The Third World War: A Terrifying Novel of Global Conflict

4

The US President's limousine drew up outside Peter Brock's Georgetown house. Casually dressed in a pair of jeans, his hair wet from the shower and with a towel slung around his neck, the National Security Advisor greeted Jim West.

'Glad you managed to get away, Jim,' said Brock.

'If I couldn't have, I doubt you could,' joked West lightly, taking off his overcoat and scarf and hanging them over the banister of the staircase. 'Khan's funeral is a private affair. Mary says even our ambassador has not been invited.'

'Not a happy situation at all,' mused Brock thoughtfully. 'Riots in Malaysia, Indonesia, the Philippines.'

It was early evening, and a smell of spice and seafood came from the kitchen. Brock took the President through to where Caroline, wearing a bright, floral apron, was whipping up supper, with a salad fork in one hand and a glass of Californian Merlot in the other. West knew and appreciated Caroline's skilful acts at distancing herself from the political issues of the day.

She kissed West on both cheeks and poured a glass for him. 'Here, Jim. Taste the work in progress and tell me what you think.' She held out a spoon, sauce dripping over the edges on to a small plate. West blew to cool it and as soon as he had some in his mouth, Caroline said: 'More rumours in the papers about you and Mary, Jim. All of it true, I hope?'

West fanned his mouth with the back of his hand. 'It's unfair to ask a man such a question with hot sauce in his mouth,' he managed, swallowing it and washing it down with the Merlot. 'Your sauce is delicious, Caro, and Mary and I are just good friends — at least when we're not fighting it out in meetings.'

Brock grinned. 'I'll put on a shirt and be back in a couple of minutes.'

Since losing his wife to cancer, West had treated the Brocks' rambling Georgetown house as a second home. The death of a First Lady in the White House was almost unheard of. The last had been Caroline Harrison in 1892, and modern America, when it was told that Valerie West had passed away after her sudden diagnosis, had not known how to react.

For some weeks, the media had asked if West would remain up to the job. His background was forensically re-examined, with questions raised about the psychological strength of a man who had married his childhood sweetheart and now had to live without her. West's eldest child, Chuck, was married with two boys and a girl. But his work kept him in Oakland where he had started an interstate trucking company. His daughter, Lizzie, was an international economist specializing in the developing world. She accompanied her father to public functions when she could. But often it was tense because, politically, they did not see eye to eye.

Peter Brock was Jim West's best friend and most trusted political sounding board. In public, Brock's view would be the view of the President, and if ever there was a disagreement only he and Jim West would know about it.

They had trained and served as navy pilots together, dated their wives together, married within a month of each other and now pretty much ran the country together. West measured six foot two, with a lean frame, a mane of sandy hair and an ability to match his face to any political occasion. Brock was short and stocky, with the prominent chin of a man not to be messed with. His nose was slightly skewed after being broken in a mess-room brawl. But his eyes revealed both vulnerability and curiosity. A generation earlier, West had told Brock his expressions were so transparent that he would never make it as a front-line politician.

It was unspoken, but the Brocks had taken it upon themselves to make sure their friend would pull through. West was a man with dark mood swings, chased by fear of failure. There were demons, which, by his own admission, chased him and had motivated him all the way to the White House.

Caroline rinsed a baking tray under the tap and wiped her hands on a dishcloth. 'All right, then,' she said with a mischievous smile. 'If I told you I had asked her to drop by tonight, would your spirit soar or would it plunge?'

West chuckled. 'As a companion, there is no one living I would rather have dinner with than Mary Newman. She is attractive, amusing, attentive and intelligent. But, let me tell you, in the Principals Committee, Mary's a pain in the ass, and tonight, Pete and I have to chew over events as only old friends can.'

Caroline reached up into a cupboard above the sink, her hands just managing to touch the dinner plates. West stepped forward. 'Here, let me do that. I must have six inches on you and it's not often that a US President has the privilege of laying a table.'

'Thanks, Jim. The side plates are right next to them. They can come down, too.' Caroline pulled open a drawer and took out three sets of knives and forks. West glanced down at her. 'Only three?' he asked lightly.

