The Beijing conspiracy

by Adrian D'hage

  ‘Too quickly,’ Curtis said enigmatically, ‘but we’ve got an extra day at the end of it for the visit to the State Crisis Centre. I’m looking forward to catching up with my old buddy, Brigadier Davis, who will no doubt bring us up to date on Australia’s counter-terrorist arrangements. Then it’s the big freedom bird home.’

  ‘You to Washington to do whatever else you do, and me to Atlanta.’ Kate immediately regretted the remark, annoyed that her personal feelings kept surfacing. She found herself thinking about what Curtis might be involved in when he wasn’t worrying about Operation P LASMID and the security of the Olympics.

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry,’ Kate said, breaking the awkward silence.

  ‘You’re not prying,’ Curtis said, looking at her and gently touching her arm. ‘One day I’ll tell you,’ he added. Curtis was struggling with his own feelings. For the first time in his life, he found himself drawn to a woman for more than the thrill of the chase.

  ‘How about dinner tonight at one of those little restaurants at the Rocks,’ Curtis suggested, a touch of mischief in voice. ‘I’d ask Imran to join us if he wasn’t flying out.’ Curtis knew he was throwing caution to the winds. Any thought of a relationship would make his profession even more dangerous. Emotional feelings could threaten his judgement, and it wouldn’t be fair on Kate either.

  ‘That would be nice,’ Kate replied, as she accompanied Curtis back into the auditorium.

  It was not every day that delegates had the opportunity to listen to a virologist of the international standing of Professor Imran Sayed. The main auditorium in the Sydney Convention Centre was packed, every scientist in the room acutely aware of the dangers that bioterrorism and genetic engineering posed to humanity if deadly viruses ever got into the wrong hands. Kate and Curtis were sitting two rows from the front and both listened attentively as Imran opened the conference with a warning.

  ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, the human race now stands at the edge of a vast precipice. Too often the western world has resorted to war as a first, rather than a last resort. Unless we change course, bioterrorism will provide other cultures with a means of retaliation that may well destroy a significant part of our civilisation. Later on in this conference the Chinese delegation will be giving a presentation on the security they are putting in place for the Beijing Olympics. One of the greatest threats facing the world today comes from Islamic fundamentalists and the Beijing Olympics is a prime target,’ Professor Sayed said. ‘As a result of the West waging a war in Iraq that has taken the lives of hundreds of thousands of Muslims, support for the fundamentalist cause has risen immeasurably and al-Qaeda have an inexhaustible supply of suicide bombers. People in the United States, Britain and Australia are much less safe than we were before we invaded.’

  It was a rare departure from the more polite form of public address for which the Professor was known. His frustration at western politicians’ reckless commitment to war was palpable.

  ‘I am a Muslim and I have nothing but contempt for Islamic fundamentalist groups who completely misinterpret Jihad to suit their own evil purposes, but by creating chaos in Iraq we’ve played right into their hands.’

  Michelle Gillard, a young, accredited Sydney Morning Herald journalist sitting next to Kate was furiously taking notes.

  ‘As tragic as this American, British and Australian invasion of Iraq has been,’ Professor Sayed continued, ‘it’s a sideshow compared to that which awaits us. Many of you will have seen the warnings from Dr Khalid Kadeer. The West brands him as a terrorist and we refuse to discuss his grievances, but to him and his followers those grievances are very real. To cite just two examples, from where he sits, we are seen to be favouring Israel at the expense of the Palestinians. I happen to think he’s right.’ Imran paused to emphasise his point. ‘And the presence of American forces in the lands that contain the two most important cities in all of Islam, Mecca and Medina, is a grave affront to Kadeer. It’s akin to us having to put up with an Islamic army camping on the shores of the Potomac around Washington, or around the harbour here in Sydney. I think we should at least sit down and talk with him.’

  Michelle Gillard wrote the quote down word for word. Coming from such a distinguished Muslim professor, it would be a front page story.

  ‘The White House isn’t going to like that, but I think he’s right,’ Curtis whispered to Kate.

  ‘Nor is the Australian Prime Minister,’ Kate replied.

