‘I’ll find out next week,’ Halliwell replied. ‘I’m going to Beijing to meet with the Executive Vice President of the Beijing Organising Committee, General Ho Feng.’
‘You know him?’
Halliwell nodded. ‘Ruthless little bastard but he’s open to, shall we say, “persuasion”, and he’s been pretty useful in helping us get contracts with the government. He’s had a rapid rise through the Peoples’ Liberation Army. When he was a young captain, they put him in charge of part of the Xinjiang Military District, with specific instructions to suppress the Muslims up on the border. Did it very effectively I gather. Used to string up whole families in village squares to give them the message.’
Alan Ferraro took off his headphones and moments later moved to the window of his darkened office on the thirty-fifth floor. From the shadows he watched as the Vice President’s vehicles left, followed shortly after by Halliwell in his red McLaren Sports. The infidel, he reflected contemptuously, might have swallowed the bait.
CHAPTER 12
T he driver of the Mercedes hire car held the door open for Richard Halliwell outside the impressive new headquarters of BOCOG, the Beijing Organising Committee for the Olympic Games on Beisihuan Zhong Lu. The Chinese had attached a 20-metre high logo to the front of the building and Halliwell smiled wryly as he looked at it. If the Chinese thought that the red logo of a runner embodied peace, they were in for a very nasty surprise. The BOCOG headquarters, which would double as the command centre for the Games, was not far from the impressive National Stadium, a doughnut-shaped building with a maze of steel girders that interlocked like twigs, earning the stadium the nickname of ‘The Birds Nest’.
‘Welcome, welcome, Dr Halliwell, we are very pleased to see you.’ Ho Feng’s personal assistant spoke perfect English, and she nodded slightly and shook Halliwell’s hand before ushering him past the long reception counter and into the lift.
‘Welcome to Beijing and to BOCOG, Richard, it’s very good to see you again.’ General Ho Feng was a slightly built man with an oval face and dark brown eyes. His fine, black hair was oiled and parted in the middle. When he smiled, his thin lips parted fractionally to reveal yellowing teeth. Halliwell knew that the General’s feigned politeness was a mask that hid one of the most calculating personalities in the Chinese Communist Party.
‘Thank you, Feng, thank you. I know you are a very busy man and it is very good of you to give me so much of your time.’ General Ho was not the only one practised in the art of feigned politeness. Halliwell understood the Chinese culture of guanxi better than most. Loosely translated, it meant ‘it’s who you know’. Good guanxi in China was a very powerful asset.
The marketing pitch was the first in the series of briefings General Ho had arranged. Halliwell listened politely.
‘Beijing will be the green Olympics and the high-tech Olympics,’ the young and attractive marketing executive concluded. ‘We want to show the world that these games are environmentally friendly.’ Not for nothing had the cluster of venues nearby been named the ‘Olympic Green’ and the goal of high technology had been specifically designed to demonstrate China’s new-found prowess. It was a goal that was not lost on Richard Halliwell.
‘And finally, this is the peoples’ Olympics, Dr Halliwell. The people in China have very positive attitudes.’
Richard Halliwell smiled and focused his laser-like brain on his own plans for the Beijing Olympics as the briefing on security got into full swing.
‘Are you worried about terrorists disrupting the Games?’ Halliwell asked blandly.
‘We have the best security of any games,’ General Ho replied. ‘How do you say it in your country, Richard… Beijing will be locked down tighter than Fort Knox,’ the general laughed. ‘Especially the Athletes Village and the venues so you need not worry, Richard, your athletes will be perfectly safe here.’
The official doing the security brief unsuccessfully tried to hide his surprise at his general’s frank disclosure. He knew well that the police, the Peoples’ Liberation Army and counter-terrorism units would total more than 20,000 and thousands of hidden cameras were being installed to monitor every move in the ancient and modern city. For months the official line had been that Beijing would not be turned into a fortress. On the wall behind the briefer, the slogan for the Beijing Olympics
‘One World, One Dream’ was displayed prominently. The slogan embodied a vision of 1.3 billion people reaching out and sharing in the global community, hand in hand with the rest of the world, creating a bright and peaceful future.
‘Thank you so much for such an informative briefing,’ Halliwell said, nodding slightly to the briefing staff, ‘and for your gift.’ Halliwell held up the gold plaque that BOCOG reserved for powerful dignitaries and Heads of State. ‘And this is for you in appreciation, General Ho,’ Halliwell said as he handed over a gold plaque with the Halliwell logo. The envelope containing 10,000 Halliwell shares remained in his briefcase. He would present that when the General and he were alone.
As Ho Feng led the way to a private luncheon that would feature the General’s favourite dish of bear bile soup, Halliwell was, as always, deep in thought. As he expected, the venues would be closely guarded but the city’s hotels were far more vulnerable. Tomorrow he would work on the distribution system for the virus. Despite the Chinese government’s efforts to portray the new China as a beacon for the twenty-first century, corruption was endemic and money always talked. The hired Triad thugs would not have the faintest idea what they were pumping into the air conditioning systems until it was too late.
‘You must come and visit Atlanta, Feng. I would like to return some of your hospitality,’ Halliwell said. Good guanxi was something to be nurtured.
CHAPTER 13
K adeer’s chief operations planner in the United States, Amon al-Falid, walked past the fountain in the McNamara terminal of Wayne County’s new Detroit International Airport and continued on through the changing lights of the tunnel that connected with concourse A. The handler of a sniffer dog gave him a long look as they passed, even though the German shepherd took no notice. Perhaps the dog had not yet been trained to check out people of ‘Middle Eastern appearance’, al-Falid thought bitterly.
He had chosen Detroit as a departure point to add another layer of deception, but before he had even reached the customs barrier, two US Customs and Border Protection officers suddenly appeared at his side, the big blue ‘Department of Homeland Security’ flashes prominent on their sleeves. al-Falid turned to face them. The older of the two must have been nearly 18 stone, he reflected, the officer’s stomach hanging over his heavy, black pistol belt, scalloping the buttons on his dark blue uniform. The other officer was a young woman al-Falid judged to be about twenty-five, and from the bars on her shoulders, she was the senior of the two. al-Falid fought to keep his anger in check at the sight of the infidel flaunting her sexuality. Her blonde hair hung over her shoulders and her lips were covered with a purple gloss. An outline of the customs officer’s breasts and nipples strained against the flimsy blue material of her uniform. al-Falid took a deep breath. The Imams in Australia had been right, he thought, yet they had been roundly criticised for sermons about scantily clad women.
‘Mr al-Falid?’ the young woman asked briskly.
‘Yes.’
‘You will come with us – now,’ she demanded.
Amon al-Falid forced himself to remain calm. Even though he was inwardly incensed that he was being ordered about by a woman, he had trained himself for situations such as this. Now that the US Customs and Border
