The Beijing conspiracy

by Adrian D'hage

  CHAPTER 7

  HALLIWELL TOWER, ATLANTA

  T he report was entitled ‘The Chinese Threat: an Asian Tsunami’. Richard Halliwell pushed the analysis he’d commissioned on the Chinese to one side of his huge walnut desk and leaned back in his leather chair, the back of which was embossed with the Halliwell logo – a big gold ‘H’. Like the yellow ‘M’ of McDonald’s, it was a trademark that was recognisable anywhere in the world.

  The CEO of Halliwell Pharmaceuticals towered over most men and he had a personality to match. His nose was sharp, accentuating his arrogance, and his grey eyes were steely. Richard Halliwell was in his fifty-fifth year, and his reddish hair was greying but a fortnightly visit to his office by Romano, his personal hair stylist, kept that hidden from the outside world. For a long time now Halliwell had also been putting on weight and there was a flabbiness around his paunch. The weight-loss pills hadn’t worked, and despite the irritating urgings of his personal physician, he had not visited the well-equipped gym in the basement of the Halliwell Tower since he’d opened it five years earlier. Two years ago he’d had a facelift from one of the most expensive plastic surgeons in Los Angeles. The flab and wrinkles had been stretched out and, apart from a slight tightening around the eyes and the extremities of his square face, Halliwell was confident the rest of the world was none the wiser about that either, although there was one other physical attribute that he’d never been satisfied with and he’d always struggled to keep those insecurities at bay.

  Halliwell swiveled in his chair to face the floor-to-ceiling windows of his vast office complex which took up the entire thirty-seventh floor of the Halliwell Tower. Halliwell’s office afforded sweeping views of Stone Mountain National Park and the world’s largest low relief sculpture on one side of the mountain cliff – the 30-metre high granite carvings of the Confederate leaders Robert E. Lee, Jefferson Davis and Stonewall Jackson on horseback. He gazed unseeingly towards the evening lights of Atlanta’s central business district. Obsessed with the threat from the Chinese and driven by a deep belief in the superiority of the United States of America, he again contemplated the implications of the report. The population of Atlanta was a mere 470,000 and in the whole of the United States there were only nine cities with a population of more than a million. According to the report on his desk China’s population was rapidly approaching the one and a half billion mark. The population of Beijing and its surrounds was nearly fourteen million, a staggering 27.3 per cent increase over the last decade, and aside from Beijing, China boasted more than 150 other mega-cities. Halliwell had sent a copy of the analysis to the Vice President.

  The report had been compiled by some of the most astute business, economic and security researchers in the United States and their findings only confirmed Halliwell’s fears. The analysts were all predicting that in two decades, perhaps less, the yuan would take over from the dollar as the world’s principal currency. More importantly, the Chinese were beginning to make huge inroads into world trade markets, and the biggest single threat to the international dominance of Halliwell Pharmaceuticals now came from the Orientals. Richard Halliwell’s demeanor was cold and calculating. If something wasn’t done to stop these slant-eyed little bastards in another twenty years, perhaps less, they would take over from the United States as the most powerful nation on earth. Oil prices had already gone through the roof because of China’s insatiable appetite and Washington was doing absolutely fuck all about it, he reflected angrily. The media might see terrorism as the biggest threat to the American way of life, but Dr Richard Halliwell had absolutely no doubt that the Chinese juggernaut was a much bigger threat than any backward towel-headed terrorist. Halliwell had already resolved that the Chinese must be stopped permanently. Nothing less was at stake than America’s pre-eminent place of leadership in the world. For Richard Halliwell a world led by the Chinese was unthinkable.

  As the black, bullet-proof Cadillac DeVille made its way along Route 20, shadowed by just one black Suburban secret service van, Vice President Bolton’s thoughts turned away from the al-Qaeda video threats to the long-term menace posed by the Chinese. He switched on the reading light in the back seat and extracted the Halliwell analysis from his leather briefcase. Sinking back into the soft leather upholstery, he began to re-read the executive summary. This analysis, he reflected, matched the top-secret reports he’d received from the State Department, Treasury and the Department of Defense, but the White House was totally consumed by the war in Iraq and mid-term elections. The warnings on the Chinese were very clear, but like the CIA and FBI warnings on al-Qaeda before September 11, they were being ignored.