Caroline grinned. 'Don't worry. I'd never pull one like that.'

West separated the dinner plates and put them on the table. Caroline collected them up again. 'Not so fast. I need to warm them. But the side plates can go on.'

'Maybe one day I'd welcome it,' said West. 'A surprise date arranged by my closest friends.'

Brock, in a fresh short-sleeved red shirt, stood at the doorway. 'She may be right, you know, Jim.'

'About me?' joked West. 'That I know.'

Brock poured himself a glass of the Merlot. 'She called about half an hour ago — about poor old Asif Khan.'

'Khan, eh?' said West, leaning against the kitchen dresser and sipping his wine.

'She doubts it's a one-off.'

'The thing about Mary is that she never gives off smoke without knowing there's a little fire burning away somewhere.'

Caroline stepped quietly to her husband's side and put her arm around his waist. They had met the year before Brock joined the navy when they were both students at Georgetown University. They now lived across the road from its campus. Caroline had remained in academia, rising to head her department, specializing in international studies and non-proliferation.

Tonight, her husband was trying to show a light-hearted face, but Caroline detected that he was distracted by Khan's assassination. The Gulf War, the Kosovo War, the War against Terror, Iraq, each one started by a single incident, a bomb, a border invasion, a massacre, an assassination. You never knew what could flare up and turn your life upside down.

'Why don't you two go through, while I finish off getting this ready?' she said, slipping her arm away. 'Hopefully, issues of state will be done with by the time we eat.'

Inside the study, Brock brought down the The Times Atlas of the World from a shelf filled with large, unwieldy reference books, ran his finger across the inside cover page to find the map he wanted, opened it up on page nineteen and laid the atlas down on his desk. It was a high-ceilinged corner room, furnished with two leather armchairs and a swivel chair at the desk. This was Brock's sanctuary, a masculine room of dark textured colours, mementos and photographs with international figures, which themselves told part of the story of how he had transformed himself from an impoverished navy pilot to the National Security Advisor to the President.

'Khan gets killed here,' he said, flipping over to page eighteen and brushing his finger over Penang on the north-eastern coast of Malaysia. He flipped the page back. 'The first reported act of violence after that was here, a military airfield in Dipolog in the southern Philippines.' Brock loudly snapped together his finger and thumb. 'Then, too quickly for anyone to keep count, the whole damn region is on fire, Malaysia, Indonesia, even Brunei which must be the most tranquil place in the world.'

He picked up the remote and turned on the television. The first channel to come up was BBC World, which Caroline enjoyed watching. Its reporter was speaking from the roof of a Manila hotel. 'The Philippine military has lost contact with its bases on Basilan, Jolo and Tawitawi. In Zamboanga City, General Fidel Ocampo is being held hostage, and all assaults on guerrilla positions there have been suspended.'

'John, thank you,' said the presenter in London. 'Before we let you go, could you give us a picture of what is behind all this, and whether this has any wider political implications?'

The screen dipped back to the reporter, forehead creased and eyes squinting against an overhead sun. 'Susannah, one theory, and I stress this is only a theory, is that there was an attack by the Philippine military on a rebel Muslim camp. The rebels decided to hit back with a vengeance. But there is a question of coordination and planning. An operation like this must have been ready to go for some time. Something happened last night that made them unleash their forces.'

'And, John, is it linked to the assassination of the Pakistani President?'

'Conspiracy or coincidence, Susannah. No one yet knows.'

Brock muted the television. 'Whenever we think Asia is a model of development it blows up in our damn faces.'

West pointed at the maps. 'Let's send the Kitty Hawk,' he said. 'We got involved down there in 2001. If it's unfinished business, let's see to it.'

Brock nodded. 'No harm in it. She's in the South China Sea at the moment. She could be off the coast of Mindanao in a couple of days.'

The door opened without a knock. Caroline stepped in first, but behind her was Mary Newman, freshly fallen snowflakes on her coat, which was unbuttoned. She pointed to the television set. 'Has it been on yet?' she said, short of breath.

'The Philippines?' said Brock, turning up the volume again.

'No,' said Newman, loosening her Paisley-patterned silk scarf and putting on her glasses. 'Worse. Much worse.'