Third World War Read online

  With West a widower, the press was full of rumours about a relationship with Newman. They liked each other, but just occasionally, like now, when nerves were raw, he was both startled and impressed by the way she held her ground.

  'No, Mary, don't shut up,' said West, softly. 'You're doing what someone has to do.' His back was to the room and his eyes concentrated on the snow on the White House lawn. West gave himself a few seconds, while he disciplined the anger that had chased him to the Oval Office. Since Valerie's death, he had found his temper becoming shorter. Through the glass, speckled around the fresh snow, was the distorted reflection of CNN. The volume was down but the images of grieving relatives, smouldering aircraft hangars, coffins draped in the Stars and Stripes, commentators profiting from hindsight and the non-stop whirl of 24-hour news gnawed against him when he needed clarity of thought.

  'Turn that damn thing off,' he ordered, and it was John Kozerski, the White House Chief of Staff, who tried to shut down the television with a remote. But it was broken, or the batteries were flat. Whatever the reason, West didn't care. He turned in from the window, walked across the room and pulled the plug out of the socket.

  'Sorry, Mary. Yes, please,' he said, indicating for Newman to sit back down on the sofa. He took the armchair at the end of the coffee table where a map of Asia lay open. 'Wrap up what you were saying.'

  'They have asked us to give them time to carry out their own internal investigation,' said Newman, settling back into the sofa. 'They refer us to our own shooting down of an Iranian airliner by mistake from the USS Vincennes in 1988 resulting in the deaths of 290 innocent passengers. They handed over a list of other American mistakes, including the bombing of the Chinese embassy in Belgrade in 1999 and atrocities against Iraqi civilians--'

  The President held up his hand. 'Enough. I follow their train of thought, and knowing your politics, Mary, I don't expect you sympathize any more than I do.'

  'No, sir,' said Newman simply.

  On the sofa, across the coffee table, was the Defense Secretary, Chris Pierce, sitting forward, his elbows on his knees with a file of papers open in front of him. West had brought Pierce to the Pentagon because of his extraordinary war record which began in Vietnam and ended in Iraq. Highly intelligent and with years of experience as a battlefield leader, when Pierce spoke he did so with both deliberate simplicity and assertive body language to reinforce his point. In full flow, he sometimes reminded Newman of a nightclub bouncer.

  The thick-set Tom Patton, Secretary for Homeland Security and former governor of Oregon, was at the other end of the table. John Kozerski, Chief of Staff, sat back down on an upright chair next to the phones on the Oval Office desk. Peter Brock was next to Newman on the sofa.

  West addressed Newman again: 'Mary, do we have any American nationals in North Korea?'

  'Two aid workers,' said Newman. 'One with Oxfam, a Peter Bennett from Chicago. And one from Save the Children Fund. She's actually half Swedish and half American, a dual passport holder, Agneta Carlsson. It's not the easiest place for Americans to work.'

  West pulled his chair forward to get closer to the map on the coffee table. He put his spectacles on and jabbed his finger on the name Pyongyang, the capital of North Korea, on the west of the Korean peninsula which hung off northern China like a pig's knuckle.

  'Where's Scott?' asked West, referring to Scott Cartwright, his Trade Secretary.

  'In Argentina, sir,' said Kozerski.

  'Then you fill in, Mary. Do we buy from or sell to these sons of bitches?'

  'Negative, Mr President,' said Newman. 'It's banned under the Trading with the Enemy Act. Together with Cuba, North Korea is the only place left on it. We have deals on nuclear power which go back to 1994. There's been an impasse pretty much since 2003. But as far as the impact on trade, it's not an issue.'

  'Tom, do they have any terrorist cells in the US?'

  'Not that we know of,' said the Secretary for Homeland Security. 'They haven't been involved in a terrorist operation since the eighties, when they blew up the South Korean cabinet.'

  'In Seoul?'

  'In Burma. They were on an official visit.'

