‘Well I appreciate that, Jerry. Sometimes it’s not easy but I get a lot of strength from the Lord.’
‘Amen to that, Mr President, Amen to that.’
‘Take the weight off your feet,’ the President said, sitting down on one of the two lounges and gesturing towards the other.
‘What do you make of this latest threat from Khalid Kadeer and al-Qaeda, Jerry?’ the President asked after the secret service agent had left the room.
Jerry Buffett nodded gravely and leaned forward, lowering his deep southern drawl, which seemed an entirely unnecessary precaution in what was arguably the most secure office in the world.
‘We should be doing something about this threat before it overwhelms us, Mr President. It isn’t the false prophecies of the Qu’ran that we should be concerned about here but the real prophecies in the Bible. We face one of the most serious times in the history of mankind and that’s why God has put you in this office. Yours is a mission from God,’ he said, making sure he emphasised his point, ‘and there are two separate threats, Mr President. The greatest threat will come from the Chinese and the massive armies of Gog, as Ezekiel makes clear, but that will come later. The more immediate threat will come from the false religion of Islam. The Muslims are demanding that the Palestinians be given their own State, Mr President, but that will only be a small start. They want nothing more than for Israel to be pushed into the sea. But the Bible tells us, Mr President, that before Christ can return, all of the biblical lands must be returned to the Israelites, all of them,’ the Reverend Buffett said determinedly. ‘The Palestinians must be relocated to Jordan and any other country that will take these pagans. In Ezekiel, God says to us “But you, O mountains of Israel, you will put forth your branches and bear your fruit for my people Israel, for they will soon come. I will cause you to be inhabited as you were formerly”. God has also warned us that in the last days, Mr President, just before the return of Christ, the Muslims will try and destroy Israel and Jerusalem.’
President Harrison looked thoughtful.
‘The Bible is quite clear, Mr President,’ Jerry Buffett pressed on. ‘Attacks on the United States by Islamic terrorists are predicted in both the Old and the New Testaments. What we’re seeing is the beginning of the end times that herald the return of Jesus himself, and I very much fear that Khalid Kadeer will carry out his threats, exactly as it’s been laid out for us in the Bible.’
Dan Esposito was sitting at the opposite end of the President’s couch and he shifted in his seat uncomfortably. First that little shit O’Connor from the CIA and now this meddlesome preacher, both espousing the view that the threats from Kadeer were genuine. It was not a line that he wanted aired in public but for the moment he said nothing. Esposito knew that, for now, he needed Buffett to galvanise the voters in the southern bible-belt and in the swing states like Ohio. If Buffett’s preachers urged them to vote for a godfearing President who took his guidance from the Lord, they would turn out in droves.
The Reverend Buffett reached inside his soft leather briefcase and pulled out his well-thumbed Bible. ‘God has told me that the Muslim nations are preparing to strike our nation, Mr President, and our Lord revealed how they would do this when he spoke with John on the Greek island of Patmos.’ Jerry Buffett turned to the Revelation to John. ‘“And I saw a pale horse and its rider’s name was Death.” The Greek for pale is chloros, which stands for disease. The Bible could not be more clear, Mr President. It’s there in Daniel, in Matthew and in Revelations. I have no doubt that these Muslims are planning to launch an attack that spreads disease and that can only be a biological attack.’
‘The State Department and our Intelligence agencies don’t think they’ve developed that capability yet,’ the President said, glancing over at Esposito.
‘Our State Department and our Intelligence agencies all do an excellent job, Mr President, no doubt about it, but unlike you, they don’t have a direct line to a higher authority. Like Hitler, Kadeer speaks of a final solution. As God’s man in the White House, Mr President, you’re privy to the greatest source of intelligence there is. There can be no higher authority than the word of the Lord and the Holy Book. We not only need to prepare this country against a devastating Islamic biological attack, Mr President, we need to deter them from even thinking about launching one. The only thing that prevented the Soviet Union from launching a nuclear attack during the Cuban missile crisis was our own nuclear capability. Khrushchev knew that if he attacked, his own country would be annihilated. We need to develop our own biological weapons, Mr President, and leave the Muslims in no doubt that if they attack us we not only have the means to destroy them, but we will not hesitate to use them.’
