The Beijing conspiracy

by Adrian D'hage

  Amon al-Falid was burning with anger. His hatred for the Great Satan sank to even darker depths as he listened to the infidel’s Imam attack the holy path of Islam, a path that defined al-Falid’s very being and the meaning for his existence.

  The Reverend Jerry Buffett paced back and forth across the huge stage as he brought the service to its dramatic finale. ‘My brothers and sisters be ready! Zechariah warns us in Chapter 14: “For I will gather all the nations against Jerusalem to battle… then the Lord will go forth and fight against those nations.” Be ready! Only those who believe will be taken up to heaven in the rapture. Those who ignore the one true God of the universe will be left behind. When that terrible day comes, and it’s coming soon, trains will crash and planes will fall out of the sky as Christian pilots and drivers and their Christian passengers are raptured up to join the Lord. Wives who believe will suddenly be taken straight from their kitchens, leaving unbelieving husbands begging for mercy in a fiery inferno.’

  Constance Halliwell reached across and took her husband’s hand.

  ‘The Lord will appear in a blaze of triumphal light, with all the prophets, and Zechariah will be standing there, right behind him. There will be a great trembling across the four corners of the Earth, and our Lord will give the unbelievers one last terrible stare. Then he will shake his head in sadness and vast creaking chasms will open and hundreds of millions of unbelievers will fall, screaming, into the fiery bowels of the earth.’ al-Falid was almost incandescent with rage, and he spat towards the television in the corner of his hotel room. ‘Khalid Kadeer was wrong,’ he seethed. The infidel with his blasphemous criticism of the great prophet, peace be upon him, must never be accommodated. If Allah, the Most Kind, the Most Merciful was willing, the infidel would surely be annihilated. He flicked the off button on the remote and turned to his laptop, typing in the address for an internet chat room.

  The site al-Falid was using to communicate with the tugs was a popular dating site that had private chat rooms, just one of the many al-Qaeda used on a regular basis. Internet chat rooms were the safest way to communicate, although for the tugs, a chat room could only be used when they were in dock. al-Falid logged in and followed the prompts, relieved to see that ‘Bald Eagle’ was already in the ‘bedroom’, which meant his son Malik had reached Surabaya. As soon as al-Falid entered the room as ‘Red Hot Chili Pepper’, someone with the avatar ‘Fat, Wet and Hot’ tried to engage in conversation.

  Fat, Wet and Hot: ‘What’s your pepper like Chili?’ al-Falid kept his anger in check. Western decadence knew no bounds and ‘Fat, Wet and Hot’ was undoubtedly an infidel. Amon al-Falid knew that no self-respecting Muslim would even visit a chat room, let alone engage in conversation.

  Fat, Wet and Hot: ‘Hey! Are you in the bedroom Red Hot Chili Pepper? Speak to me!’ al-Falid maintained his silence and simply remained online, invisible, anonymous and dangerous. Despite the billions of dollars the CIA and other intelligence agencies spent researching and acquiring the latest technology, the anonymity of a chat room was something that even the most sophisticated monitoring systems had so far been unable to penetrate. al-Falid typed in his invitation.

  Red Hot Chili Pepper: ‘Can I interest you in a private chat, Bald Eagle?’ It had amused al-Falid to assign the American symbol of power for his son to use as a nickname.

  Bald Eagle: ‘Sounds better than what Fat, Wet and Hot’s got to offer!’ al-Falid smiled grimly. He had trained all of his operatives, including his son, to use the infidel’s language. Some al-Qaeda cells failed because they didn’t blend in. If blending in meant drinking in an infidel’s bar that was permitted. If it meant using foul and suggestive language in a chat room in pursuit of the greater cause, Allah, the Most Kind, the Most Merciful, would forgive that too. The next exchange from ‘Fat, Wet and Hot’ prompted a mild rebuke from the chat room’s automated controller.

  Fat Wet and Hot: ‘Blow your chili pepper out your arse, faggot!’

  Itzy: ‘Be polite Fat, Wet and Hot.’

  Fat, Wet and Hot: ‘Blow it out yours too!’

  Itzy: Fat, Wet and Hot is being disconnected now.