  West whistled through his teeth. 'That's one hell of a thing to do.' He brushed the map flat and shifted it on the table to show the massive blue of the Pacific Ocean. 'Chris, these nuclear weapons they have. Do they work? And can they strike us with them?'

  'They might,' said the Defense Secretary.

  'Might?' snapped the President. 'Is that the best you can do?

  Pierce took a breath. 'In the nineties, we know they extracted 60 pounds of plutonium from the nuclear programme. That's enough for five 20-kiloton nukes. They restarted it in 2003. We think they might have ten operational nuclear warheads for silo-based missiles and two smaller ones that could be transported by boat or aircraft - the bomb in the briefcase scenario. They have maybe fifty Taepodong-2 missiles of the type that was used against Yokata, and many more shorter-range missiles, most of which could hit Japan and, of course, South Korea. They've been working on an even longer-range version of the Taepodong-2, which they want to get to our western coastline. But we doubt that's functioning.'

  'So they could nuke us?' said West.

  'I believe they could nuke us in Japan, but not here in the US.'

  'Then what are they playing at?'

  'Mr President,' intervened Peter Brock. 'We've had time to discuss this with other governments in the region. The overwhelming view is that North Korea is in more crisis over this than we are. They claim the missile guidance system was faulty, and no way was the base to be targeted. In fact, the missile carried no warhead at all. They warn that if we take action against North Korea, we could provoke a backlash similar to the reaction of a wounded tiger. Leave her be and she'll die. Taunt her, and she'll kill.'

  'What does Japan say?' pressed West.

  'Nervous, clearly,' said Newman. 'But looking at the bigger picture.'

  'And China?'

  'Both Russia and China say they have some low-level human intelligence that there has been a power struggle,' said Brock. 'Truck drivers coming out across the northern border. Air Koryo pilots landing in Beijing. That sort of thing. So if it was intentional, it could have been a rash act of a coup d'etat.'

  'Chris,' said West, 'if the threat was real, what could we do about it?'

  The Defense Secretary had direct responsibility for the lives of American service personnel. He was faced with the grim reality that if the missile had been carrying a nuclear warhead, 14,000 of them - not just fifty-eight - might now be dead or injured, as well as thousands of Japanese. He answered the President pensively.

  'North Korea has a big, motivated army willing to take casualties. A worst-case scenario is war again just like it was in the fifties. We've been skirmishing in the Middle East for years, but if the Korean peninsula flares up--' Pierce shrugged. 'I don't think any of us will have known anything like it.'

  The President stood up and stretched his arms behind his back. 'Then the line is that there's been a national tragedy at Yokata and we're investigating. The grief is too fresh and the issues too serious for the United States to take injudicious action.'

  'John,' he continued, looking over to his Chief of Staff. 'Get me a list of where the families come from. If there's one predominant state, get me the governor, the senators and community representatives on the phone as soon as possible.

  'Mary, let me know if there's any reason for me to go out there. Right now, I can't see it. Make the strongest protests, bring in the UN, all that kind of crap. Demand an end to their missile programme. Chris, get as many American citizens off the bases as you can without it being noticed. Send them shopping in Tokyo, or on holiday with their families. Increase air patrols around North Korea. Get our ships out to sea. I don't want any goddamn repeat of Pearl Harbor.'

  'It'll only be a fraction, Mr President,' said the Defense Secretary.

  'Well, make it as big a fraction as you can.'


  He turned to Newman again. 'Mary, get hold of Scott in Buenos Aires and tell him to put the muscle on whichever government or companies are trading with North Korea. I want those operations shut down at a moment's notice if those sons of bitches so much as sneeze against us again. That goes for South Korea as well, and any of those European Union governments that go soft on dictators to fatten their bank accounts.'

  West's eyes were on Peter Brock, but then flickered to the end of the table, where Kozerski, telephone pressed to his ear, was beckoning him. 'Yes, John?' said West.