‘I hear you, Jerry,’ President Harrison replied, his mind wavering, ‘I hear you, but it would be a very big step to re-introduce that research.’
‘These are desperate last days, Mr President, and you need to get yourself into a position to strike first. If you strike in the name of the Lord you can rest assured that God will be on your side.’
The Reverend Buffett was using the same persuasive bible-based rhetoric he used on his centre’s big stage back in Atlanta; skills he had spent a lifetime perfecting. After pausing for more thought, the President nodded in agreement, as he reflected that the urgings of the Vice President and the Secretary of Defense may well have been God’s way of getting his message through; a message that was now being confirmed by his spiritual advisor.
Before he left, Jerry Buffett joined hands with the other two men and led them in prayer. ‘Lord Jesus, we thank you for this godfearing President that you have placed in the White House, that your will might be done here on earth. We ask that you continue to protect this President, that he might overcome the Islamic forces of evil in this world. We ask that you will guide all those who are tasked with the preparations for our defense, that your light might shine forth from this nation to illuminate the world. We ask this in Jesus’ name, Amen.’
Earlier in the day, and some 900 kilometres to the south, evil of a more sinister nature had been gathering strength.
CHAPTER 26
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
D r Richard Halliwell waited impatiently for the man from the City Pound. It was not yet 6.30 a.m. and apart from the occasional jogger, the park in downtown Atlanta was deserted, or at least Halliwell thought it was. This was a meeting that, if the worst happened, had to be deniable and could not be delegated. Halliwell smiled to himself. It appealed to his sense of justice that he might employ someone from the City Pound. They were, after all, no better than mangy dogs.
Halliwell thrust his gloved hands into the pockets of his expensive cashmere overcoat and tapped his Italian leather shoes in frustration. He was not a man who was accustomed to being kept waiting. His planning was, as usual, meticulous. The previous month he had tasked his long-time private investigator to report on several of the city’s employees. His private detective had understood the sensitivity of the task perfectly. As he always did, Halliwell had insisted on a verbal briefing and payment was in cash, which meant there was no paper trail. Halliwell had decided on a Mexican illegal immigrant. Married to a fiery wife, with two children, the man was a regular visitor to one of the city’s seedier bars where he was often seen in the company of equally dubious women. Why anyone would bother with him was beyond Dr Halliwell’s imagination as he watched the fat, dark-haired little Mexican make his way furtively across the park. Some women obviously had no taste, he thought, but in the end, the more disgusting his private life the better. Richard Halliwell liked to have control over people. When the man was 45 metres away, Halliwell slipped a thin balaclava over his face.
‘You took your time,’ Halliwell challenged.
The Mexican jumped, a startled look on his face.
‘In here,’ Halliwell commanded, appearing from behind the hedge that encircled a small private area of the park.
‘Why all the secrecy?’ the Mexican asked.
‘Be
cause that’s the way I like it,’ Halliwell responded curtly. Leaving his fine leather gloves on, he withdrew a plain envelope from his cashmere coat. ‘Inside there is a thousand dollars cash. There will be a lot more where that came from, provided you cooperate.’
‘And if I don’t?’ The Mexican was now very wary of the tall, well-dressed man behind the mask, but he sensed he had the upper hand and his coal-like eyes gleamed with greed. Whatever he was about to be asked to do was important enough to be cloaked in extraordinary secrecy. His sense of the upper hand did not last long.
‘If you decide not to take the task on, this meeting never took place and you don’t get your thousand dollars. If you do take the task on, which is a relatively simple one, you will be very handsomely rewarded. Either way you keep your trap shut. There are some photographs in the envelope as well. Taken in the motel behind Hungry Jacks. They are copies. If you don’t remain silent the originals of the photographs will be delivered to your wife.’
The man’s dark face went pale. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he rasped.