  Richard Halliwell glanced at his diamond-studded Rolex as one of the dozens of lights on his Commander telephone console flashed. Simone, his well-endowed secretary, would normally have answered it but he’d made sure she’d taken the night off.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ Halliwell grunted. The palm trees flanking the mile-long drive that led to the white security gates at Halliwell were softly lit by hundreds of floodlights and the palm fronds were waving in a light breeze. The guardhouse had been alerted to the tripping of the security sensors near the big Halliwell logo that adorned the sandstone entrance just off the highway and the night vision cameras were tracking the Vice President’s progression up the drive.

  Richard Halliwell pressed the button for the lift that had been installed for his personal use and the doors opened immediately. At the moment Vice President Bolton had his uses, he reflected, as the lift plunged smoothly down towards the marble entrance foyer below, but Halliwell knew that Vice President Bolton’s burning desire for the White House would eventually confront his own and that might require action. As the lift doors opened, Halliwell stepped out and reflected on the Kennedy assassination in Dallas. No one could be protected absolutely.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ the team leader of the Vice President’s personal protection detail muttered, as his partner parked their van close to Halliwell Pharmaceutical’s imposing main entrance. Special Agent Brown watched closely as the Vice President shook hands with Richard Halliwell and then he scanned the areas of darkness on either side of the headquarters building with his night-vision goggles. Normally, on a visit like this, they would have maintained close personal protection and accompanied the Vice President to the outer office of the person he was visiting. Tonight the Vice President had insisted that would not be necessary. The visit was a personal one and Vice President Bolton was determined that it be kept low key. Not even the President knew he was here. Above all the visit was to be kept from the media. From time to time there had been heated speculation in the media as to whether or not the Vice President’s association with Halliwell Pharmaceuticals included substantial shareholdings, forcing Chuck Bolton to send a personal explanation to Capitol Hill.

  His shareholdings in American companies were indeed substantial. His soothing announcements always followed a similar tack; he believed in supporting American enterprise, but he’d assured both the House and the Senate that all of his shares had been placed in an ‘arms length’ trust. That part of his remuneration from Halliwell could easily be checked but there were more substantial benefits. Bolton was confident that even the most dedicated journalist would find those special bank accounts hard to trace.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE HINDU KUSH AND PESHAWAR

  K halid Kadeer’s forward scout caught the movement down the track again. He quietly clicked his safety catch to the ‘off’ position and rested his gloved hand lightly on the trigger of his Kalashnikov and waited, scanning the ground below. If he revealed himself to the infidel the forward scout knew from bitter experience that the servants of the Great Satan would retreat but in their place the B52 bombers would appear overhead, their vapour trails reflected in the moonlight. A whistling sound would herald a rain of death, tons of high explosive shattering the peace and beauty of the Hindu Kush. At first light the helicopter gunships would appear like a swarm of angry wasps combing
the hillsides for any sign of life. Suddenly three pinpricks of light appeared in quick succession. It was the simple pre-arranged signal from a Taliban sentry. Kadeer’s scout reached for his pencil torch to reply.

  Khalid Kadeer stood up and stretched as his protective party moved silently back onto the snow-covered track to resume the move down the mountain. The Khyber Pass was faintly visible in the distance as they prepared to be escorted through the last of the Taliban-controlled areas.

  A small scout party pressed on towards Peshawar tasked with ensuring that neither the infidel nor the Pakistani authorities were waiting for them and that the al-Qaeda safe house was indeed safe. Not that there was likely to be a problem, Kadeer thought. The Taliban and al-Qaeda had long ago made the North-West Frontier Province their own and the American infidel was so bogged down in Iraq that Afghanistan was slowly being reclaimed. Occasionally the Pakistani government would make a token gesture and deploy the military into the border area so that the Pakistani President could claim they were doing their utmost to support the war on terror, but Khalid Kadeer and the rest of al-Qaeda and the Taliban always had ample warning. Just the same, Kadeer had vowed that the Pakistani government would pay the ultimate price for their treachery.

