The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2)

by Christopher Read

  “MI5 have passed across an intercept from Russia’s FSB,” continued Jensen. “The British are being coy at revealing how they got hold of it and some of the information has obviously been redacted; whether that’s the FSB or MI5 isn’t clear. What is clear is that the Russians have continued their search for the remnants of August 14 with a key target tracked to Germany; subsequently another six individuals were identified as being worthy of interest. The intercept includes details of all seven but photographs of only two; both American. A couple of the shots show them together, but it’s too early to confirm exactly when or where they were taken.”

  Jensen knew he was being slow to get to the point, but facts without a suitable context were pointless. “Despite the disappointing quality of the photos, the two Americans have been relatively easy to identify; for very different reasons, both are well known to the Intelligence Community.”

  A pause for effect, then Jensen pressed on, “One is Patrick McDowell, who the British reported as being killed when August 14’s base there was destroyed. We must assume he is still operating on behalf of the terrorists. The second is a Paige Hanson, Lieutenant-Commander Naval Intelligence, stationed here in D.C.”

  The furore which greeted Jensen’s disclosure was no more than he had expected. Russia’s war against August 14 was still claiming the occasional U.S. victim, with at least a dozen pillars of the community – computer experts, university professors and the like – confirmed as providing logistical support for the terrorists. Such details were theoretically well outside of the public domain, although a combination of Russian accusations and home-grown leaks had eroded the various denials and outright lies.

  The White House had skilfully managed to maintain a dignified silence over the complications posed by August 14’s British base, but in reality it had caused significant internal dissent. The Secretary of State had been especially critical of Britain’s security services, and despite most of the base’s operatives being American, he had argued that British laxity had in turn created problems for the U.S. and indeed the whole of NATO. Now it seemed the Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI) might be similarly at fault.

  The U.S. Intelligence Community was an unwieldy beast of seventeen diverse agencies, often with overlapping interests. Theoretically, the Director of National Intelligence was responsible for ensuring they worked effectively together; hard enough under normal circumstances, let alone with a potential traitor in their midst. In practice, on home soil, the President looked to Jensen to take the lead, his Cabinet post giving him a certain implied authority over the FBI and CIA, and even the ONI. If Jensen was successful in getting them to co-operate fully, it would be no more than the President expected; if he failed, Jensen’s tenure in office would be embarrassingly brief.

  Thorn was the first to seek clarification. “This is not some clever invention by the Russians?” His tone was curt, his eyes angry.

  “It’s not clear either way,” Jensen replied quickly. “The FBI now has Hanson under surveillance while we check the veracity of the intercept. It’s certainly true that she was in Germany on the dates indicated; we just need to confirm who she met and why. At the moment the evidence linking her to McDowell is at best inconclusive; we can’t even be certain that McDowell is actually alive.

  “As well as these photographs, there is also a transcript of a brief conversation, supposedly between Hanson and McDowell. In it, McDowell hints at a new terrorist campaign, possibly starting on the 27th, possibly against London. The potential repercussions of Hanson’s involvement are still being evaluated, but if true the best we can hope for is that she leads us to McDowell. I’ve already primed a team should damage limitation be necessary.”

  The final admission was virtually confirmation of Hanson’s guilt, something Jensen was willing to accept might be precipitous. However, ignoring the risks would be professional suicide, and he had to prepare for the worst-case scenario. Personally, he assumed Hanson was a lone wolf and he couldn’t believe the woman was part of some wider U.S.-based conspiracy.

  The questions continued, President Cavanagh now taking the lead, Jensen unable to answer most and unwilling to jump to conclusions. With North Korea in belligerent mood, the threat of a resurgent August 14 with a U.S. Intelligence connection was the last thing the President wanted to hear.

  Jensen sensed the British were holding back on what they knew, but he had no reason to doubt their sincerity. Still, it was a time to tread carefully; fortunately, with over twenty-five years spent climbing up the slippery Intelligence ladder, from analyst to CIA station chief to Director for Counter-Terrorism on the National Security Council, treading carefully was something Jensen excelled at.