  ‘Not so long ago,’ Professor Sayed said, ‘someone published the entire genome of bird flu on the internet, which enabled every bioterrorist in the world to download what would normally take twenty years of research to decipher. An Islamic fundamentalist, or any other terrorist with a PhD in microbiology, can now alter that virus to suit their own dark ends. Our friends from China who are responsible for protecting everyone at the Beijing Olympics have every right to be both alert and alarmed. If the Islamic fundamentalists and other terrorist groups are ever to be defeated it will take the combined efforts of the West, the Han Chinese, and the moderates in Islam, but we need to sit down at the negotiating table. Fighting unnecessary wars will lose those few friends we have left in the Islamic world.

  ‘I wish you all well for what will be one of the most important conferences of the modern era, and I make no apology for a simple concluding observation. It is but one example in the devastating scenario of untold misery that awaits us if we don’t come to our senses as a species. Filoviruses like Marburg and Ebola have no cure and we’ve never been able to develop a vaccine. The only saving grace is that they’re not easily transmitted from human to human, other than through close personal contact. Were these viruses ever to be combined with another more easily transmittable pathogen, the death toll could be in the hundreds of millions.’

  Imran’s closing statement highlighted the frightening truth. Advances in science meant the threat from bioterrorism was a terrifying reality.

  CHAPTER 60

  THE TARGET CITY

  ‘T he boatshed is upriver,’ Jamal said, as he and al-Falid left the warehouse near the airport and headed towards the city, ‘but I thought you might like to see the target at close range.’ Jamal turned onto the road that led to the tunnel under the harbour. He headed north up the gradually rising exit and negotiated a route through the satellite city on the northern shore, turning off to a fashionable harbourside suburb.

  Jamal parked near a small ferry wharf and they both got out of the Pajero and walked down to the harbour’s edge. al-Falid stared up at the underside of the massive bridge that connected the northern and southern shores.

  ‘The area on this side of the harbour together with that one over there are two of the most populated suburbs in the city,’ Jamal said, pointing across the harbour past a naval base to the high-rise apartments on the southern shore. A distant rumble grew louder and louder. A train was going across the bridge and al-Falid looked back at the massive pins securing the steel arch to their stone pylons.

  ‘You were right, Jamal. The infidel’s design is good, but if Allah, the Most Kind, the Most Merciful is willing, we will still succeed.’

  Thirty minutes later Jamal unlocked a wire gate that opened onto a path covered with oyster shell leading down the side of a big wooden boatshed upriver from the main harbour.

  ‘We’ve rented the boatshed from a deceased estate,’ Jamal explained, unlocking a big padlock that secured a small door beside a wooden ramp. A river cat sped past, its wake rippling against the concrete pylons supporting the ramp and the two rusting rails that led from the boatshed into the water.

  Jamal switched on the lights hanging from the roof of the shed to reveal a huge ocean-going fishing trawler supported by old and scarred wooden blocks on top of a rusty but well-greased slipway trolley. Two gleaming silver shafts protruded from the trawler’s hull, connecting with twin bronze propellers either side of a recently refurbished rudder. The hull had been freshly painted with salmon-coloured anti-fouling paint, and �
��LFB 15011’ was painted prominently either side of the bow and on the stern. al-Falid nodded approvingly at the name Destiny that was painted beside the wheelhouse, but it was the inside of the trawler that interested him most. He followed Jamal up the paint-spattered wooden ladder that was leaning against the transom.

  ‘We’ve remodelled the deck and the bow to accommodate the change of plans,’ Jamal said, leading al-Falid down a narrow steel ladder into the hold. Steel sheets had been fastened to the sides and the keel and welded together into a cone at the bow. ‘We will begin filling the hold tonight. When it’s detonated all of the force of the explosive will be directed through the cone in the bow.’

  ‘And the anti-tank rockets?’ al-Falid asked.

