The Beijing conspiracy

by Adrian D'hage

  ‘Come in, Simone,’ he said, moving back to his large walnut desk.

  ‘Morning, Richard.’ Simone Carstairs was tall and fit. Her striking red hair contrasted arrestingly with her deep tan. She was universally referred to as ‘Big Red’ around Halliwell Pharmaceuticals, although no one ever used the nickname in earshot of either her or the company’s chairman. Simone guarded the moat around Level 37 with an iron fist in a velvet glove. If you wanted to get to the chairman, you had to get past her. She had an oval face and her immaculate teeth were a brilliant white. Simone Carstair’s orthodontist was one of the most expensive in Atlanta, although there was nothing artificial about her cleavage, a fact that had never been lost on Richard Halliwell. Simone was wearing a loose-fitting top; she bent over his desk, lingering for a fraction longer than she needed to as she placed a cup of freshly percolated coffee on his desk. ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘Like a log – you?’ he asked meaningfully. Although he knew better than to quiz her, Halliwell often wondered what Simone got up to out of hours, or when she was on one of her numerous holidays to the Caribbean. So far his private investigator had not turned up any attachments. Where possessions were concerned Richard Halliwell was not one to be crossed.

  ‘I would have slept better if you’d been around,’ Simone replied none-too-subtly. It had been a constant source of irritation to her that Richard would not countenance leaving Constance, his depressingly boring and very religious wife, but she’d reluctantly learned to live with it.

  Richard Halliwell had married into one of the most well-connected families in American politics, although if Halliwell thought he might benefit, he’d been sadly mistaken. Constance Halliwell was the daughter of Congressman Davis Burton. The Congressman had failed in both of his attempts to win the Republican nomination for the White House, but as one of the most respected and erudite congressmen on the Hill, he’d risen to lead the Republicans in the House. Speaker Davis Burton was now second-in-line to the Presidency after the Vice President, and a very astute judge of people. With years of experience in dealing with lobbyists and other characters of dubious pedigree swimming in the murky waters of politics, Davis Burton had taken an instant dislike to the young Halliwell. He’d been opposed to the marriage from the very beginning, and as time had gone on, that opposition had strengthened to the point he would no longer tolerate Halliwell in his house; but Richard Halliwell continued to believe he could win the congressman over. At the start of their marriage, when Halliwell discovered his wife was a complete waste of time in the bedroom, he’d nevertheless decided Constance was worth keeping. His difficulties with her father were not in the public domain and there were advantages in having a wife to whom middle-America could relate. To the voters, Halliwell was the ‘all-American boy’ made good, with powerful connections on the Hill and to the White House. Richard Halliwell had no doubt that when the time came, his prominent membership of an increasingly politically savvy Southern Baptist Church would also be a factor. Dan Esposito was not the only one to notice that the new Christian Right in America had become a powerful political force.

  ‘Your wife rang a few minutes ago. She said to tell you that Randy Baker has been offered a congressional page’s place. He’s going to work with your father-in-law.’

  Halliwell nodded in satisfaction. Randy Baker, a young member of the Buffett Center, had recently expressed to Halliwell he had an interest in politics. Richard Halliwell had immediately recruited Constance to put in a word with her father. For the cost of a mobile phone and a few nickels out of petty cash, Halliwell had no doubt he could recruit the impressionable young Randy Baker to report on the comings and goings in the Speaker’s office. Information was power. Halliwell made a note to ring the young man and congratulate him.

  ‘She also asked me to remind you that you’re having lunch with Jerry Buffett after church next Sunday. He’s asked a Marine Corps Colonel to come down from Maryland and give the sermon as part of his “Wake Up America” program.’ Simone raised her eyebrows ever so slightly in a ‘that should be fun’ expression. ‘And the White House rang. They wanted to know if you are free for a game of golf with the President on Thursday this week at The Vineyard Country Club in California. Dan Esposito will be there as well.’