  Maryland, U.S.A. – 19:30 Local time; 23:30 UTC

  Despite his title and theoretical authority, Carl Irwin was not part of the President’s close circle of advisers. A compromise choice as Vice-President, his role under Cavanagh had reverted to the ceremonial and mundane, his influence over the White House no more than minimal. One of Irwin’s equally anonymous predecessors had claimed the office was ‘not worth a bucket of warm piss’ – a sentiment Irwin could wholeheartedly agree with.

  After the first year his initial frustration had turned first to resentment, then a form of resigned acceptance, Irwin well aware that he hadn’t the necessary charisma essential to be President, nor even enough charm and good looks to at least try. In truth, his role offered much to make up for the early disappointments. With his family’s wealth to fall back on, the VP’s salary was not that relevant; a pension was also unlikely unless Cavanagh gained a second term. The prime advantage was purely one of perceived status, and the trappings associated with his present role were becoming addictive. At fifty-four he gave the ceremonial aspect enough gravitas to carry it off without suffering the ridicule heaped on certain other vice-presidents; the mundane tasks of spokesperson and second-string adviser also helped reinforce his high public profile, while ensuring his peers regularly sought his counsel.

  In personal terms, there were other equally selfish benefits – two of whom lay asleep on the bed beside him. Kate was twelve years his junior, recently appointed as his Director of Scheduling; Erin was even younger, a rising attorney, her short blonde hair a magical contrast to Kate’s brunette locks. When Kate had seemed receptive to Irwin’s advances, he couldn’t quite believe his luck. Erin had joined them within a few weeks, their irregular threesome now into its fourth month. After some initial qualms, Irwin now considered such sessions an acceptable perk of his job. He still loved his wife but Kate and Erin provided the sexual excitement he had feared lost forever, and for the moment that more than made up for the guilt and occasional misgiving.

  Today was one of the few where a guilty conscience made a post-coital nap an impossibility and Irwin silently slipped out of bed, padding downstairs to get himself a coffee. The beautifully furnished waterfront property was far too large for their needs, but it offered seclusion and a superb dose of luxury. Set in three acres and backing onto Little Seneca Lake, it was less than an hour’s drive from Washington. Irwin had snapped it up the very day Kate had seen it on the rental market, easily persuaded that it was ideal for their needs. The lease was for a year, but so far Irwin had found little difficulty in hiding the outrageous monthly payments from his wife, and it was hardly unusual for a vice-president to work long hours.

  On a practical level the two-storey property also met with Secret Service approval, being private enough to allow a good level of security without compromising the identity of those inside. The role of Irwin’s security detail was to protect him, not to act as his moral guardians, and the agents had wisely kept their opinions to themselves. With the site regularly swept for covert devices, and additional checks made each time the VP visited, Irwin’s Security Chief was as confident as he could be that the Vice-President’s dalliance remained confidential.

  * * *

  A half-mile north-west of the Vice-President’s rented property stood a
much smaller residence, just three bedrooms on a small plot. It too was a rental but with a single occupant, although the actual individual varied from day to day.

  The present incumbent was a middle-aged female, her attention focused on a large computer display. The monitor’s image showed a semi-darkened living room, an L-shaped couch centre frame, a single figure sitting with coffee mug in hand, the man’s face slightly angled away from the camera. The picture had a subtle sheen on it, almost a hint of distortion, most noticeable around the outside edge. It was annoying but not serious, the fault caused by a combination of unavoidable deterioration in image quality and the consequent need for computer enhancement.

  The woman was bored: the Vice-President’s sexual antics made for uncomfortable viewing, but she was required to inspect each separate image, one recorded every three seconds, needing to ensure the various pieces of technology had behaved themselves. Irwin’s Secret Service codename was ‘Gymnast’, which considering what she had seen over the past few weeks seemed fairly appropriate.

