The Beijing conspiracy

CHAPTER 28

D r Richard Halliwell parked his red Mercedes-Benz SLR 722 McLaren Sports in his private car park underneath the Halliwell Tower. With a top speed of 208 miles an hour and a price tag of over $400,000, the sports roadster was just another symbol of Halliwell’s relentless pursuit of power; although for church on Sundays he conveyed a more subtle if no less powerful image with the big black Mercedes S600 sedan he allowed his wife to drive. Simone Carstairs, Halliwell’s personal assistant of nearly eight years, preferred the McLaren.

Halliwell inserted the key to his private lift and rode it to his office. The gleaming monolith of chrome and glass symbolised the ‘Big Pharma of Big Pharma’. Halliwell Pharmaceuticals had offices and factories in sixty-three countries.

Dr Halliwell took off his coat and hung it in the walnut-panelled cupboard adjacent to his private bathroom. Deep in thought, he wandered over to the windows of his office and, as was his habit, stared out towards the early morning mists that hovered over the lake below Stone Mountain. The day before, Vice President Bolton had telephoned to congratulate him on being awarded the Administration’s half-a-billion dollar contract for the production of 300 million doses of smallpox vaccine. Keeping Bolton on the books as a consultant, albeit on a separate set of books, had been a stroke of genius. Fleetingly he reflected on the expertise of his Chief Financial Officer, Alan Ferraro, who was away on leave. He’d never warmed to him, but then again, with the possible exception of his secretary, Halliwell didn’t warm to anyone. As long as Ferraro managed to keep the company clear of the Securities and Exchange Commission and the rest of the Wall Street regulators, Halliwell would continue to pay him his exorbitant salary and tolerate Ferraro’s need to disappear from time to time to explore the stupidity of his private interests. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the inner doors to his spacious suite.

‘Come in, Simone,’ he said, moving back to his large walnut desk.

‘Morning, Richard.’ Simone Carstairs was tall and fit. Her striking red hair contrasted arrestingly with her deep tan. She was universally referred to as ‘Big Red’ around Halliwell Pharmaceuticals, although no one ever used the nickname in earshot of either her or the company’s chairman. Simone guarded the moat around Level 37 with an iron fist in a velvet glove. If you wanted to get to the chairman, you had to get past her. She had an oval face and her immaculate teeth were a brilliant white. Simone Carstair’s orthodontist was one of the most expensive in Atlanta, although there was nothing artificial about her cleavage, a fact that had never been lost on Richard Halliwell. Simone was wearing a loose-fitting top; she bent over his desk, lingering for a fraction longer than she needed to as she placed a cup of freshly percolated coffee on his desk. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Like a log – you?’ he asked meaningfully. Although he knew better than to quiz her, Halliwell often wondered what Simone got up to out of hours, or when she was on one of her numerous holidays to the Caribbean. So far his private investigator had not turned up any attachments. Where possessions were concerned Richard Halliwell was not one to be crossed.

‘I would have slept better if you’d been around,’ Simone replied none-too-subtly. It had been a constant source of irritation to her that Richard would not countenance leaving Constance, his depressingly boring and very religious wife, but she’d reluctantly learned to live with it.

Richard Halliwell had married into one of the most well-connected families in American politics, although if Halliwell thought he might benefit, he’d been sadly mistaken. Constance Halliwell was the daughter of Congressman Davis Burton. The Congressman had failed in both of his attempts to win the Republican nomination for the White House, but as one of the most respected and erudite congressmen on the Hill, he’d risen to lead the Republicans in the House. Speaker Davis Burton was now second-in-line to the Presidency after the Vice President, and a very astute judge of people. With years of experience in dealing with lobbyists and other characters of dubious pedigree swimming in the murky waters of politics, Davis Burton had taken an instant dislike to the young Halliwell. He’d been opposed to the marriage from the very beginning, and as time had gone on, that opposition had strengthened to the point he would no longer tolerate Halliwell in his house; but Richard Halliwell continued to believe he could win the congressman over. At the start of their marriage, when Halliwell discovered his wife was a complete waste of time in the bedroom, he’d nevertheless decided Constance was worth keeping. His difficulties with her father were not in the public domain and there were advantages in having a wife to whom middle-America could relate. To the voters, Halliwell was the ‘all-American boy’ made good, with powerful connections on the Hill and to the White House. Richard Halliwell had no doubt that when the time came, his prominent membership of an increasingly politically savvy Southern Baptist Church would also be a factor. Dan Esposito was not the only one to notice that the new Christian Right in America had become a powerful political force.

‘Your wife rang a few minutes ago. She said to tell you that Randy Baker has been offered a congressional page’s place. He’s going to work with your father-in-law.’

Halliwell nodded in satisfaction. Randy Baker, a young member of the Buffett Center, had recently expressed to Halliwell he had an interest in politics. Richard Halliwell had immediately recruited Constance to put in a word with her father. For the cost of a mobile phone and a few nickels out of petty cash, Halliwell had no doubt he could recruit the impressionable young Randy Baker to report on the comings and goings in the Speaker’s office. Information was power. Halliwell made a note to ring the young man and congratulate him.

‘She also asked me to remind you that you’re having lunch with Jerry Buffett after church next Sunday. He’s asked a Marine Corps Colonel to come down from Maryland and give the sermon as part of his “Wake Up America” program.’ Simone raised her eyebrows ever so slightly in a ‘that should be fun’ expression. ‘And the White House rang. They wanted to know if you are free for a game of golf with the President on Thursday this week at The Vineyard Country Club in California. Dan Esposito will be there as well.’

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.