands flew across the keyboard, a look of concentration on his face.
‘They’ve added a salt to the DES,’ Corey muttered, totally absorbed by the lines of numbers, letters and symbols that to Kate, as mathematically savvy as she was, looked like a jumble. ‘Salt to the DES?’ she whispered to Curtis, her inquiring mind frustrated that she didn’t have the vaguest idea of what Corey was talking about.
Curtis grinned. He’d had the same problem until Corey had put him through ‘Hacking 101’. ‘A “salt” is just another layer of data that makes it harder to crack the Data Encryption Standard or DES algorithm. It is two characters that are added to either end of a password. They can be chosen from upper- and lower-case letters of the alphabet or the numbers 0 to 9 or a full stop or a forward slash. With a choice of sixty-four characters either end, you get a possible 4096 different salts to use on your password, making it a lot harder for your average hacker.’
As Curtis already knew, and Kate and Imran were about to find out, Corey Barrino was anything but an ‘average hacker’. In real life, hackers were often shy but still sought recognition from their fellow hackers. If they managed to hack into a particularly sensitive target like the Pentagon or the CIA, as Corey had done back in the days when his handle was ‘Byte Blaster’, those feats would be posted on cybernet bulletin boards. Proof was provided by posting a piece of information that could only have been obtained from within that organisation’s system. The more protected the system, the greater the recognition. In the murky world of cyberspace ‘Byte Blaster’ had been a hero.
Corey ran a program that would have crashed most medium-sized networks but it only required a
fraction of the big Cray computers in the CIA’s basement. In a matter of minutes, Corey had cracked Halliwell’s password file. Ferraro’s name was in clear but his password was encrypted. After several more minutes and millions of computations the blur on the screen suddenly stopped.
‘Welcome Dr Ferraro’ was displayed on the screen. They were in.
‘Where do you want me to start?’ Corey asked as dozens of folders appeared on the file library.
‘I’m looking for a file that probably looks fairly innocuous but won’t be able to be opened, even if someone happened to obtain Ferraro’s password.
‘Two possibilities,’ he said finally. ‘Either “Silk Road Architecture” or “Duple”.’
‘“Duple” is Latin for double,’ Kate offered.
‘Where the single strand meets its double,’ Curtis said. ‘Something tells me that Ferraro would be more subtle than that, although it could also be a second set of accounts for Halliwell. Let’s go for the Silk Road Architecture.’
‘Whatever he’s got behind here, he doesn’t want anyone else to see it, or certainly not anyone in Halliwell,’ Corey said twenty minutes later, as the big Cray computer continued to make millions of high speed calculations in parallel with one another. Suddenly the screen calculations stopped.
‘Cold-blooded murderous bastard,’ was all Curtis said as he scanned down the subfolders headed with names like ‘Air Force One’ and ‘Caesium Chloride’.
The Beijing conspiracy Page 36