  'Stuart Nolan is calling from Downing Street. He wants to speak urgently,' said Kozerski, his finger poised to transfer the call to the phone next to the President.

  'I'll take it,' said West, turning back to Brock. 'And Pete, work on the Chinese and Russians. Since our agencies haven't a clue, tell them I want to know what in the hell's going on in that country.'

  ****

  London, UK*

  '. . . named as Ahmed Memed, an academic from Zamboanga. Intelligence sources in Washington say his influence grew around the year 2000, when he began creating a cohesive organization which would lead the Muslim struggle for independence. Memed is widely believed to have been the brain behind last night's attacks.'

  The picture changed to a hand-held camera filming Memed and his bodyguard swaying from the helicopter winch. 'In a bizarre twist, Memed was rescued from his home by a Philippine military helicopter. It's still not known who the pilot was and who ordered the rescue.' The camera swung round the compound showing the guard's dead body on the ground and troops crouching in undergrowth. 'As you can see from these disturbing pictures, there was a gun battle around the time Memed escaped.'

  'Heard of him?' asked Stuart Nolan, the British Prime Minister.

  'I've heard of him,' said Charles Colchester, a long-time friend and chairman of Britain's Joint Intelligence Committee. 'But I can't say he's on the top of anyone's in-tray.'

  Colchester was dressed in a dark pin-stripe suit and business tie, the uniform of senior officials around the corridors of Whitehall.

  He handed Nolan a sheet of paper. 'This is a list of places where rioting has broken out in South-East Asia. Our stations believe there was a measure of coordination. The real problem is Brunei. There's been a coup d'etat organized by a pro-Islamic colonel in the army. As far as we can tell, it's been successful. They now control Bandar Seri Begawan.'

  Nolan quickly read the list, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He had forfeited his morning swim for the meeting with Colchester. He was keen to wrap things up and get some exercise, but already he sensed this was the sort of day when that would not happen. 'Bandar Seri Begawan might be the administrative capital,' said Nolan testily, 'but the oil's at Seria. Whoever holds Seria holds Brunei.'

  'They don't hold Seria yet,' said Colchester.

  'Nor will they, if I have anything to do with it. I trained in Brunei. I love its impenetrable humidity, its jellyfish and its billionaire Sultan. And I'll be damned--' Nolan waved his hand to shut himself up. At sixty-nine, Nolan was one of the oldest occupants Downing Street had ever had. Prostate cancer had been detected. Radiotherapy had worked, he was told. His long-suffering wife, Jean, had instructed him to seek out a less busy life, although Nolan wondered if tranquillity might end up leading him to an even earlier death. His curiosity about far-flung and difficult places often rested uneasily with his own nation's lack-lustre interest in events beyond its shores. Years into the War against Terror, enthusiasm for conflict had waned. Long gone was the unquestioning patriotism in sending troops to remote corners of the world, particularly since it meant less money to spend on the issues British people now held dearest, their schools, transport and health. Nolan was also waiting to hear whether the Scottish Parliament in Edinburgh was going to vote for a referendum on independence for Scotland, called for so suddenly after the Scottish National Party gained control of the governing coalition. He wondered disdainfully whether his footnote in history would be his attempts to focus British minds on Muslim riots in Asia while the United Kingdom itself was breaking up.

  'If Brunei totters, just about anywhere can,' said Colchester, glancing at his watch. His meeting slot with the Prime Minister had been set from 06.45 to 07.00. 'If you've got an extra five minutes, I would like you to meet Lazaro Campbell. He's from Washington, on secondment to us. He knows his stuff. He's waiting outside.'

  The Prime Minister nodded, knowing that Colchester would not have imposed Campbell on him so early in the morning for nothing. Campbell came in and shook Nolan's hand, without explanation or apology that he had arrived for the meeting in a tracksuit and running shoes, with a line of sweat just on the hairline of his forehead.

  'At least someone's clever enough to find time to exercise around here,' muttered Nolan. 'Lazaro Campbell? Where do you get a name like that?'