  Richard Halliwell nodded, a look of satisfaction on his face. Nestled amongst stately old coastal oaks and towering redwoods not far from the Napa Valley north of San Francisco, The Vineyard was one of the most exclusive golf clubs in the United States and with less than 400 members, it was a club membership that Richard Halliwell had coveted for a long time. A ‘males only’ club, it had been designed in the early 1930s and played host to one of the world’s greatest golf tournaments. The average age of the membership was 76, most of them billionaires and although Richard Halliwell qualified on the latter count there was a problem. You couldn’t apply to be a member of The Vineyard, you had to be invited, and despite some quite intensive lobbying, that invitation had been elusive. Perhaps this might be an opportunity to make some useful contacts, he thought. ‘Sounds interesting, I think you should tell the pilot to stand by.’

  ‘Already done.’ Simone Carstairs was not just a pretty face. She was also ruthlessly efficient.

  ‘Did they say who else might be playing?’

  ‘I asked that, just you three.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Richard mused. ‘Very interesting.’ A quiet game of golf with the President and his most trusted political advisor was more than a little intriguing.

  ‘They apologised that the President can’t stay for dinner as he has a speech to deliver at the American Faith-based Policy Institute.’ Like Vice President Bolton’s address to the National Rifle Association, the President’s speech to the right wing think tank would be preaching to the converted, but the Institute was one of the White House’s more important constituencies, plus the audience could be relied on to applaud in all the right places.

  ‘We’ll just have to dine alone,’ Halliwell replied, his smile a quick, unemotional action.

  ‘I’ve booked us adjoining suites at The Vineyard Resort,’ Simone said.

  Richard Halliwell watched his PA walk from his suite. There was no doubt about it, Simone Carstairs had a great pair of legs and a great fanny.

  CHAPTER 29

  CALIFORNIA

  T he President of the United States was the only leader in the world who used a 747 to get him to a golf match, and the domestic and air travel arrangements for the President had not been lost on either Khalid Kadeer or al-Falid. al-Qaeda had spent many hours looking to exploit any weakness.

  The arrival or departure of Air Force One was the stuff of security nightmares. It invariably involved a total air exclusion zone and a closure of taxiways which wreaked havoc with normal domestic and international schedules. If there was an option, airport authorities around the world were always keen for an air force base to be used. Since September 11 the protective screen around Air Force One had been strengthened even further and for the first time in the history of the United States, the US Air Force flew regular combat air patrols over major cities. Although it hadn’t been the practice in the past, if the threat level rose even slightly, Air Force One would be given a fighter escort and the Air Force was confident that the series of security screens around the President’s aircraft would be very difficult for a terrorist to penetrate. The most dangerous time was on take off and landing when the aircraft was vulnerable to a missile strike, but the extra deployments of heavily armed secret service agents around an airfield provided additional protection. Earlier in the day, the 89th Airlift Wing at Andrews Air Force Base had received an anonymous threat to destroy Air Force One which would normally be put down as one of many hoax calls, but this morning’s caller had used the US Air Force’s classified codeword ‘Angel’ for the President’s aircraft, and the Air Force had scrambled two fighters, just in case.

  It was a beautifully clear autumn day. In the cockpit of Air Force One, as President Harrison’s ch
ief pilot Air Force Colonel Mike Munro and his crew went through their routine briefing for landing at Travis Air Force Base in California, the vapour trails of two F-16s were visible as they kept a vigilant patrol high above the President. The two young US Air Force pilots were watchful, ready to escort any intruders out of the area, or shoot them out of the sky if it was necessary; in the brave new world post-September 11, the rules of engagement were brutal. This morning only one civilian aircraft had clearance into Travis and that clearance had come from the White House. A black Learjet 60 with the Halliwell Pharmaceuticals logo on the tailfin was scheduled to land 30 minutes before the President.

  Richard Halliwell’s personal flight attendant finished clearing away the light lunch of crayfish salad and the nose of the Learjet dipped as Halliwell’s pilots eased back the power. Simone Carstairs leaned back in the red leather of her armchair and raised her champagne glass. She was wearing a dark blue linen dress with a plunging neckline that exposed the top of her tanned breasts. Halliwell’s eyes were focused on her cleavage. Beneath the blue linen he could make out the faint outline of her nipples.

