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.
One of the club’s billionaire octogenarians, Otis J. Lynberg II, had lodged an official complaint with the Chairman, Palmer Weinberger. Visiting dignitaries should be invited to play elsewhere, he’d snorted. Later, when he’d spotted the President alighting from Marine One, Otis had immediately sought out Palmer again, wholeheartedly endorsing the President’s visit but expressing his displeasure that members were given no advance warning. He’d become even more irate when he was told that members were not going to be presented to the President. It was precisely the sort of scenario Dan Esposito wanted to avoid.
‘What a pity the cameras aren’t around when you want them!’ the President said, his voice raised in enthusiasm as he watched his drive off the first tee bounce down the middle of the long par five fairway.
‘Nice shot, Mr President,’ Richard Halliwell acknowledged grudgingly, as he prepared to tee up behind his host. The first tee was nearly half the size of a bowling green, and the immaculately kept turf was on top of a raised mound, three sides of which were protected by weathered sandstone. Halliwell stepped back from his ball and assessed his drive. For the first 200 metres the fairway dropped away towards a treacherous hazard – a deep creek that could only be crossed by walking over a quaint little stone-arch bridge. From there the fairway climbed a gently undulating slope to a huge green nestled in among stately redwood pines that were more than a hundred years old. He lined up his driver and adjusted his stance. He stared at the white ball imagining it represented GlaxoSmithKline. The silence of the first tee was broken by a sharp whistling sound as Richard Halliwell tried to get his ball past the President’s.
‘That’s big trouble in there, Hal!’ President Harrison shouted with the enthusiasm of a small boy in the middle of a marbles match. Halliwell’s lips compressed into a hard, thin line as he watched his ball take on a vicious hook and disappear into the thick rough underneath the trees just short of the creek.
‘It’s not over until the fat lady sings, Mr President,’ Halliwell replied, struggling to keep the jocularity in his voice. Much to the President’s amusement, Dan Esposito nearly put his ball in the creek but at the last moment it bounced into the trees on the opposite side of the fairway to Halliwell’s.
Halliwell combed the thick rough, trying to keep his agitation in check. Finding his ball in here would need a small miracle, he thought, and he was not one to believe in miracles. He took a quick glance back towards the fairway. Dan Esposito was in the rough on the far side and the President was giving him stick from his cart about 20 metres away. The Secret Service agents were all scanning the sides of the fairway ahead. Choosing a small clear area, Halliwell put his hand in the pocket of his golfing slacks, undid the zip that he’d had his tailor sew in the pocket and dropped a brand new ball down his trouser leg. He always played with a number one that was embossed with the gold Halliwell ‘H’, and as the ball rolled into a depression he gently moved it into a better lie with his foot.
‘Want some help, Hal?’ the President called.
‘Got it thanks, Mr President.’ Richard Halliwell walked back to the cart he was sharing with the President and selected a five wood. Moments later he watched with satisfaction as he drilled his ball over the creek and up the slope to within striking distance of the hole.
‘Nice recovery, Hal,’ the President shouted. Richard Halliwell waved his golf club in acknowledgment.
‘Number three, Mr Esposito?’ the Secret Service agent asked, looking at the partially buried ball. The Secret Service agents assigned to protect the President detested the arrogant little advisor. Esposito waddled over and grunted. ‘Stupid fucking game,’ he muttered, but ‘Whatever it Takes’ was Esposito’s motto in politics and in life and if today that was a golf game, then so be it.
While the President and Richard Halliwell played golf, both men yet to discuss their plans to change the course of history, satellite imagery from the top-secret National Reconnaissance Office in Chantilly, Virginia was on its way to Pakistan where a more violent and menacing history was about to be written.