  With the soft pink of the pre-dawn sky appearing, the shrill exhausts of the first of the tuk tuks, the three-wheeled, two-stroke rickshaws of Peshawar, began to echo through ancient bazaars that were stirring to life. The first of the tongas, horse carts with big rubber tyres and impossible loads, were making their way onto the streets, as were Peshawar’s garishly coloured buses, belching clouds of thick, black exhaust. Emerging from beneath dirty cardboard shelters, dozens of beggars, many of them deformed, prepared to face another day of abject poverty. Suddenly the pall of smoke and gathering exhausts that enveloped the old city was shattered by the call to prayer by first one muezzin and then the echo of others, their messages to the faithful blaring discordantly into the surrounding hills. Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allah is Greatest, Allah is Greatest Allah ash hadu allaa ilaaha ill Allah I bear witness that there is nothing worthy of worship but Allah. As salaatu khairun minan maum. Prayer is better than sleep.

  Dr Khalid Kadeer moved a little away from his bodyguards who were reaching for their prayer mats. He laid his own prayer mat on a patch of rocky ground and pressed his forehead on the mat, then rose to the sitting position.

  At the end of Salat al Fajr, the dawn prayer, one of the first of the five prayers of the day, Kadeer looked first over his right shoulder, towards the angel recording his good deeds. As Salaamu ‘alaikum wa rahmatulaah. Peace and blessings of God be upon you.

  Then he looked over his left shoulder towards the angel recording his wrongful deeds, of which he strived to ensure there were none. The three warning missions against the infidel and the final mission were not considered wrongful. They were after all ordained by Allah. As Salaamu ’alaikum wa rahmatulaah. Peace and blessings of God be upon you.

  His prayers completed, Kadeer rolled up his prayer mat and settled down to wait for his scouting party to return. He smiled his thanks as one of his protective party appeared with a battered tin mug of steaming green tea, and he turned his mind to the discussions he would have with al-Falid. Hopefully the preparations for all of the warning attacks were well advanced. He already knew from the coded messages he and al-Falid had exchanged in anonymous internet chat rooms that the ocean-going tugs had maintained schedule and several of their precious cargos had been delivered safely. He allowed himself a grim smile. Beneath Eternity where the windmill has been stolen. It would be driving the infidel mad.

  CHAPTER 9

  HALLIWELL TOWER, ATLANTA

  ‘G ood to see you again, Chuck,’ Richard Halliwell said without any depth of meaning, as he showed Bolton to one of the leather couches at one end of his vast office. ‘Meeting go well?’ he asked as he pressed a button on a remote and crossed the thick-piled carpet to where a well-stocked liquor cabinet was slowly rotating from behind the far wall.

  ‘Very well,’ Vice President Bolton replied in his southern drawl. ‘At least the fucking National Rifle Association is on side, which is more than I can say for some of the treacherous bastards who inhabit the beltway around Washington,’ he added, still furious at O’Connor disagreeing with him over the Khalid Kadeer threats.

  Halliwell nodded as he handed the Vice President a crystal tumbler of Elijah Craig bourbon and ice. ‘Our problem, Chuck, is that we’re too honest and open in this country. If we’re not careful Americans are going to pay a very heavy price. It’s not the terrorists I’m worried about. It’s the fucking Chinese. Did you read my report?’

  The Vice President nodded as he savoured the eighteen-year-old bourbon. They were two of the most influential men in the United States, both driven by a lust for power and an unshakeable belief that the United States of America set the standard for the rest of the world. As the Presidential primaries to decide the next Republican candidate for the White House drew closer, their intense rivalry would surface, but for the moment, the Chinese threat to US dominance had them singing from the same deadly sheet of music.

  ‘I agree with you. The Muslims are a backward and fragmented lot with a false religion.’ Vice President Chuck Bolton wasn’t the least bit religious but where the war on terror was concerned he played to the ordinary Americans’ strong sense of the Almighty in their country’s destiny and it suited him to denigrate Islam at every turn. ‘But the Chinese are not constrained by religion, and that makes them more dangerous still.’

  ‘You won’t get any disagreement from me on that score,’ Halliwell said, taking a hefty swig from his glass.