  ‘To tonight,’ she mouthed seductively, allowing her tongue to flick over her lips.

  ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ Richard Halliwell replied, raising his glass in response. ‘What are you doing this afternoon?’ he asked, curious to know her every move.

  Simone smiled. ‘Well, since The Vineyard doesn’t seem to be too fond of women,’ she replied meaningfully, ‘while you’re out hitting little white balls with the President of this country, I’m sure I can put your black American Express card to good use in San Francisco,’ she replied evasively. One day she would get him to ditch that boring little wife of his, she mused, reflecting that when Constance Halliwell wasn’t in Church singing hymns, she was devoting the rest of her time singing the praises of that even more boring bible-bashing preacher Jerry Buffett. Simone drained the last of the vintage Krug and again licked her lips. Richard Halliwell, she knew, was calculating and powerful, and she was attracted to that in a man. She was sure that, one day, Halliwell would be on the presidential plane that was following them in, and she intended to be on it with him.

  As Halliwell went back to reading one of the reports on China – an analysis of the security arrangements for the Beijing Olympics – she watched him as her thoughts turned again to his marriage. For the life of her she couldn’t see what Richard saw in his wife. He’d once confided in her that Constance had resisted anything other than the missionary position, recoiling in horror on their wedding night when he’d attempted oral sex. Simone suppressed a smile. She’d never been able to get her mind around Constance on top, let alone having oral sex, and Constance’s reticence in the bedroom was something that Simone Carstairs knew how to turn to her advantage. Simone would continue to ensure that Richard Halliwell got what his wife could never give him, even if that contained an extraordinary irony. He was quite possibly the most selfish and ill-equipped lover she’d ever encountered. In his case she’d reluctantly concluded that size did matter; it was just that for Simone Carstairs, power mattered much more. When he came to his senses, she and President Richard Halliwell would make a very powerful team. JFK and Jacqueline had taken the world by storm, and soon there would be a new Camelot, one that the world would have to take notice of.

  Puffs of light blue smoke wisped from the tyres of the Learjet as Halliwell’s chief pilot eased the aircraft on to 21 Left, one of two long parallel strips at Travis Air Force Base in Fairfield just outside San Francisco Bay. The sprawling 5000 acre base was home to the 60th Air Mobility Wing and the massive C-5 Galaxy and C-17 Globe-master cargo aircraft and today, like every other day, it was busy. As Secret Service agents scanned the perimeter in preparation for the arrival of the President’s plane, three huge KC-10 Extender refuelling jets were banked up behind one another waiting to land.

  Halliwell’s pilot taxied towards the special arrivals area where a black Bell Jet Ranger helicopter was waiting, rotors already turning. A hundred metres away, close to the orange cross that marked the spot onto which Colonel Mike Munro would nudge Air Force One’s nose wheel, two more of the President’s pilots were already strapped in and going through their pre-flight checks on Marine One, the President’s olive-green and white helicopter. Her much bigger fixed wing sister was only 20 minutes out of Travis and had commenced her descent toward finals.

  CHAPTER 30

  CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  C urtis O’Connor glanced at the clock on his wall. It was just before 6 p. m and he was contemplating an early night when a quiet buzzing on his private line interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ O’Connor said, wondering what crisis had arisen that had the CIA’s Deputy Director of Operations, Tom McNamara summoning him. Tom McNamara was the second most senior officer in the Agency and was responsible for running all of the CIA’s spies and foreign clandestine operations, including the insertion of CIA paramilitary teams into places like Afghanistan and Iraq, and more recently Iran.

