Third World War

by Unknown

  'Go ahead,' he said to Li, pushing back the chair and standing up as the aerosol spray was released into Robertson's prison cell. By the time the virus took effect, the ambassador would be tired of his own whimpers and threats. Park would return shortly before rashes were due to show. If the IL-4 formula was working, that would be in less than a day. Once the rashes had broken out, Robertson, at his most contagious, would be put back in with Striker.

  Key to the experiment would be the speed with which Striker was also infected. If it took several days, then the IL-4 agent would only be effective for the primary infection. But if Striker fell sick within twenty-four hours, the agent would remain with the virus, through secondary and tertiary infections and beyond, and Park would have at his disposal a genuine weapon of mass destruction.

  Park had chosen smallpox precisely because it represented the dark unknown of bioterror. In 1995, after years of planning, a Japanese religious cult released the chemical nerve agent Sarin on the Tokyo subway. But only eleven people died, not exactly wholesale slaughter. In 2001, after the 11 September attack on New York, highly contagious military-quality anthrax was sent through the post to a senior politician and journalists. Only five had died.

  The initial smallpox outbreak itself might be enough to paralyse America and Europe's health-care systems. If it spread, tripling and quadrupling from infection to infection, Park would regard it as an added bonus.

  But at which stage should he hand over the vaccine? He was undecided. He was sure only that Robertson should be given it at the earlier stage, because he would need his testimony of both the brutality of the disease and the swiftness of the cure. Striker would get it later. And if it was too late, so be it. His English was heavily accented and would not be so well understood on television.

  Deep in thought, Park took the lift and walked across the hotel lobby, alone and ignored by guests and staff. One day, he would be recognized. But at the moment, it was more important that he be proved right.

  ****

  36*

  ****

  Washington, DC, USA*

  Lazaro Campbell helped Mehta out of the President's study. As they slowly made their way to the door West, Newman and Brock sat without speaking, stunned at what they had been told. West had suggested a fifteen-minute cooling-off period before getting together again with Lizzie and Meenakshi. He understood exactly Mehta's point. He could see how it would secure India's borders and allow its economy to grow without the constant threat of war. But as President of the United States, charged with protecting American interests, there was no way he could allow it to happen.

  'I'm not having the damn Chinese in Pakistan, and I'm not having them in Camp David,' snapped West, as Newman asked the switchboard to connect her to Zhongnanhai in Beijing.

  'You can't not,' answered Newman. 'It'd be the diplomatic equivalent of an act of war.'

  'We're not asking the Brazilians?' said West, mockingly. 'They've got a big country, too.' His neck was bent down to hold the receiver as he waited to be connected to Stuart Nolan in Downing Street, hoping that the grizzled British Prime Minister was enjoying a nightcap and not asleep in bed.

  'Very helpful,' said Brock, supporting Newman. 'I'm sure China would be flattered to be compared to Brazil.'

  'Don't insult Brazil.' West was about to say more, when he was connected. 'Stuart, you got five minutes? I need a favour, and I hope your diary's flexible.'

  As West hung up, Brock was talking to Alexander Yushchuk, the Russian President's adviser. 'Alex, if he feels it'll leak out, we can send Air Force One for him, and pick him up in Helsinki or something . . . Yeah, just don't get . . . and no, we won't bill you in six months' time like the IMF does.'

  Newman was through to Germany, where the Japanese Prime Minister was overnighting on a tour of Europe. 'I can't give you the specifics now, Toru, but Japan's presence is needed . . . yes, I know you have a full diary, I know it is far away from your sphere of influence, but if China's here, I think you should be here.'

  'Mary, you haven't confirmed that,' said West, as Newman finished the call.

  Newman shook her head. 'Not yet, but Zhongnanhai is on the line now, and you've got to speak to him, Jim. This isn't one to delegate.' Newman thrust the telephone receiver in front of West. 'And don't forget,' she added with a smile, 'be humble and polite.'