  ‘Your report corresponds with other reports that have passed over my desk, and as of last week,’ the Vice President continued, ‘our gross domestic product stood at just over $10 trillion a year. That still puts us where we should be with the biggest share of the world’s total of $36 trillion, but the damn Chinese are catching up and catching up fast. $1.5 trillion might put them in seventh place but unless we find a way to reign these little slopes in, they’re going to overtake us within the next fifteen years, maybe ten.’

  ‘It’s worse than that, Chuck. That figure of $1.5 trillion is grossly misleading,’ Halliwell said, his eyes steely. ‘You can’t take it in isolation. Provincial governments in China routinely file very low productivity figures so they can continue to be classified as poverty zones and remain eligible for large Central Government funding injections. The internal regional productivity figures I’ve seen are much higher. On the poverty correction factor alone, the Chinese GDP is closer to $2 trillion. Our economy is growing at somewhere between 2 and 4 per cent, and the Fed thinks that’s healthy? For fuck’s sake, Chuck, China is growing at three times that!’ Dr Halliwell’s passionate dislike of the Chinese was on full display.

  ‘Last year,’ Halliwell went on, ‘we bought $150 billion more in goods from China than they bought from us. While the deficit here is going through the roof, our dollars are pouring into the Chinese treasury faster than they can count them. Believe me, Chuck, the Chinese GDP is closer to $7 trillion a year.’

  Both men were incensed that dumb-arsed Americans and millions of other people around the globe were scrambling over one another to buy Chinese imports. They knew that in reality the Chinese economy was already the second largest in the world and it was threatening to swamp the lead position of the United States. ‘Tsunami’ was a very accurate metaphor.

  The Vice President nodded. ‘The Chinese are going to use the Beijing Olympics as their passport to credibility, Richard. They’re putting so much into it that for the first time in history the International Olympic Committee has had to tell a host nation to slow down on construction. The IOC’s actually worried that they’ll have a white elephant sitting around for a year before the Games. Without the drama in the lead-up the media will lose interest.’

  The Vice President drained his glass and Halliwell reached over to refill it. ‘If t
he Beijing Olympics is an outstanding success,’ Bolton said, ‘we can forget about attacking them over human rights and Tiananmen Square, so I was thinking that we ought to try and find another way to slow these little bastards down.’ In a macabre parallel with Khalid Kadeer’s plans, the Beijing conspiracy of Richard Halliwell and Vice President Bolton was taking on a sinister shape.

  ‘Have you got something specific in mind?’ Richard Halliwell already had something very specific in mind but he was missing a vital element.

  The Vice President lowered his voice. ‘Has the office been swept?’

  Halliwell nodded. ‘Just last week.’

  Halliwell’s Chief Financial Officer, still in his office two floors below, adjusted his headphones. The sweeping of the CEO’s office was a security routine that Alan Ferraro made sure he was well aware of.

  ‘I was thinking that if Beijing was to be subjected to a nasty health scare a couple of months before the Games that it might take some of the gloss off the event.’

  ‘It would take more than a health scare, Chuck,’ Halliwell replied. ‘It would take something like Ebola or smallpox, although there are problems with Ebola.’ Dr Richard Halliwell, one of the most ruthless and nationalistic men ever to wield corporate power in America, had already given the scenario a great deal of thought and he watched for any sign of squeamishness in his equally ruthless Vice President. Bolton didn’t flinch.

  ‘Unlike smallpox, which can be transmitted by a sneeze or a cough, Ebola can only be transmitted through direct contact with an infected person or their body fluids,’ Halliwell explained. Although most of his time was taken up with maintaining Halliwell Pharmaceutical’s domination of the global pharmaceutical market, Richard Halliwell was a very experienced biochemist, and one of only a few scientists among the hundreds Halliwell Pharmaceuticals employed around the world qualified to work in a Level 4 hot-zone laboratory. He had every intention of keeping his hand in. ‘If we just used smallpox on its own the Chinese would put the weights on us for a smallpox vaccine. While that might be profitable,’ Halliwell added with a sneer, ‘eventually vaccines and strict worldwide quarantine might bring it back under control. On the other hand, there’s no vaccine for Ebola. If Ebola was crossed with smallpox the Chinese would have to contend with a super virus that was easily transmitted. We could claim that the vaccine for that was still being worked on – even if it was ready for our own people.’