  Red Hot Chili Pepper: ‘You have arrived?’ al-Falid asked when they were in their private chat room.

  Bald Eagle: ‘Yesterday, and we are planning to leave within the hour. The weather looks good, and after we complete other activities, we should arrive on schedule.’ al-Falid looked at the screen and nodded to himself in understanding. Malik had learned the lessons well. Always assume the infidel was watching, even in an anonymous chat room. Keep any transmission short and to the point, but vague. Within Malik’s banal conversation, a wealth of information had passed between them. Malik’s message told al-Falid that the refueling at Surabaya had gone without a hitch, and that the ‘other activities’, the stinger missile training, was on track and the Montgomery and the Wavell would arrive on the same schedule as the Jerusalem Bay.

  Red Hot Chili Pepper: ‘Mummy is looking forward to being reunited with her chickens.’ al-Falid had already been in a chat room with ‘Mummy’, the Jerusalem Bay, several days earlier, before the mother ship had left Monrovia with her deadly cargo stacked on her decks, en route to the target city 21,000 kilometres to the east.

  Bald Eagle: ‘May the force be with you.’

  It was code for ‘Allah be praised’.

  CHAPTER 55

  ISOLATION WARD, THE CENTERS FOR DISEASE CONTROL, ATLANTA

  T he small light glowed green as the state of the art security camera matched Professor Sayed’s iris with the records in the computer bank and Imran passed through into the outer area of the Level 4 ward. He looked at his watch. The Secretary of the United Nations had asked for a personal briefing on the threat of bioterrorism and he was due in New York later that night, but he needed to check in on Kate before he left. Professor Ian Jaegar, CDC’s consulting physician on the treatment of Level 4 viruses, had personally overseen and applied every viral test known to modern medicine to Kate’s blood. Apart from slightly low white and red blood cell counts, the latter of which the Professor had attributed to a minor iron deficiency, there were no indications that the virus had gained entry through the cut, but Kate still had a fever.

  Imran walked into the small isolation ward office to find it very crowded. Professor Jaegar, the duty sister and Curtis O’Connor had also arrived. Ian Jaegar greeted Imran with a smile. He had known both Imran and Curtis for years.

  ‘We’ve moved her out of Level 4 and back into a normal ward, Imran. I’ve still got her in isolation but it’s been over two weeks now, and I’m confident she didn’t contract the virus.’

  ‘The fever?’ Imran asked.

  Professor Jaegar smiled. ‘I don’t know what sort of a program she’s involved in,’ he replied, looking at Curtis, ‘but I suspect she’s been working far too hard.’

  Curtis grinned, but said nothing. Even though Professor Jaegar also had positively vetted clearances above top secret there was no need for him to know, and the P LASMID Compartment would remain tightly sealed to anyone who didn’t have a reason to be directly involved. On instructions from Esposito that also included the Secretary of State.

  ‘You think the fever was just a coincidence?’ Imran asked.

  Professor Jaegar nodded. ‘A lowered immune system, coupled with the considerable stress involved in the loss of what I understand was one of her favourite chimpanzees may have left her vulnerable. I’m confident that her symptoms were nothing more than the onset of a fever-based flu, something I suspect she may have had before she was exposed in the necropsy room.

  Imran nodded, a sense of relief flooding over him. He recalled that Kate had complained of not feeling well the night before, but in the middle of the incident in the hot laboratory that detail had been forgotten.

  ‘May we see her?’ Curtis asked.

  ‘Of course. Sister will take you down.’

  ‘Has Dolinsky settled in, Imran?’

  ‘As well as I can judge, a
lthough he doesn’t say much,’ Imran replied as they followed Sister toward the isolation ward. ‘Keeps to himself outside the lab, but we’re all due to have lunch with Halliwell when Kate gets out of here so perhaps I’ll get to know him a little better.’

  ‘Any idea how far Dolinsky’s got with his research?’

  ‘In the first few days I got the impression that he’s probably a lot closer to being able to combine the viruses and develop a vaccine than we might have thought. I’ve helped him insert the primers and the results are frighteningly impressive.’