  'Jamie, sorry to chase you so early in the morning,' said West at his most modest. 'You were excellent in your BBC World interview. I envy you your polish . . . Thank you. Thank you . . . The reason I'm calling is that Vasant Mehta is with me now. Stuart Nolan is in town anyway as is Toru Sato . . . Yes, yes, one hell of a coincidence. Andrei Kozlov has agreed to come over, and I know you're busy, but if you've the time, I think we could all have a useful meeting, get this India-Pakistan issue dealt with once and for all and maybe, with you and Toru here, we could tackle North Korea as well . . . No. Absolutely private.'

  He handed the receiver back to Newman who dropped it on the table, perched on the edge of the President's desk and sighed. 'Thank you, Jim.'

  West took Newman's hand, squeezed it and withdrew. 'I hope, sometime soon, I can thank you for making me ask him.'

  Newman dropped her head, not wishing the President to see her eyes aglow. Without Pierce, the atmosphere was completely different. She didn't know why West had excluded his Defense Secretary now. She didn't even ask. But she chose to enjoy it.

  'You think Mehta's plan will work?' asked Brock.

  'Sure it'll work,' replied West, full of sarcasm. 'Like Vietnam worked for us and Afghanistan worked for the Soviets.' He drained the last of his whisky. 'But we can't wait to try it and fail. We can't allow China to walk in and run Pakistan like a goddamn colony.' He stood up and slipped on his jacket. 'Mehta knows it won't work. But he's said to us: "Go in and take over Pakistan." We've said we won't. Now he's going to say to Jamie Song: "She's your monster. Go in, educate her, control her." But he knows that if we agree to that, we'll be handing China one of the most strategic pieces of territory anywhere in the world. And we can't do that for a nation that one day may be truly hostile to us. Never. Not in my presidency. Then, if China refuses - and this is what Mehta is telling us - India will risk a nuclear war with Pakistan in order to destroy it.'

  He had his hand on the door handle. 'Mary, walk with me, will you? A woman's company makes me feel like a human being.'

  Newman and West walked together down the corridor to his private sitting room. Brock ambled behind, giving them space. Campbell, coming from the washroom, fell into step with him.

  'There's a plane for you at Andrews,' Brock instructed him quietly. 'It'll take you to Islamabad. The President wants you to be ready to go - the job done by the time this summit meets.'

  As they stepped into the room, West turned and spotted Campbell. 'Meenakshi,' he said, 'this is a young protege of mine, Lazaro Campbell. I've asked him along to close the age gap with you two young women.'

  'Protege? I hope so, Mr President,' said Meenakshi, wheeling her chair towards Campbell. 'Actually, Mr Campbell and I have met before. If it were not for him, I would now be dead.'

  ****

  37*

  ****

  Islamabad, Pakistan*

  Lazaro Campbell lay face down on the grassless earth, listening to the fading throb of the helicopter. The dim shape, flying low against the rise of the hills, blended with the darkness and became invisible. Fifty-six thousand feet in the night sky above Islamabad, high enough to observe the curvature of the earth, a Global Hawk Unmanned Aerial Vehicle, or drone as it was more popularly known, loitered, its cameras fixed on one specific target. It sent back spot images which were relayed simultaneously to the United States Central Command at MacDill Air Force Base, Florida, the National Security Agency, the National Security Advisor's offices at the White House, the Defense Secretary's office in Room 3E880 in the Pentagon and the Oval Office in the White House.

  Intercepts were running through voice-identification and code-b
reaking computers in real time. With the new Pakistani military command speaking on secure lines, the super-computers had now been programmed to find elements within the scrambled code. Each scrambler threw up its own distinct signature, which identified the single handset being used. With that they could pinpoint the location of the speaker, a probability of who it was and with whom he or she might be talking.