‘That’s none of your concern. Do you want the money?’
‘Depends on what you want me to do,’ the man replied glancing around, like a large rat cornered at the end of a sewer and looking for a way out.
Richard Halliwell gave the man a quick outline of what was required.
The man paused, as if something was bothering him, as well it might. ‘$5000 a delivery?’ he asked.
‘Cash.’
Again he paused before answering. $5000 dollars would buy a lot of women and a lot of hooch, and it would keep that bitch he married in order too, he thought hungrily.
‘No skin off my nose,’ he said finally. ‘When do you want your first delivery?’
‘The barman will give you a message to contact your uncle. That will be the signal for you to come here. Your instructions will be in purple ink on a piece of paper at the bottom of that bin.’ Halliwell pointed to the refuse bin he had chosen as the dead-letter drop. ‘There is an entrance to the laboratory compound that is normally kept locked. You will be given the time for delivery and you are to stick to it exactly.’
Richard Halliwell waited until the man had driven away in his van before he removed the balaclava, then he walked out of the park in the opposite direction.
Unseen by either Halliwell or the Mexican, a shadowy figure on the far side of the hedge waited a full five minutes before he too walked out of the park.
CHAPTER 27
UNITED STATES ARMY MEDICAL RESEARCH INSTITUTE FOR INFECTIOUS
DISEASES, FORT DETRICK, MARYLAND
A s Professor Imran Sayed entered the new Commanding Colonel’s office, the pungent odour of fresh sandbags assailed his nostrils. Not only had the door been arched with the freshly filled sacks, but the front and sides of the desk looked like something out of ancient Giza with the green bags packed up to the top of the desk in a pyramid.
‘At ease!’ the Colonel snapped.
Professor Sayed had wandered in with one hand in his suit pocket, and he was somewhat taken aback by the Colonel’s order for him to relax. ‘Expecting an attack anytime soon, Colonel?’ he asked with a grin, unable to resist baiting the military commander.
‘I’ll remind you again, Professor, this country is at war. At war, d’yer hear, and we can never be too prepared. This is a top-secret base and another 9/11 might be just around the corner,’ Wassenberg fumed, momentarily distracted from the Professor’s opinion piece and the reason he had summoned the recalcitrant academic.
‘Perhaps that might be a good reason to sit down and talk with people like President Ahmadinejad and Bashar al Assad,’ Imran replied more seriously. ‘Instead of treating them and their people like pariahs and threatening to bomb them all out of existence. We might get better results if we sat across the table and got to know one another a little better. You never know, we might even find some common ground we can work from.’
‘Iran and Syria are part of the axis of evil, Professor. Haven’t you been listening to President Harrison?’
Not if I can help it, Sayed thought.
‘Chamberlain tried that with Hitler and look where that got us. We don’t negotiate with terrorists, Professor, and one day you and the rest of the academics on this base will learn to leave war fighting to the President and people like me who know something about it.’
Sayed was tempted to observe that neither Iran nor Syria had shown any sign of the territorial ambitions of either Hitler or the United States, nor did the President and his generals seem to know a great deal about the implications of starting a war in places like Iraq. He was beginning to think that the IQ of his Colonel and the sandbags had alarming similarities and he let the comments go through to the catcher.
‘Which brings me to your opinion piece in today’s New York Times. Who authorised that?’ Colonel Wassenberg demanded.
‘I wasn’t aware that an opinion piece, being one man’s opinion, required authorisation from anyone, Colonel,’ Sayed replied, his own anger starting to rise. ‘One of the cornerstones of this democracy, a democracy that we are very keen to impose on the Middle East,’ he added pointedly, ‘is supposed to be freedom of speech, but it seems to me that for conservative governments like this one, freedom of speech only applies if you happen to agree with their policies.’
Colonel Wassenberg was apoplectic. ‘You’re employed by the United States government to adhere to the policies laid down by the President, the Pentagon and myself, and that does not include writing to the papers with criticism that is way above your pay grade. In future you will clear all correspondence through me. Through me, d’yer hear? Dismissed.’
