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
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?’
‘One 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.’
‘He’s a prick. More dangerous than a warren full of rattlesnakes on heat,’ Curtis replied. ‘He’ll probably make a good politician one day, although he won’t get any help from his father-in-law.’
‘Who is?’ Tom raised an eyebrow.
‘The Speaker of the House, Davis Burton.’
‘Halliwell’s married to the Speaker’s daughter?’
Curtis nodded. ‘Burton can’t stand him although the Speaker’s out of step with his colleagues. Halliwell throws some of the biggest parties in Washington and he’s got a lot of support in the Republican Party.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time Davis Burton’s been out of step,’ Tom observed, his admiration for the veteran politician coming to the fore. ‘I’ve briefed him many times. He’s a thorough gentleman and very sharp, and he’s about the only one who’s making any sense on Iraq,’ he added.
‘Neither the FBI nor Inland Revenue are convinced Halliwell’s operating within the law,’ Curtis concluded, ‘and they’re quietly watching him, but given Halliwell’s connections they’re very wary. He and the Vice President are as thick as thieves.’
‘What’s your view?’
‘I think there’s a lot more to Halliwell than the current intelligence indicates. My gut feeling says he needs watching.’
CHAPTER 31
R ichard Halliwell’s helicopter preceded the President’s onto the landing pad at The Vineyard Country Club in the Napa Valley. No one in the imposing clubhouse took the slightest bit of notice. Helicopters landing at the club were almost as common as the large black limos in the car park. The Vineyard Country Club boasted three 18-hole championship courses set in a forest and vineyards that took up 40 hectares of some of the most expensive land in Napa County. The President’s visit had been kept quiet, and the Secret Service had deliberately chosen the third of the three courses, which for the last two days had been closed for a ‘visiting dignitary’. Although it was lined with tall redwoods and coastal oaks, the ‘new 18’ was more easily protected as the surrounding countryside beyond its boundaries was more open. Nothing had been left to chance. Dog squads had combed the rough and the bushes on the course the day before. They had found nothing more sinister than 40 new golf balls their owners had been too lazy to look for. A military helicopter manned by snipers equipped with long range rifles and stabilised mounts was patrolling in the distance. For those charged with the President’s security even a game of golf was an expensive logistical nightmare. Not that a visit by the President of the United States could be kept secret for long.