  ‘We’ve engineered the mountings for the rockets just aft of the bow,’ Jamal explained, leading the way back up to the deck, ‘and we’re using the infidel’s own rockets,’ he said, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction at the irony of it all. The disappearance of Army M72 anti-tank rockets had caused a huge storm in the media, but he had assured al-Falid that the police would never trace them to the boatshed. His brilliant young pupil was truly deserving of his place in heaven, al-Falid thought.

  ‘On the day of the attack two of the infidel’s anti-tank rockets will be secured in the mountings and covered with old tarpaulins until the last minute,’ Jamal said. The wheelhouse was crammed with sophisticated equipment that included radar, depth sounders and a plethora of electronics.

  ‘What’s that?’ al-Falid asked, pointing to a black laser screen mounted on the marine ply.

  ‘A screen for showing the position of the laser beams,’ Jamal explained. ‘I will be at the helm in the final attack, but before we detonate the fishing boat I want to make sure I’ve breached the hulls of the tanker. Because it’s a double hull the missiles must arrive at the same point a split second apart; that way, the first missile will breach the outer skin, and the second will breach the inner hull that protects the crude oil. The camera mounted on the roof is wired into the aiming systems of the missiles,’ he said, ‘and the first missile will be fired when the laser dots come together on the screen. The second will be fired a fraction of a second later; and tonight, we will position the last of the canisters on the harbour bed.’

  Later that night al-Falid returned and he watched as Jamal’s divers suited up and assisted one another with their state-of-the-art rebreathing units. The LAR-V units were used by US Navy Seals and Drager, the German manufacturer, had steadfastly refused to sell them on the open market. It had been a relatively simple matter to obtain them from a less than scrupulous dealer; money always talked. al-Falid didn’t understand all the technical details, but he knew that the fully enclosed system of the Drager meant there would be no telltale bubbles, which was critical for where the divers would be working.

  The cigar-shaped canisters filled with ANFO were designed with neutral buoyancy but the divers needed time to manoeuvre them into position, and the LAR-V units gave up to four hours endurance on each dive. So far, al-Falid thought, that had been more than enough time. Over a period of six weeks, eleven canisters had been locked into position on the harbour bed, and tonight the divers would connect the final canister. al-Falid and his al-Qaeda explosives experts had calculated this might be enough to achieve the ‘cork-in-a-bottle’ that Khalid Kadeer had wanted.

  The canisters were equipped with recoverable mini-propulsion systems and the four divers swam easily beneath the inky waters of the darkened harbour. Without lights, visibility below the surface was almost zero, forcing the lead diver to check his compass. He made a small correction to bring his divers onto a heading for the first of the long-life pinger beacons they’d pre-positioned along the route to the target. The small ULB-364 ‘Extended Life’ was a commercially available underwater location beacon with a pulse rate of one pulse per second and it was powered by simple 9 volt lithium batteries. Using GPS satellite navigation the divers had positioned enough of them to guide them unerringly along the bottom of the harbour.

  The volume, sensitivity and frequency controls were already set and the lead diver moved forward with his small DPR-275 handheld receiver. It locked on to the first pinger almost immediately and the lead diver again made a slight adjustment to his heading as he zeroed in on the direction of the strongest signal being picked up in his headphones. On the surface, the harbour traffic continued uninterrupted, oblivious to Allah’s superbly trained frogmen moving stealthily and silently towards the target.

  CHAPTER 61

  THE ROCKS, SYDNEY

  C urtis had reserved an outdoor table at ‘Waterfront’, a restaurant in the converted wool stores that had been built by convicts on the foreshores of The Rocks. A replica of the Bounty rode the gentle swells of Campbell’s Cove. Beyond the historic ship, Sydney’s green and gold ferries travelled past the sails of the Opera House on their way to and from Circular Quay.

  A young waiter seated Kate and Curtis at a table with a view of one of the world’s greatest harbours. He was about to pass the wine list to Curtis when Kate intercepted it. ‘You’re in my country now,’ Kate said, looking at the list.

  Curtis rolled his eyes and turned to the young waiter. ‘Are you married?’ he asked.

  ‘No Sir.’

  ‘Fiancee?’

  ‘Yes,’ the waiter replied, his face breaking into a broad smile. ‘We’re getting married next March.’