Sayed shrugged, turned and walked from Wassenberg’s office shaking his head. Not only did the Commanding Colonel have some interesting delusions of grandeur, but Professor Sayed judged that Wassenberg was a prime candidate for a stroke or a heart attack. He rolled his eyes and winked at a bemused Kate who was waiting to go in.
‘Crawshaw! Is that Braithwaite woman here yet?’
‘Yessir! USAMRIID Sir!’ Captain Crawshaw shouted. ‘Quickly, the Colonel’s waiting,’ he urged, waving his hand back and forth as he shooed Kate towards the door.
Kate tilted her head, raised her eyebrows and made cross-eyes at the captain before wandering in to Colonel Cluster’s inner sanctum.
‘You wanted to see me, Colonel?’ Kate asked, blinking innocently at the red-faced Wassenberg who was drumming his fingers on the top of his desk.
‘At ease.’
‘Thank you, Colonel,’ Kate said condescendingly, infuriating Wassenberg even further.
‘I said this morning that I wasn’t happy with the standard of dress on this base, and one of the main offenders is you! Jeans are not an acceptable form of dress and your hair is to be cut short or tied in a bun. Crawshaw is sending you a copy of the dress manual.’
‘This may come as a surprise to you, Colonel,’ Kate responded angrily, ‘but I’m not part of your army, or anyone else’s. If I wanted to parade at six o’clock in the morning and tie my hair in a bun I would have gone to West Point, but from the little I’ve seen of that institution’s product,’ she said, glaring at the small man sitting behind his bombproof desk, ‘I’m quite happy with my decision to be a microbiologist!’
Incensed, Kate turned on her heel and strode through the sandbags, leaving Colonel Wassenberg speechless but more determined than ever to demolish the fiery young scientist’s career. He reached for the letter he’d received in the afternoon post, signed personally by the Secretary of Defense, requesting two high quality scientists skilled in Level 4 laboratory work be temporarily assigned to Halliwell Pharmaceuticals as liaison officers on the smallpox vaccine project and added Braithwaite’s name to Sayed’s. This would be a backwater that would at least stall her career until he could think of something more permanent.
CHAPTER 28
HALLIWELL TOWER, ATLANTA
D r Richard Halliwell parked his red Merce
des-Benz SLR 722 McLaren Sports in his private car park underneath the Halliwell Tower. With a top speed of 208 miles an hour and a price tag of over $400,000, the sports roadster was just another symbol of Halliwell’s relentless pursuit of power; although for church on Sundays he conveyed a more subtle if no less powerful image with the big black Mercedes S600 sedan he allowed his wife to drive. Simone Carstairs, Halliwell’s personal assistant of nearly eight years, preferred the McLaren.
Halliwell inserted the key to his private lift and rode it to his office. The gleaming monolith of chrome and glass symbolised the ‘Big Pharma of Big Pharma’. Halliwell Pharmaceuticals had offices and factories in sixty-three countries.
Dr Halliwell took off his coat and hung it in the walnut-panelled cupboard adjacent to his private bathroom. Deep in thought, he wandered over to the windows of his office and, as was his habit, stared out towards the early morning mists that hovered over the lake below Stone Mountain. The day before, Vice President Bolton had telephoned to congratulate him on being awarded the Administration’s half-a-billion dollar contract for the production of 300 million doses of smallpox vaccine. Keeping Bolton on the books as a consultant, albeit on a separate set of books, had been a stroke of genius. Fleetingly he reflected on the expertise of his Chief Financial Officer, Alan Ferraro, who was away on leave. He’d never warmed to him, but then again, with the possible exception of his secretary, Halliwell didn’t warm to anyone. As long as Ferraro managed to keep the company clear of the Securities and Exchange Commission and the rest of the Wall Street regulators, Halliwell would continue to pay him his exorbitant salary and tolerate Ferraro’s need to disappear from time to time to explore the stupidity of his private interests. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the inner doors to his spacious suite.
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