The audience leapt to their feet cheering and whistling, and they were still applauding as the Vice President headed into the convention center’s cavernous foyer. His Cadillac DeVille with an attendant convoy of black Chevrolet Suburbans and heavily armed secret service agents was waiting in the driveway.
As the Situation Room beneath the Oval Office came into focus on the screen, the Vice President made a mental note of who was present. The President was yet to arrive, but the Secretary of State, Secretary of Defense, Secretary of Homeland Security, National Security Advisor, Director of National Intelligence and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs were all at the table, as was the White House Chief of Staff. The advisors’ seats crowded against the panelled wall were occupied by his own Chief of Staff and the Deputy National Security Advisor, as well as the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. This video must be causing more concern than usual, Bolton thought. Ever since the new super Office of the Director of National Intelligence had been established, the CIA had lost its longstanding direct access to the President, causing more than a deal of angst amongst the die-hards at Langley, but today the Director of Central Intelligence had been summoned as well. The Vice President’s eyes hardened when he noticed that the DCI had brought along one of his principal advisors, Curtis O’Connor. Officer O’Connor and the Vice President had clashed more than once when O’Connor had had the temerity to disagree with him. Bolton had recognised early that O’Connor was dangerously articulate and he’d added O’Connor’s name to his long list of people to be watched carefully. The little shit seated against the opposite wall, Dan Esposito, was also on the list. Bolton was annoyed that the President’s powerful electoral advisor had also gained access to the war cabinet. Homosexual faggot, he fumed. Chuck Bolton had reluctantly decided to tolerate Esposito’s sexual proclivities, but only for as long as he remained useful. Bolton knew that should anything happen to this president, he was only a heartbeat away from the White House. Every time Chuck Bolton had raised the prospect of running for the top job, Esposito had evaded the issue. If the Republican Party did as badly in the mid-term elections as the polls were predicting, Bolton had already decided that the first head to roll would be Dan Esposito’s.
As he waited for the President to arrive, Bolton’s thoughts turned to his meeting with Richard Halliwell. Halliwell Pharmaceuticals was now the biggest of the world’s ‘Big Pharma’, the none-too-flattering epithet used to describe the largest of the drug companies, and although it had been officially denied, the Vice President still held a substantial interest in the company. In the last two years, Halliwell Pharmaceuticals had become larger still. Washington’s top-secret decision to quietly fund a new $500 million Biosafety Level 4 laboratory in the far corner of Halliwell’s sprawling 100 acre Atlanta complex had been pushed through by Vice President Bolton as part of the war on terror. The decision was so sensitive that several of the President’s closest advisors were still unaware of it.
Dr Kadeer brought his warning to a quiet but menacing conclusion. The video faded to an ominous black and an equally ominous silence settled over the Situation Room.
Curtis O’Connor reflected that the President seemed to be running out of options. Most Americans had long ceased to believe the White House spin on the war in Iraq and the Harrison Presidency was looking increasingly weak, even impotent. Once the chilling message from al-Qaeda had been broadcast by the big western media outlets, the public had become increasingly alarmed. Messages like this from the enemy would need a response. O’Connor glanced towards Dan Esposito. Curtis O’Connor knew that Esposito would ensure that the response was immediate. On the first day he’d met the short, fat, balding advisor the dislike had been mutual. Arseholes and Esposito had a lot in common, O’Connor mused.
‘What the hell does all that mean, and where the hell is Xinjiang,’ the President demanded, breaking the silence and directing his question to Curtis O’Connor. President Harrison was clearly feeling the pressure.
