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
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 chief 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.