  Using radar waves thrown out by the telephone signal, they could distinguish the shape of the person making the call and match it to shapes in the NSA database. It did not guarantee identification, but it was used with other evidence to try to confirm that the right target was being tracked. But as of yet, not even the NSA could determine what was being said.

  As Campbell, John Burrows and twelve Ghurka special forces soldiers moved over the rugged terrain towards their target, analysts at the NSA picked out the call they were looking for. It was made from just outside the Chaklala cantonment area of Rawalpindi. The signal moved at vehicle speed along the main highway between Rawalpindi and Islamabad. Just before Constitution Avenue it stopped. Thirty seconds later, the caller dialled another number, this time to Karachi. The call lasted just over a minute, long enough for one of the cameras on the Global Hawk to pick out the moving vehicle in the traffic. Once locked on, it followed it to its destination.

  Another of the Global Hawk's infrared lenses sent back images as fine as 0.25 metres in resolution. They outlined the contours of Tassudaq Qureshi's house outside Islamabad and the vehicles parked in the compound. Thermal imaging picked out the special forces commandos deployed to secure the property. Ground-penetrating radar showed the layout of the rooms inside and the image of Tasneem Qureshi in an armchair, with the television on, waiting for her husband to return home.

  'Campbell's moving,' muttered West to Kozerski as, in a blur, one of the Pakistani guards disappeared from the screen. His principal advisers were in their own offices. Each was holding a meeting on an issue unconnected to the crisis in India. West had ordered them all to have viable alibis in case the political fireworks began.

  On the ground, Campbell held back, while Burrows led his Ghurkas to take out the six guards on duty outside Qureshi's house. Burrows had decided the method - a knife across the throat, a hand over the mouth, two men simultaneously, and knife through the radio connection. A sniper was ready with a silenced rifle should anything go wrong.

  The job was over within a minute. The bodies were pulled into the undergrowth, the Ghurkas, in replica guards uniforms, took positions throughout the grounds. Burrows, also in uniform, his face and hands blackened, a dark beret on his head, waited in the shadows, as Qureshi's Mercedes turned through the gate, crunched on to the gravel and pulled up to a halt. The driver got out, walked around the side of the car and opened the back door. Qureshi stepped out with a briefcase in his left hand and threw a cigarette on to the gravel. A light cast from inside the house dimmed as Tasneem passed across it to greet her husband at the door. Qureshi breathed the fresh hillside air deeply. The driver reversed the Mercedes to a covered but unlit part of the forecourt. Behind it was a small room which was his quarters.

  As the driver stepped out of the car, a pistol muzzle was put to his head, a hand clamped over his mouth and a hypodermic needle pressed into his arm. He slumped and was gently lowered to the concrete floor.

  Qureshi turned to look across at the lights of Islamabad and came face to face with Lazaro Campbell, dressed in a dark linen suit and open-neck shirt, his weapon concealed.

  'We don't want to have to kill your wife,' Campbell said softly, pointing to the tiny spot revealing a sniper's infra-red sights which danced across the wall of the house towards the door that Tasneem Qureshi was about to open. 'As soon as you see her, tell her that you will be with her in a minute.'

  Campbell melted back, and heard the US President's voice in his earpiece. 'So far so good, Lazaro?'

  'Yes, sir,' he whispered, knowing that on a clear, cloudless night like this the movement of all the figures would be picked up by the Global Hawk - even the appearance of Tasneem Qureshi at the door.

  'I'm getting some air, darling,' said Qureshi. 'I'll be inside in a moment.'

  'Farrah called,' said Tasneem. 'She wants to speak to you.'

  For a moment, she lingered. Campbell was worried she would step out, mobile phone in hand, insisting that father speak to daughter. Burrows was under orders not to kill her. But if she did come outside, she would have to be dealt with.