‘We’re not sure what this means yet, Mr President,’ Curtis replied calmly. ‘We’ve done a preliminary imagery and voice analysis and there’s no doubt that the video recording is genuine, although the location is open to question. al-Qaeda are meticulous in ensuring a nondescript background for recordings like this, and those rocks behind Dr Kadeer could be just about anywhere in Central Asia, of which Xinjiang – a large province in Western China – is a part.’ He could have added that at 1,600,000 square kilometres, Xinjiang was more than three times the size of France and it had common borders with Pakistan, India, Afghanistan, Mongolia and three of the ‘Stans’ – the Central Asian states that had been part of the old USSR – Tajikistan, Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. He could also have added that the deserts, lakes and the Tianshan or ‘heavenly mountains’ of Xinjiang were stunningly captivating and that the Muslim Uighurs who had lived in the area for centuries had a deep spiritual attachment to their lands. He might have mentioned that the province was rich in oil and minerals, but he didn’t. The average man in the street might not know or care where Xinjiang or the ‘Stans’ were, but Curtis O’Connor was talking to the most powerful man in the world and Curtis figured that he should have known. Perhaps an atlas for Christmas, he mused wryly. But right now there were more pressing things to get across.
‘So where will this first warning attack occur?’ President Harrison seemed rattled, as if events were spiralling out of his control. ‘Does it have anything to do with the threat from anthrax and smallpox?’ he asked, looking around the table for answers.
‘The content of the message is something of an enigma, Mr President,’ O’Connor continued. ‘This is the first time al-Qaeda have employed this sort of vague coding and we’re uncertain if Kadeer’s been able to develop any biological weapons. Our initial impression is that the first warning attack will be carried out either here in the United States or against either of our two major allies – Britain or Australia.’
‘And the Chinese?’
‘The Han Chinese Government see the Uighur Muslims in western Xinjiang on the border with Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan as ‘different’ and a threat to the unity of the country, and they’re determined to crush them. For decades the Chinese police and armed forces have been carrying out brutal attacks against Muslims in Xinjiang, which is so remote from the rest of the world the attacks are not widely reported, Mr President. Kadeer’s final attack will not only be directed against the United States, Britain and Australia, but at the Chinese as well.’ Curtis O’Connor had no way of knowing just how large and devastating that attack might be.
‘And this business about eternity?’ the President asked edgily.
‘Depending on the translation, Mr President, the Qu’ran mentions eternity in only eighteen of its suras or chapters, mostly in relation to gardens of eternity, although some scholars translate the Arabic as gardens of Eden. Interestingly enough, in six of those suras, the Qu’ran speaks of rivers flowing beneath these gardens or beneath eternity. We’re now looking at possible attacks on major rivers, perhaps with the aim of poisoning our water supplies. The Qu’ran also makes it clear that where the rivers flow under eternity, the righteous dwell there as a reward from Allah, rather than as a punishment, so at first glance, the theory on the rivers doesn’t seem to add up.’ Without realising it, O’Connor was getting tantalisingly close.
‘You seem to be forgetting the stolen windmill and that the country most associated with windmills is the Netherlands,’ the Secretary of Defense interjected. ‘An attack on the dykes would devastate vast low lying areas and cause untold damage.’
‘We haven’t ruled that out, Secretary,’ Curtis O’Connor replied evenly, ‘but the Netherlands were not one of the three original members of the coalition.’ O’Connor disliked the pompous Secretary of Defense almost as much as Esposito, and he would have liked to add that the Dutch had not reported any of their windmills as ‘missing’, but he held his tongue.
‘And the mushrikeen and what was it – st
rands?’ the Secretary of Defense asked, his irritation palpable.
‘When the single strand meets its double has got us puzzled as well,’ O’Connor responded candidly. ‘That would appear to be associated with Kadeer’s final solution and we’re still working on that, although the use of mushrikeen is clear enough. Mushrikeen is Arabic for those who worship more than one God. The Islamists in particular reject any notion that Allah can be worshipped in conjunction with any other God. For example Hindus and Buddhists who partner their idols with God, or Christians who also worship Christ and the Holy Spirit.’ O’Connor knew that he was trespassing on dangerous ground with President Harrison, but he didn’t back off. In O’Connor’s mind, a quick readiness to wage brutal and debilitating wars on behalf of various versions of a God was dangerous nonsense. Unless something was done to get religion out of the foreign policy equation, the resultant clash could lead the world to an unmitigated catastrophe.