  Irwin’s Security Chief might believe the Vice-President’s privacy had not been compromised, but the reality was somewhat different. Almost a full year’s preparation had gone into the operation, the house specifically chosen, modified and marketed with this one aim in mind. A detailed comparison between the house’s original plans and its present dimensions would have revealed a discrepancy of some three inches for the smaller of the living room’s two outer walls, allowing a minor but key addition to the property’s many facilities.

  A spy camera or voice recorder was susceptible to detection in a variety of ways: through its energy supply, its method of recording the relevant data, the heat subsequently generated, or the RF signal created as the data was transmitted. Surveillance counter-measures comprised of both physical and electronic techniques, from one man with a flashlight to spectrum analysers and portable X-ray machines, the operators trusting that at least one of these methods would be successful.

  But like any surveillance device, the detectors too had their own intrinsic flaws and loopholes. For Irwin’s property, the electronic components of the spy camera had been placed sufficiently far away from the living room wall to be invisible to the security team’s detectors, and all potential electro-magnetic and thermal signals were well shielded. X-ray scanning was normally only used with internal walls – but, just in case, the optical system consisted of low density components throughout, including multilayer dielectric mirrors. The two mirrors reflected the scene captured by the outer lens back to the image sensor and memory card; the encrypted data was then transmitted in a short burst once the property was unoccupied, bypassing any RF detectors.

  Which wall to adapt and the consequent position of the camera had been only resolved after some furious debate, McDowell’s view that the master bedroom would be subject to a more rigorous security assessment eventually winning through. Not that it had mattered: Kate was never one to follow convention and the living room was as convenient as any bedroom for making love. The camera lens was actually part of a glorious marble fireplace, Italian Neo Classical style with glass mosaic details at the top of fluted columns. So far, the system had done everything asked of it; time now to quit before someone made a mistake.

  Kate had played her part to perfection, the innocent Erin a bonus no one could have predicted. In reality, it was a classic Soviet-style sting. Whilst not every kiss or caress had been recorded, there was more than enough to destroy Irwin’s marriage, his reputation, and especially his right to be considered next in line to be President of the United States.

  Chapter 3 – Sunday, October 23rd

  Yaroslavl Oblast, Russia – 16:09 Local Time; 13:09 UTC

  Muscles almost screaming in protest, Markova forced her legs to keep going up the hill, needing to beat her personal best. The autumn weather was starting to deteriorate, the mist threatening to turn into a fine drizzle, the cold air tugging at her lungs.

  For five days now she had tested herself every afternoon and evening, covering the same route: north-west following the Volga River, down through the trees, and then back up the hill to the two-storey country retreat – it was much too impressive to merely call it a dacha. To refer to it as a prison also seemed slightly inappropriate, Markova’s captors polite enough, just not that talkative.

  Fifty metres short of her Moscow apartment, Markova’s car had been blocked in by two others, four armed men ensuring she would not do anything too stupid. Bundled unceremoniously into the back of a van, it had then been an uncomfortable ride to a safe house in Moscow’s western suburbs, before a five hour journey north.

  The country house was somewhere for its wealthy owner to enjoy peace and tranquillity well away from the stress of Moscow, the nearest town of Tutaev some fifteen kilometres to the south. There were a handful of regular staff, plus a dozen guards, with always at least six on duty when she wasn’t locked in her room. The guards wore no uniform, but their military training was obvious, Markova assuming that they too were Special Forces Spetsnaz. Not perhaps SVR, more likely Military Intelligence (GRU), their disdain for the FSB a natural part of their training.

  The daily routine had never yet varied: her room unlocked at nine, breakfast downstairs, then two to three hours of questions. The afternoon and evening were hers to do as she pleased. Although most of the house was off-limits, she had free reign of the gated estate. The GPS ankle bracelet she wore had proved far more effective than Markova had expected, her attempts to escape or surreptitiously remove it invariably meeting with abject failure. Still, such episodes had provided a certain amount of entertainment for the guards, and it seemed to be expected that she wouldn’t just sit back and do nothing.

