by Unknown
In the section with Anita Carlsson's body was her partner, Jonas Wallen, out of view of the two diplomats and huddled in a corner, unable to look at her corpse. Wallen was whimpering and shaking.
'She died three hours ago,' said Li, 'less than twelve hours after being infected. It was astonishing. We want to see how long it will take for the disease and fatality to strike the man.'
'And the other two?' said Park.
'We will refine our experiments using the Korean passengers. After that, we will carry out our final tests on these two men.'
'Very good,' said Park, getting up to leave.
'It is apt that the British ambassador is here,' said Li, with a new-found confidence. 'The British were the first to use smallpox as a biological weapon, against the French and native Americans between 1754 and 1767 in North America. They deliberately handed out contaminated blankets which had been used by smallpox patients.'
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34*
****
Washington, DC, USA*
'If you lose India, you lose,' said Lizzie West, pacing hands on hips around the middle of her father's living room in the White House. Jim West sat at one end of the sofa, his legs up on the coffee table, with a lukewarm cup of black coffee in his hands. He controlled his irritation as he listened to his daughter.
'You know why people hate us?' continued Lizzie. 'It's because we offer this great brand name, and when things get difficult, we turn round and say . . . "Yeah, but you didn't read the small print." She stopped in front of him, glaring down. 'They don't hate us because we're rich. They don't hate us because they're jealous. They hate us because we don't tell them the rules, and we don't tell them because there aren't any and there aren't any because you, the President, and those who came before you, haven't bothered to make them up. And why haven't you? Because it makes it easier to keep control.'
That smarted. The last person he wanted to fight with was Lizzie. She had none of her mother's tact and gentleness. That had gone to Chuck who, far from wanting to change the world, was happy with his family in Oakland. Lizzie had inherited high ambition and moral values from West, and was now using them against him.
West shook his head. 'It's not that simple, Lizzie,' he said tiredly. 'Not that simple at all.'
She stepped over his legs and sat down next to him. 'No, Dad, it is. Imagine that you're a farmer in Argentina or Nigeria. Everything you do is infected with inefficiency and corruption. Suddenly, the HSBC or Citibank opens a branch in your town. Or Nestle comes along and suggests you change from growing rice to coffee and cocoa. You see hope. You see honesty. You see a future for your children. You do as they say. You put your money in their banks. You grow the crops they want. Then, one day you wake up and find there's been a coup or the government's declared bankrupt. Your accounts are frozen. There's no market for your crops. You go to the bank, which says it can do nothing to help. You go to Nestle and they say, "Free market, you're on your own." They pull out of your town and set up somewhere else across the world, until there's trouble there, too. Then, they pull out again.' She turned in her seat so that West felt the full force of his daughter's onslaught. He understood how her reputation in her field had become so formidable. 'That's why they hate us, Dad. Because it's happened too many times.'
West swung his feet to the ground and put his cup on the table. 'So what should I do?' he asked lazily.
'The multinationals must not use weak government to make profit and they must take responsibility for the lives of the people who earn them their money. Believe me, Dad, if they did, there would be more wealth and fewer wars.'
'Nice thought,' said West, to which Lizzie rolled her eyes.
'I know, call me naive. Call me simplistic. But if you don't do it, no one will.'
West laughed. 'You're unique, Lizzie. You know that? An Islamic uprising in Asia, on the brink of an Indian-Pakistan war, American body bags in Yokata, and you want me to announce a new global charter for international business. Nice thought.'
'Why not?'
He glanced across at her incredulously, then recognized the challenge in her flaring eyes.
'Time's not right,' he said flatly.
'When is it right?'*
*****
But before West could answer, there was a rap with a cane on the double doors. Lizzie looked behind her, smiled, gave her father a peck on the forehead, jumped over the back of the sofa and opened the doors. Vasant Mehta, stick in hand, kissed her on the cheek, refused her hand on his elbow, and limped in.
'That was one hell of a speech, Prime Minister,' said West, standing up. Mehta let the President help him into an armchair.
The night had settled, but lamps in the White House grounds sent patterns through the corner windows, making the room ripple with light across Valerie's textured blues, greens and reds. West rarely used the room for entertaining, but Lizzie had insisted on it. If Meenakshi was in town, she said, they weren't going to sit with her in a stuffy state room.
Meenakshi appeared at the door, still in her wheelchair, pushed by Mary Newman. 'I don't know how anyone can look so delightful, having been through your ordeal,' said West with a smile. 'Now, do you want to get out of that thing or stay where you are?'
'I'm sure Secretary Newman'll help me hobble out,' said Meenakshi, turning round and jokingly raising one eyebrow at the Secretary of State. 'We couldn't work out which one of us should use the wheelchair. But Dad absolutely refused. He would rather have crawled to the podium than be wheeled.' She leant down, cleared the bottom of her sari from her ankles, lifted her wounded leg to the floor and pushed herself up. Newman took hold of her elbow. Meenakshi rested her other hand on Newman's shoulder and manoeuvred herself into an armchair.
Lizzie headed straight for Meenakshi to give her a big hug. 'You are so, so brave.'