As night fell over Atlanta, Richard Halliwell was waiting for the Vice President in his office on the thirty-seventh floor of the Halliwell Tower situated on the outskirts of the central business district. For Richard Halliwell the new laboratories represented another significant step in his own quest for power. The sinister tentacles of the huge international conglomerate reached into the very top echelons of power in the United States and into intelligence agencies and governments in a hundred other countries around the globe. None was more important than China.
CHAPTER 4
THE HINDU KUSH, PAKISTAN-AFGHANISTAN BORDER
T he dusty city of Peshawar, the capital of the wild and remote North-West Frontier Province of Pakistan, was bathed in the eerie light of a half moon. Nearly 18 kilometres to the west of Peshawar, the ancient Khyber Pass began its narrow, steep and stony journey up towards the border with Afghanistan. In 1893, when Pakistan had been part of India, the British Foreign Secretary of the colonial government, Sir Mortimer Durand, had drawn an arbitrary line on a rudimentary map. The establishment of the Durand Line as the border between Afghanistan and India had been typically colonial and typically designed to serve British interests. With little consultation, arrogant hands had once again ignored centuries of culture and tribal lands. The new border sliced through the middle of the Pashtun tribes, dividing them between two different countries. The vehemently disputed area now provided sanctuary for a resurgent Taliban who were attacking the coalition and NATO forces in Afghanistan on a daily basis. The lawless North-West Frontier Province also provided sanctuary for an even more sinister group, al-Qaeda.
In the foothills of the Hindu Kush, a few kilometres to the north of the Khyber Pass, the forward scout of the patrol protecting one of al-Qaeda’s most senior generals had seen a movement in front of him. He held up his hand, signalling those behind him to stop. Instinctively, twenty of the fiercest fighters in the world fanned out silently over the snow-covered rocks, taking up positions on either side of the path, their Kalashnikovs loaded and ready, their dark eyes calmly scanning the rocky hills. Each wore two bandoleers of 7.62mm rounds over their shoulders and the dull brass casings glinted menacingly in the moonlight. The donkeys carrying the other supplies, together with their handlers, propped obediently on the path. The small group had come from Xinjiang, and they’d been moving through the soaring mountains of the Hindu Kush for nearly two months, travelling at night and retreating to rest in the caves during the day. The infidels with their noisy helicopters were clumsy and easily avoided, but Khalid Kadeer’s fighters were taking no chances. The Taliban who provided the guides through each of the areas they controlled were jumpy. Taliban fighters needed to be approached with caution.
Kadeer sat calmly on an icy rock at the side of track. In the distance, a thousand metres below them, he could see the lights of Peshawar, shrouded among the smoke from the house fires. He looked back behind him. The moonlight was reflected on the snow and granite of the higher peaks, and despite the enormity of what he was planning, Khalid Kadeer felt strangely at peace. He reflected on the different moods of the mountains. Sometimes thick clouds would roll in, swirling around the peaks and foothills, signalling an angry change. The blizzards would howl for days, with temperatures plunging to minus 40 degrees centigrade. The stinging sago snow would tear at the flesh of anyone who was foolish enough to try and move, then just as quickly the anger would dissipate. Tonight, Khalid mused, the towering mountains were majestically peaceful. They reminded him of another mountain and his thoughts turned to the Prophet Muhammad and the Archangel Gabriel. God’s message, Kadeer knew, had been delivered to the Jews through Moses and the prophets, and the Christians had received theirs through Christ, but for centuries it seemed that God had ignored the Arab nations. Rabbis and priests had been quick to ridicule his Arab countrymen, preaching to anyone who’d listen that the Arabs were not part of God’s divine plan, but in the year 610, Gabriel appeared before Muhammad on the top of Mount Hira in Arabia and the balance had been restored. God’s revelations had finally been delivered in the Arab language. If only the West would accept those revelations as being the equal of the messages of Moses and Christ, Khalid thought bitterly, it might be a different world. Instead, evangelists in the United States and elsewhere in the West had described Islam as an evil religion and the die was cast. If humankind would not accept the various religions’ core messages and embrace the beauty of diversity and difference, those very same religions would become the source of humankind’s destruction.