  'From a Cuban mother and a Scottish father, Prime Minister,' said Campbell, pulling out a hand towel from his tracksuit and wiping his face dry. 'My mother was fleeing Castro's Cuba. My father was with the British embassy and literally lifted her from the boat at Key West. So I'm the product of Caribbean sun, fun and revolution.'

  Nolan laughed. Campbell was a robust man with Hispanic features and dark tousled hair. He was in his early forties, but a pair of sharp blue eyes, an unshaven face and an expression that often looked a moment away from laughter made him seem a lot younger. Colchester opened his briefcase and slipped documents and photographs out of a large brown envelope. Nolan was not the first Prime Minister or President that Campbell had briefed during a crisis. He knew he could be blunter with Nolan, a former Royal Marine who would understand military strategy and missile threats.

  'If I was serving in the US now, I would be briefing the President - if I could get to him,' said Campbell with a knowledgeable glance at Colchester. 'As it is, I am on secondment to Her Majesty's Government, so I have asked to brief you, Prime Minister.' He knelt on the floor and spread photographs over the coffee table. 'I flew in a few hours ago from Australia, where there's been a break-in at a virology lab. We hadn't put two and two together until the North Korean missile tragedy at Yokata.'

  At the mention of Yokata, Nolan eyed Campbell sharply, and took hold of the photograph Campbell was offering him. 'That's the canteen,' explained Campbell. 'That was taken at shortly after 3 a.m.'

  Nolan took his time studying the scene in the photograph. There was an unfinished snack on a table. Two cups of coffee, one black, one a creamy white, sat undisturbed on each side of the table. A mark of light red lipstick ran around the rim of one cup. At the centre of the table was a bowl of fruit containing bananas, tangerines, kiwi fruit and a bruised apple. On one plate were the remains of a ham omelette; on the other was the crust of a burger bun, smudged with tomato sauce. The knives and forks were laid side by side on the plates. A newspaper on one side was folded over to the crossword page. The chair was neatly pushed in to the table. The other chair was toppled over on the floor.

  'That fallen chair,' said Campbell, looking over the Prime Minister's shoulder, 'is the only sign there had been a struggle. The Australian police are certain that the two scientists on duty at the time were murdered. But their bodies are missing.'

  Campbell passed Nolan another picture. It showed a laboratory with a red neon sign on the wall saying in large capital letters NO ADMITTANCE. HIGHLY INFECTIOUS AREA. Two people were inside, both wearing darkgreen surgical gowns, gloves, medical masks and blue polypropylene shoe covers. The door ahead was closed. Behind it was an ante-chamber of transparent glass with a blue ultra-violet light shining inside.

  'This is a file picture,' said Campbell. 'It's the ante-room of the laboratory where they've been working on a substance known as interleukin-4 or IL-4.' He handed over a third picture, which simply showed a cage with two mice in it.

  'This is what they were after, isn't it?' said Nolan, dropping the picture on to the pile on the coffee table, and leaning back in his chair. 'You're here now
because they succeeded?'

  'IL-4 is a tragic scientific mistake,' said Campbell. 'It is an agent that makes mice sterile. The Australians were planning to spread it throughout urban mice populations using a virus called mousepox, which is normally harmless. But something happened that no one had anticipated. Not only did it shut down the reproductive system, it also shut down a key element of the body's immune system, something called cell-mediated response, the specific mechanism that fights against viruses. Suddenly, mousepox became a killer virus. Those mice infected with mousepox together with IL-4 died almost immediately.'

  The expression on Nolan's face showed that he was beginning to understand the implications. 'And mousepox is--?'

  'A sister virus of variola major, which is smallpox,' said Colchester. 'Mice are - or were - far more immune to mousepox than we are to smallpox. But virologists are now pretty certain that if IL-4 is administered with the smallpox virus, the world will be facing a biological weapon threat such as never before.'