'And I never managed to put on one of your suits,' laughed Meenakshi. She pointed to her bandaged leg. 'Don't worry, it's only for a few days. There's nothing like getting blown up to get a good rest, which is what my doctors had ordered. Then my father, who's far more badly hurt than me, insists we both get on a plane and fly over to the Big Apple.' She screwed up her face. 'Air India, too. We don't even have an Air Force One.'
'I would have sublet you ours,' quipped West, 'if you'd told me you were coming.'
'What, and given you notice?' said Mehta, shaking his head. 'We have to keep our American allies on the ball.'
John Kozerski appeared at the door, a confused expression on his face. 'Prime Minister, sir, two phone messages.'
'Keep going, John,' said Mehta. 'Whatever it is I can take it.'
'Your daughter, Romila, called from Buenos Aires. She's at a NAFTA banking conference and wants to know if you'll be here for a couple more days. Otherwise she'll break off and fly up.'
'Impetuous woman,' muttered Mehta, unable to hide his pride. 'I'll call her shortly, John. Just tell her to stay where she is and keep making money. Her father will need it one day.'
'If someone throws me a phone, I'll call,' said Meenakshi, glancing over at Mehta. 'You've thanked her for the flowers, have you, father?'
'Indeed. Many times over,' said Mehta.
'And the second message,' said Kozerski, reading a piece of paper in his hand as if he couldn't remember straight off. 'Your wife has just flown into Washington. She wants to join you this evening.'
Mehta's face became a shadow in a storm. He shook his head, but didn't reply.
'I'll call her,' offered Meenakshi softly.*
*****
Seemingly out of nowhere, an intercom started up. 'Mr President, the National Security Advisor is ready.'
Mehta recovered immediately and eyed West. 'I thought this was a friendly evening gathering.'
'Pete Brock's an old friend,' said West, pausing for a second. 'You know that, Vasant. At the risk of incurring your wrath, why don't we head next door with Mary?' He nodded in the direction of Meenakshi and Lizzie. 'You two stay here and we'll all meet up a bit lat
er for something to eat.'*
*****
With his cane in one hand and gripping West's arm with the other, Mehta walked slowly out of the room. He didn't attempt small talk. West recognized the face of a man who had taken too much in too short a measure of time. Nor did West humour Mehta with his usual patter about the history of the White House and the great men and women who had walked through its rooms. It would have been especially out of place to a man whose official residence lay in ruins.
Instead West said: 'Thanks for the advice. Of the billions of dollars I spend on advice a year, that was the best I've had for some time.'
'Did I give you advice?' asked Mehta. His head was bent. His eyes were on the floor. His fingers curled tighter around West's arm as a spasm of pain shot through him.
'You told me to get Lizzie up here.'
'That's right, I did.' Mehta managed a smile. 'I had forgotten about that.'
Newman, who was following a couple of steps behind, moved ahead of them and opened the door to the President's study in his private quarters. There was a small desk in front of the windows overlooking a back garden, hidden from public view. The walls were lined with books West had collected since childhood. One shelf was used for reference and business books. The rest were those he had read for pleasure, ranging from Henry Kissinger's Diplomacy, through Paul Kennedy's The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers, Vaclav Havel's Living in Truth and on to novels by Graham Greene, Aldous Huxley and John le Carre, and poetry by T. S. Eliot, Ruth Fainlight and Lawrence Ferlinghetti.
Newman turned on the side lamps and one lit up a framed photograph in between the two windows. It had been taken one Saturday during an open day on the railroad in Oregon, when West's father, Michael, had taken the family out. West's mother, Nancy, had a proud arm around her husband's waist. They must have been in their mid-thirties. His little sister, Barbara, and his older brother Henry stood raised behind them on the slatted bed of a rail truck. West had lit the picture and arranged the study to remind himself of where he had come from. There was nothing in the room to suggest high office.
Newman arranged cushions in the corner of the sofa for Mehta. Together with West she helped him down. 'Can I get you both a drink?' she asked, opening a small fridge in the wall by the desk.
'Scotch and water, please,' said Mehta.
'Same here,' said West, sitting in the swivel chair at the desk, and turning it in to face the centre of the room, just as Peter Brock and Lazaro Campbell opened the door and stepped inside. 'You'd better make that four,' added West. 'Gentlemen, welcome. Prime Minister, you know Mr Campbell, of course. The elder and more distinguished gentleman is Peter Brock, my National Security Advisor.'
Brock sat on the sofa next to Mehta. Campbell walked across to Newman. 'Secretary of State, ma'am, let me do that for you.'
'A woman should never think herself too important to pour the men a drink,' said Newman lightly. She held out two glasses ready to go. 'But you can hand them round, Lazaro.'
When he had done that, Campbell chose the smallest chair set back in a alcove from the rest of the room. Newman, also with a whisky and water, took a hand-carved rocking chair, kicked off her shoes and tilted herself back in it.
'To you, Prime Minister,' said West, raising his glass. 'And to your brave daughter.'
'Thank you,' said Mehta, sipping his drink and resting the glass in his hand on the side of the sofa.