  ‘Come in, buddy, have a seat,’ McNamara said, motioning Curtis towards one of two comfortable brown leather couches. The leather on each of them was torn and cracked. The furniture had been scheduled for replacement more than once, but each time Tom had told ‘those wankers down in the Director of Administration’s Office’ that he’d garrote the first person who laid a hand on them. His exploits in the field in his younger days were already the subject of folklore at Langley, with more than one foreign agent known to have breathed his last as McNamara had silently wielded a short length of chicken wire. The furniture had stayed put. The seal of the CIA – an eagle atop a shield with a sixteen pointed compass star representing intelligence from all points of the globe converging on Langley – hung proudly on the wood-panelled wall behind a desk covered in crimson files. The DDO’s powerful reading light was off and the office was lit by a number of elegant table lamps.

  ‘I’ve just come from the Director’s office,’ Tom McNamara said, rolling his eyes up towards the seventh floor and taking the other couch. The DDO had a big, round face, grey hair which he kept very short and piercing blue eyes. Weighing in at 120 kilograms, the ex-Marine had a huge barrel chest, and for such a big man, he moved with surprising grace and agility. ‘The new wunderkind’s been on the phone to the Vice President,’ he added disparagingly. Curtis and Tom had worked together for many years, both in the field and at Langley, and they enjoyed an easy rapport. The deep trust between the two men had been forged in adversity. Each would trust the other with his life but neither man trusted the new Director who’d been sent over by the White House to ‘sort the joint out’.

  ‘There are a couple of issues. For whatever reason the Vice President seems to be obsessed with China and the security of the Olympics. I’ve explained to the Director that we’ve already established an intelligence task force which will work closely with the US Olympic Committee to protect our athletes and officials, but I’d like you to sit in on their meetings when you can, just to keep an eye on things.’

  Curtis grinned. Given his current workload, provided they met between midnight and dawn, that shouldn’t be a problem, but he said nothing as his DDO continued.

  ‘More importantly the brains trust down in Pennsylvania Avenue have hatched a brilliant new scheme to carry out research on biological weapons and you and I are about to get the football.’

  ‘Sounds like a hospital pass to me,’ Curtis observed, becoming serious.

  ‘Got it in one. The program’s black, so it’ll be run out of your office. If it fucks up you and I will wear it. It’s got that slime ball Esposito’s name written all over it.’

  ‘USAMRIID or CDC?’

  ‘Neither. Ever since that memo on phone tapping ordinary citizens hit the media, they’re paranoid about leaks. It’ll be done in that new lab we built for the Vice President’s mate down in Atlanta at Halliwell Pharmaceuticals. What do we know about this guy?’

  ‘O
ne of my old buddies, Rob Bauer down at the FBI in Atlanta, has an interesting file on Halliwell,’ Curtis replied. Despite the intense public rivalry between the FBI and the CIA, true professionals like Deputy Director McNamara and Officer O’Connor had contacts that flew under the radar of the raging jealousies at the top. Those contacts sliced through red tape in an instant and were worth their weight in gold to both sides.

  ‘Outwardly Halliwell’s a pillar of the Southern Baptist Church, all-American boy made good, turned a piss-farting little biotech into a multinational, darling of the Wall Street set and the brokers worship the ground he walks on.’

  ‘And?’ Tom McNamara asked with a grin.

  ‘He’d assassinate his grandmother if he thought there was a buck in it. Right now he’s pushing on with that court case in Africa to prevent cheap generic AIDS drugs being distributed, even though the rest of Big Pharma have backed off. He’s also trying to dominate the AIDS drug market in China.’

  ‘Wife and kids?’

  ‘The kids are pretty smart; they left home first chance they got,’ Curtis replied cynically. ‘His wife Constance is as boring as bat shit and she’s a pillar of the church what’s-his-face runs, that crackpot evangelist mate of the President.’

  ‘Buffett?’

  ‘He’s the one. For $10,000 he’ll pray for you and throw in a plaque as big as a postage stamp on a porch about the size of the fucking Super Bowl. Halliwell turns up there with his wife every Sunday, and then he spends the rest of the week porking the ass off his secretary. Mind you,’ Curtis added with a grin, ‘I’ve seen a photo. She’s got a very nice ass and I wouldn’t crawl over her to get to you.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear that, O’Connor,’ McNamara said with a wry smile. ‘So other than that you’re quite fond of Halliwell.’