  Qureshi twisted round in the gravel, his feet loud on the tiny stones. 'Please, Tasneem. I need to be alone to think. Go inside.' She obeyed, quietly closing the door without another word. Qureshi looked to his left and right, confused at the stillness around him, a realization dawning on him that his guards were nowhere to be seen. He walked out of the area of light towards the darkness of the undergrowth. The sniper's spot left the house and picked out Qureshi's chest, flitting from the area of the heart to the forehead and back, making the target well aware how close he could be to death.

  'Well done,' said Campbell, emerging again so Qureshi could see him.

  'What do you want?' asked Qureshi brusquely. 'And who are you?'

  'Before I answer that, have you alerted any other party that we are here?'

  Qureshi shook his head and waved a hand towards the bushes. 'If I had, it seems I would have written my own death warrant. Now, tell me who you are.'

  'I am representing the President of the United States,' said Campbell. 'He is listening to this conversation. He is watching images of us right now as we speak. You are the military ruler of Pakistan, yet you have not yet announced it.' Campbell pulled a tiny aerial out of an earpiece and handed it to Qureshi. 'Put this on. President West wants to talk to you.'

  Qureshi fumbled with the unfamiliar equipment. When it was wrapped around his ear, Campbell turned it on by remote sensor. 'Mr President, Air Vice-Marshal Qureshi is now available to speak with you.' For a moment, Qureshi's mask dropped. He hesitated before he spoke, his eyes uncertain and looking towards Campbell for more confirmation.

  Then he heard the voice. 'Qureshi. This is President West here. Do you know a man called Colonel Joharie Rahman?'

  Immediately, Qureshi returned to his public face. 'Mr President. What a privilege to speak to you - albeit in such strange circumstances.' He looked down at the red dot hovering over his chest.

  'Answer my question, Qureshi.'

  'I can't recall,' said Qureshi.

  Campbell took a step back. His orders were starkly simple. If Qureshi messed around, kill him. Both Campbell and Burrows were listening across the conversation. The President would speak three words in code - enough is enough - and that would be the sniper's signal to shoot.

  'Rahman knows you,' said West. 'He knows the furniture in your house. The pictures on the walls. He knows you have a World Trade Center sculpture in your living room. Because he's been in your house, Qureshi. So don't fuck with me, because he's been singing like a canary about you and everything you plan to carry out.' West let it hang there. Campbell kept his eyes on Qureshi. He had been a pilot, for God's sake. He knew about risk. Qureshi had tested both the American F-16 and the French Mirage 111 for toss-bomb attacking with a one-kiloton tactical nuclear weapon - before anyone else had tried it out. Qureshi devised how to keep the aircraft in a steep dive after releasing the bomb, so as to put as much space as possible between the pilot and the bomb. Once clear, the pilot would pull the aircraft up and avoid the impact of the nuclear explosion. Only a man with rock steady-nerves could carry out such a test.

  Qureshi kept his poise, but completely changed his approach. 'Yes, Mr President. I know Colonel Rahman. We planned the coup in Brunei together. You probably know that I also ordered the assassination of President Asif Latif Khan. Khan was salting money away into bank accounts in Dubai and Luxembourg. Would you like me to give you the account numbers? Or does the CIA already have them, but has chosen to ignore them, just as long as you have your puppet in place, stealing f
rom the country in the name of democracy?'

  'Were you responsible for the attack on the Indian Parliament?' pressed West.

  'I haven't finished, Mr President,' said Qureshi, letting sarcasm drip off his pronounciation of the title of the world's most powerful leader. 'You lead a nation paralysed with fear which pushes weaker nations like mine towards an abyss. So this is what I say to you. If you let me take power unhindered, I will rein in these terror groups. I will bring peace between India and Pakistan. But it will be done from a position of strength and not from fear of being an enemy of the United States.'

  'Were you responsible for the attack on the Indian Parliament?' repeated West.

  'I was not,' answered Qureshi, maintaining his confidence. 'The group responsible for that was nurtured under the rule of Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif and President Musharraf. Both were staunch allies of your country. If you want it stopped, listen to what I have to say.'