  ’A while back I received a couple of invites to next month’s international bioterrorism conference in Sydney, Imran. The Chinese are sending a delegation so it will be interesting to see if they canvas a biological attack as a possibility at the Olympics. I was going to invite you to join me, but I see you’re down to give the opening address. Have you been to Sydney before?’ Curtis asked as they reached Kate’s isolation ward.

  ‘No, and unfortunately I won’t be able to make the whole program. I’ve got some urgent things to tidy up at the World Health Organization in Geneva so I can get a clear run at the Halliwell research. If you’ve got a spare invite why don’t you take Kate? Sydney’s her home town.’

  ‘You think she’ll want to stay on the program after this? I would have thought a Level 4 laboratory would be the last thing she’d want to go back to.’

  ‘You might be surprised,’ Imran replied, and he smiled his thanks to the duty sister as she showed them into Kate’s room.

  ‘You had us worried there for a while,’ Imran said. ‘Feeling any better?’

  ‘Much, although I’m beginning to wonder who I’ve got to influence to get off this show! Do I really have to stay here another week?’ Kate’s face was still a little pale but her green eyes had regained their mischievous sparkle.

  Curtis and Imran exchanged glances. Dr Kate Braithwaite was clearly back to her old self.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Imran promised. ‘In the meantime, I’ve got to get to the airport. The Secretary of the United Nations has asked me to brief him on a few things, so get well soon,’ he said, blowing Kate a kiss, then turning to shake Curtis’ hand.

  ‘I am well, Imran, that’s the problem,’ Kate grumbled. ‘Safe trip.’

  Curtis sat down on the edge of Kate’s bed. ‘Given what’s happened I will understand if you want to pull out,’ he offered.

  ‘This has only made me more determined to stay, Curtis. What we’re attempting to do is extraordinarily dangerous, but beautiful creatures like Maverick shouldn’t be sacrificed in vain.’

  Curtis O’Connor nodded, total understanding in his eyes.

  ‘And thank you for the flowers,’ she said. ‘They’re lovely.’

  ‘Thank you for staying with the project and for what it’s worth, I agree, this Administration has lost the plot, but if you ever repeat that, I’ll be forced to kill you,’ he said with a grin. Breaking with protocol Curtis O’Connor leaned over and kissed Kate on the cheek.

  CHAPTER 56

  HALLIWELL TOWER, ATLANTA

  A week after Kate had been discharged, Richard Halliwell buzzed Simone, annoyed that Eduard Dolinsky was late for their pre-luncheon discussion. ‘Where’s Dolinsky?’

  Simone Carstairs took a deep breath and glared at the intercom on her desk. Even with the volume turned down low, she recognised Richard’s mood, a mood that matched her own. Ever since he had been invited to run for the Republican nomination for the Presidency, Simone sensed he had placed her outside his inner circle. Esposito had not returned her calls, and she and Richard slept together far less regularly. Not that she missed the sex, if it could be called that, but sex was one of the most important holds she had over Halliwell. Nor was she concerned with secrecy in the labs; Simone accepted it was not necessary for her to know the details of classified medical research, but lately the aura of secrecy around Richard had extended well past the laboratories, and for the first time since she’d been his personal assistant she’d not been invited to lunch. Simone’s antennae were finely tuned and she was wary about what Richard might be up to. She got up from her desk determined she was not going to conduct a conversation over an intercom.

  ‘I’m not Dolinsky’s keeper, Richard,’ Simone said defiantly, taking the seat beside Halliwell’s desk without being asked. ‘For whatever reason he’s in Alan Ferraro’s office.’ Simone knew that the Russian scientist had been there for over an hour. She had taken a dislike to Alan Ferraro from the first day she’d met him but tolerated the shifty accountant for the same reason Richard did – his expertise at keeping the share price high and the authorities none the wiser as to the contents of the company accounts.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to ask him what he’s doing there?’ Simone suggested.

  ‘Some time ago he asked me if he could browse through some of Ferraro’s accounting books that are hard to get in Russia, and I don’t see anything wrong with that,’ Halliwell barked. ‘What’s eating you? Get out on the wrong side of the bed today?’