Khalid breathed in deeply, absorbing the power of the mountains. Just as the Prophet Muhammad had felt when he retreated to Mount Hira in what was now Saudi Arabia, it was here in the mountains of the Hindu Kush that Khalid felt closest to Allah, all praise be upon Him. It was here that he had received the messages to deliver the world three warnings, and it was here that Allah, the Most Kind, the Most Merciful, had directed him to prepare the final solution in case the West stubbornly refused to alter its present course. Khalid remained hopeful that China, the United States and her British and Australian partners would negotiate, but hope was slowly fading for the Muslim world. Kahlid recalled Sura 71 of the noble Qu’ran when Allah had given a similar mission to Noah and sent him to warn the people to change course. The message for Muslims from the Qu’ran had been the same message as the Christians had received in the Bible. ‘Warn your people before some painful torment comes to them!’ but Noah too had been in despair. ‘My Lord,’ he had said, ‘the people have defied me… they have hatched a great plot… do not leave any disbelievers with homes on earth… do not increase wrongdoers in anything except destruction.’ Kadeer could understand Allah’s disappointment with the conduct of his children, and if Allah willed it, as he had with Noah, the final solution would be implemented.
Dr Kadeer turned back towards Peshawar. As the moon faded and the dawn broke, the indigo of the night cloaking the surrounding hills was slowly tinged with hues of soft purple and pink. The ancient city was stirring. Kadeer’s thoughts turned fleetingly to the meeting he’d scheduled for later in the week with his chief lieutenant, Amon al-Falid. It was rare for Kadeer to meet with his top operational planner from the United States, but Peshawar was no ordinary city and the mission Allah had directed him to prepare was no ordinary mission. Kadeer leaned back against the rocks and closed his eyes to take a short nap. It was a habit of a lifetime that enabled him to stay alert through the long days and nights. As he dozed, he drifted back to his childhood spent in the little village near Kashgar in the far west of the vast autonomous region of Xinjiang, not far from China’s border with Kyrgyzstan. A time when Khalid was eight and he’d been playing with his cousin after school.
It was October 1955. Mao Tse-tung had been in power for just six years but it had been long enough for the ruthless dictator to establish control over the far-flung western Xinjiang region with the establishment of the Xinjiang shengchan jianshe bingtuan, the Xinjiang Production and Construction Corps. The small, peaceful villages to the west of the city of Kashgar were under the
control of a young, ruthless and ambitious Peoples’ Liberation Army officer, Captain Ho Feng. Ho Feng had been ordered to keep the Muslims under control and he was determined to make his mark.
Like Kadeer’s simple mudbrick house, his cousin Abdul Rasal’s house was built in a square, with a dirt courtyard in the middle. An old pump stood in one corner of the courtyard, from which the family gathered water. The roof of the house was decorated with colourful Uighur motifs, and on the other side of the courtyard weathered wooden pillars supported a high veranda. In the room beyond it, Abdul’s family slept on a carpeted platform, but for now, the family’s cotton-filled mattresses made from Uighur silk were rolled up against the mud wall.
‘Abdul! Khalid! Where is the wood, you two?’
‘Coming, Mama!’ Abdul grinned as he took another shot at Khalid’s marble in the dirt pitch they’d made, but his marble missed.
‘I win!’ Khalid yelled, pocketing his cousin’s marble and getting up to cut the wood for his aunt. Hayrinisahan was stoking the fire in the kitchen in readiness for the evening meal. Khalid always looked forward to staying with Hayrinisahan. She was like a second mother, although more fun. As he put the pile of kindling he’d cut next to the wood-fired stove his aunt smiled at him, but her smile faded as first one truck, and then another, followed by several more roared past the house. Khalid and Abdul rushed to the door and peered through the beads at the convoy of Han Chinese soldiers tearing down towards the village square. A staff car was travelling in the middle of the convoy and Khalid caught sight of the most hated man in Xinjiang, the ruthless Chinese Captain Ho Feng. His skin was oily and his fine, black hair was parted in the middle and fell either side of an oval face. Ho Feng’s dark eyes were inscrutable. He was responsible for the murders of hundreds of Uighurs and even the mention of his name struck fear into the peaceful Muslims.
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