  The morning sessions were always difficult: not that there had never been anything physical, no threats, and no intimidation other than the standard scenario of two interrogators – one male, one female – bombarding her with questions. For some reason the woman had been the worst, her soft-spoken and persistent tone rapidly getting under Markova’s skin.

  Markova had given honest answers to some questions, been more evasive with others, occasionally being caught out with a lie, sometimes not. Initially the interrogation had centred on General Grebeshkov’s murder. Who would want him dead? Why might Alekseyev have killed him? How well did she know Alekseyev? And why would he kill Trukhin?

  Eventually the focus had moved on to her specific role within the FSB. Why did she report directly to Grebeshkov? What was her present assignment? Had she ever investigated President Golubeva? And what about General Morozov?

  Markova was in no mood to be accommodating, yet she had no wish to have the truth beaten out of her. For the time being she had opted to drip-feed relatively useless information, while trying to work out who exactly her captors worked for. The two interrogators often seemed to be unsure where to direct their line of inquiry, and when Markova had deliberately thrown in an off-hand reference to Wilhelmshaven, her comment had virtually been ignored.

  That had seemed to rule out anyone associated with Sukhov or the SVR, and Markova had been forced to rethink her strategy. She had assumed she was merely expected to confirm certain facts, but now it seemed as if she knew far more than her two interrogators. There had certainly been no questions concerning Pat McDowell, and fortunately nothing about Nikolai. They were obviously working very much in the dark, guessing that Markova knew something worthwhile. Somehow she needed to turn that to her advantage, hopefully well before her captors finally lost patience.

  It could have been worse, an elegant country house outside Tutaev far superior to an unheated cell-block in Siberia. Her room was the standard of a luxury hotel with overlarge bed, a massive TV and an impressive range of satellite channels; the food was excellent, and even the company was acceptable.

  The TV was her single source of news, Markova’s self-reproach only increasing as she learnt of her colleagues’ arrest. She assumed it was driven by the need to protect Sukhov, the President per
haps also using the opportunity to stamp her authority on the FSB. Moscow too had abruptly returned to a more unsettled state, a new round of street protests bringing back memories of the previous year, the demonstrators unhappy at the military’s perceived interference in Russia’s newly-elected government. The police had been more restrained than usual, trying not to provoke the familiar running battles, hoping no doubt that the protests would die out once the weather deteriorated. Elsewhere, British TV was its usual mix of political and economic woes, with little to suggest that anyone had acted upon or even received Markova’s message, while CNN was more interested in the routine bellicose outpourings from North Korea.

  There was certainly nothing to help explain what Sukhov and McDowell might be involved in. Markova’s instincts kept telling her to fight back – but to what end? And even if she escaped, where could she go? The area was sparsely populated, and whilst heading south to Tutaev was feasible, it was also a fairly obvious option. Forty kilometres north-west was the city of Rybinsk; to the east was a hundred kilometres of forest and farmland. Then there was the Volga: the river was in full flow, cold and unyielding, and without some form of boat the six hundred metres across to the opposite bank would be an impossible challenge.

  Still, Markova was learning more each day while making sure her muscles grew accustomed to any future demands. Warm clothes, chocolate, a lighter: she was gradually amassing a few essential items – even a couple of thick plastic sacks and some strong garden twine just in case the Volga option should suddenly become more attractive. The fact no-one seemed bothered about searching her room might suggest her status was actually somewhere between prisoner and honoured guest – or more likely the guards knew she wouldn’t live long enough to use her badly-hidden hoard.

  Markova now regretted her off-hand mention of Wilhelmshaven: despite the muted response there was no guarantee someone hadn’t pursued it, recordings of each interrogation no doubt passed on elsewhere for a more detailed analysis. McDowell habitually cut out any dead wood, especially if he sensed the authorities were ready to pounce. Maybe one day, McDowell too would be expendable, Golubeva or whoever he worked for, needing to protect their anonymity.