'This is an informal meeting,' said West, although his change of tone concentrated the atmosphere. 'Both Peter and Mary are close friends. Mr Campbell, as you know, was halfway through an idea with you in Delhi when the terrorists struck. I asked him to join us so we can see this through. Mary is against us interfering in Pakistan. I'd like you to hear her argument. Nothing need be decided, and' - he checked his watch - 'after we've finished our drinks, we're all going to have dinner together. In essence, if between us we can achieve a regime change in Pakistan, and take that nation's nuclear weapons facilities out of its control, then we have achieved our immediate objective. Once that's done, Prime Minister, we will pass legislation committing the United States to a twenty-five-year aid and construction programme for Pakistan. We'll give that damn country a generation to rescue itself.'
Mehta drank slowly, taking an ice cube into his mouth and crunching it. 'I'm not sure you've really grasped it, Jim,' he said resignedly. 'Whether a corrupt democracy or an unimaginative military dictator runs that damn country, India will still be a victim of terror attacks. If I let it go on, Hindu-Muslim violence will increase in India itself and thousands more will die. If I go to war, Pakistan will use a nuclear weapon. I am caught between a rock and a hard place. I am sure Mr Campbell is a skilled soldier and can take out Qureshi and his henchman if ordered to do so. I am sure you have a plan to neutralize Pakistan's nuclear weapons systems - although I am not so convinced that will be successful. But even if that works, who will stop the terror attacks? And if they're not stopped--' Mehta shugged, crunched the final bit of ice and swallowed it.
'Could you give Jim's suggestion a chance?' prodded Newman who, with her left foot curled up under her in the rocking chair, looked a world away from her usual ordered image of Secretary of State.
'There's only one way you can do it, Mary,' said Mehta, 'and that's to occupy the country, take over its security agencies and root out the terror elements. Do an Iraq.' He took another sip, unable to hide his frustration.
'Prime Minister,' said Brock. 'You've vividly explained the position you are in. Do you have a solution, any policy which you believe will work?'
Mehta nodded and looked straight at the President. 'I have thought about this long and hard, Jim. You won't like it, but I see no other way out.'
'Trust me,' said West, forcing a smile. But even then, with scenarios swirling around his mind, he had never envisaged the one Vasant Mehta laid out. And as soon as the Indian Prime Minister had spoken he understood why Mehta had given his global audience the choice of deciding whether he was an honourable man or an enemy of the United States.
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35*
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Dukchun Palace, Pyongyang, North Korea*
Through the secured glass, Park Ho watched as two overweight middle-aged Caucasian men negotiated for their lives. Three guards lifted the British ambassador to his feet, walked him to an area next door, unlocked his handcuffs and pushed him inside. Bob Robertson, who had been posted to Pyongyang only two months earlier, tripped but managed to block his fall against the wall. A door slid across to secure the area into a separate room.
Jozsef Striker, the second man, was kept back, handcuffed to a chair. He had been in North Korea for more than five years. Park used to meet with him regularly. As Striker pleaded with the guards, Park heard his name mentioned: Park was the man the guards should contact to secure his release. If Park had been a sadist, he would have gone through and taunted the Hungarian ambassador. But he was not. He was a tactician, and inadvertently and unfortunately Striker had become a cog in the wheels of Park's war.
Robertson had been chosen to go in first because he was younger and fitter, although neither man was in good shape. He steadied himself and leant against the wall. The room created for the experiment was a mix of strange objects: bed sheets, writing paper, kitchen utensils; different flooring of concrete, tiles, carpet and other materials; a wardrobe of clothes; a tube of toothpaste; poured glasses of whisky, water and beer; and other examples of everyday life in the West.
Robertson tentatively stepped around the room, touching and examining. 'There'll be comeback, you know,' he shouted, his head automatically turning up towards the ceiling, where various curtain fabrics had been hung. 'Whatever you're doing violates every international law. We'll throw the book at you for this.'
'Just relax, Ambassador,' said Li in softly spoken, accented English. 'We have to conduct some more medical tests, then, of course, you can return home.'
'Bullshit,' muttered Robertson. He flung himself into an armchair,
and stared at the wall as if he could see right through it. 'If you're going to execute me--' he whispered, not finishing his thoughts.
The nozzle of a household aerosol can was inserted in the partition. But just as Li gave the signal for it to be sprayed into the room, a radio crackled, calling Park Ho urgently to the telephone. Park raised his hand to delay the experiment and took the call.
The call had been directed to Park on a military line from the Chinese city of Yanji close to the northern border with North Korea. 'Mason is being sent to the United States to be interrogated with sodium pentothal,' said the caller.
'Thank you,' said Park, ending the call. If anyone had succeeded in knowing the general intimately, they might have detected a look of satisfaction.
Park himself had ordered the theft of a bioterror agent from a country where the rule of law remained intact and effective. Not only would Park get his hands on IL-4, but also he would sow confusion among the Western democracies. Yes, they would trace telephone calls and interrogate suspects. The more they suspected, the more the international media would play up the need for a military strike on North Korea. And, then, the more reason he would have to defend his nation.