  ‘Not that you’d notice,’ Simone said, ‘but since you’ve asked, is there some reason why I’m not invited to lunch today?’

  ‘Oh I see! It all becomes clear.’ Halliwell was becoming increasingly tired of Simone’s all-pervasive presence. Lately she was looking her age, he thought, glaring at her. Once a woman reached forty she was on the downhill run and Simone had reached that milestone two months ago, something she had not been backward in reminding him of when he’d let the occasion pass without the usual bunch of flowers. ‘This may come as a surprise to you, Simone, but there are some things around here you don’t need to be involved in!’

  ‘I’m fully aware of that, Richard,’ Simone replied icily, ‘but I wouldn’t have thought a lunch would be classified top secret. For what it’s worth, although why I’m bothering to protect you in your present frame of mind is beyond me, I wouldn’t trust your new Russian scientist any more than I would trust Alan Ferraro. It’s not the first time he’s been in Ferraro’s office, but if you’re happy with that be it on your own head.’ Simone stormed out of Richard’s office, almost bumping into Dr Dolinsky on her way through.

  Richard Halliwell’s luxurious private dining room was on the same floor as his office suite, next to the lavishly appointed Halliwell boardroom. A Picasso and a Rembrandt, part of the stunning Halliwell art collection, were included on the panelled walls, as well as the odd Caravaggio and a sculpture by Bernini. Exotic pot plants and lampshades in the Halliwell colours of gold and black had been added to the gaudy trappings of power. The far wall was plate glass that stretched from floor to ceiling. The twenty-seat dining table was polished silky oak, and today there was a setting for four at one end of the table. Each dining chair had a Halliwell seal sewn into the backrest – a black circle with two bright gold crossed syringes and a test tube positioned through them, the seal edged in gold with the words ‘Philanthropy before Profit’. Beyond the dining room a set of double doors led to a large kitchen equipped with state-of-the-art stainless steel appliances. Three chefs, as well as a small army of young, slim waitresses and kitchen hands, all personally selected by Halliwell, were standing by; the waitresses linked by a common denominator of a D-cup.

  Imran and Kate waited in the large entertainment foyer at a bar that would not have been out of place in any five-star boutique hotel. The two scientists had decided that it would be a waste not to sample some of the Halliwell cellar and in the afternoon they would work in their offices on the thirty-sixth floor rather than return to the hot lab.

  ‘Doesn’t do things by halves, does he?’ Kate observed, sipping her Clos des Goisses Philipponnat champagne as they waited for Halliwell and Dolinsky to appear.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Kate,’ Richard Halliwell said smoothly, ushering Dr Dolinsky into the dining room. ‘Welcome back. I trust you’re fully recovered?’

  ‘Fully thank you, Dr Halliwell,’ Kate replied. Once again she had that strange feeling about
Halliwell that sent a shiver down her spine.

  ‘Please, it’s Richard, and this is Dr Eduard Dolinsky.’

  Kate extended her hand towards Dolinsky. He was slim and of just average height. His handshake was unassuming but Kate knew from what Curtis and Imran had told her that the Georgian scientist was often intolerant of those who might not meet his exacting standards, and very ambitious for both himself and Islam.

  ‘Shall we?’ Halliwell gestured towards the table as Karen, his young maitre d’, hovered in the background.

  ‘Here’s to a very successful program,’ Halliwell said, raising his champagne flute towards Kate. ‘I trust everything is satisfactory in the laboratories?’ he asked, when the staff had withdrawn having served the first course of crab chowder.

  ‘The laboratories are first class, Dr Halliwell,’ Imran replied.

  ‘Please, it’s Richard,’ Halliwell offered again with a quick, mechanical smile. ‘We’re going to be family by the time we’ve finished working on this.’ Kate froze as Halliwell placed his hand on her thigh. She was about to remove it when he slowly ran his hand down to her knee and removed it himself before resuming the conversation.

  ‘And the monkeys?’

  ‘They’re still restless, Dr Halliwell,’ Kate said, deliberately using his title. ‘But I would be too if I was part of this program. I think what we’re doing is extremely dangerous.’ Kate made no attempt to hide the anger flashing in her green eyes.