  ‘Take my advice young man, don’t!’ Curtis said with a wicked grin. ‘We’ve only been married a week and she’s already taking charge. I shudder to think what she’s going to be like in ten years time.’

  ‘Oh stop it, Curtis! Don’t believe a word he says,’ Kate said to the waiter. ‘We’ll have the Affleck Cabernet Sauvignon, thanks.’

  ‘You’re incorrigible!’ Kate chided when the young waiter had left, looking more than a little confused. ‘I was married once, and that was quite enough, I can assure you.’

  Curtis was quick to see the momentary shadow reflected in Kate’s eyes. He could have kicked himself. He was about to apologise when the waiter returned with the wine.

  ‘Shall I pour or would one of you like to taste it?’ the waiter asked, unsure of who should be offered the wine.

  Curtis smiled and gallantly waved his hand to indicate that he was deferring to Kate.

  ‘That’s outstanding,’ Curtis said. ‘How do you say it here – good health?’

  ‘Not bad is it!’ Kate enthused, pleased that the wine from the cool climate vines near Lake George had met with Curtis’ approval. ‘Affleck’s one of my favourite vineyards so I’m glad you like it.’

  ‘It’s superb, and I’m sorry if I raised any uncomfortable memories a moment ago,’ Curtis offered. ‘Sometimes my sense of humour gets me into trouble.’

  Kate grinned. After the intensity of Malcolm, Curtis’ sense of humour was one of the things she found so attractive about him.

  ‘Don’t be sorry. The memories are ghastly, but I guess we learn these lessons the hard way. Essentially I married my bloody father,’ she said, remembering her strict upbringing at the hands of her puritanical father. ‘Steak and three veg every night, Christ’s the head of his church, I’m the head of the house, and my word is final.’

  ‘You want to expand on that?’ Curtis asked gently.

  Kate decided that it was time Curtis knew a little more about her.

  ‘Malcolm is a member of the New South Wales Liberal Party, the equivalent of your Republican party, but he’s also a born-again Christian and here in New South Wales and in Canberra the Christian Right is doing its best to take over politics.’

  ‘Sounds a bit like 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,’ Curtis quipped. ‘Do the Christians have much say in politics in this country?’

  ‘More than people realise. A mega church was opened by the Prime Minister, and the Christian lobby groups are not only gaining a lot of power in the parliament in Canberra but here in Sydney as well.’

  ‘Move over Jerry Buffett!’r />
  ‘Got it in one,’ Kate said. ‘It all went to hell and back in a hand-basket on our third wedding anniversary. I’d been out and bought a lovely bottle of Chateau Latour and two prime fillets of beef. Malcolm arrived home with two of his political cronies in tow and they proceeded to have a bloody prayer meeting in my living room, and then they drank the wine! After the prayer meeting the three of them moved onto pre-selections. Anyone who was divorced, pro a woman’s right to choose, wasn’t married or – horror of horrors – supported gay rights, didn’t get a look in.’

  ‘As you’ve probably noticed it’s pretty much the same with a lot of the Republicans back home. Was politics the only reason?’

  ‘Not really,’ Kate confided. ‘About two years into the marriage, Malcolm started nagging me to have children. Said it would be good for his image.’

  ‘Not a great reason to start a family,’ Curtis sympathised gently.

  ‘Exactly, so after he cut off conjugal rights, I went off to Yale.’

  ‘Has he remarried?’

  ‘About a month after the divorce came through, to another politician,’ Kate said with a wry smile. ‘They’re welcome to each other. I felt like I’d won a “get out of jail card”.’ Kate reached for her wine. ‘What about you, mystery man?’

  ‘Marriage?’ Curtis shook his head. ‘I’ve been close a couple of times and sometimes I think it would be nice to come home to someone, but it would take a special kind of woman to team up with someone in my line of work.’

  ‘Afraid you’re going to talk in your sleep?’ Kate teased.

  Curtis grinned. ‘We take a vow to be silent, even in our sleep, but from what you’ve told me being married to a politician couldn’t have been easy either.’