The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2)

by Christopher Read

  After six days with her stress levels jumping from extreme to another, there was always that nagging concern of not knowing how long her incarceration would last and what the next stage might be. She was even irritated by the fact that unless she just wore her uniform, then her choice of clothes was dictated by someone else’s guess as to her size and preferences – neither of which was particularly accurate.

  She slowed to a walk as she crested the rise, her gaze following a black dot low in the sky as it moved ever closer, the hum of the helicopter’s rotor blades barely heard against the wind.

  The military helicopter landed on the grassy bank opposite the house. Markova was still too far away to identify either of the two figures that were quickly escorted inside, but she sensed her time here might soon be at an end, one way or another.

  * * *

  Markova sat in the arm-chair feeling distinctly awkward, unsure where the conversation was leading and suspicious of her questioner’s motive. Although she had been allowed to shower and change, sitting opposite the most powerful man in Russia while dressed in ill-fitting top and jeans was hardly ideal. Bearing in mind she had been kidnapped and held against her wishes, it also didn’t feel right to accord him the deference appropriate to his rank.

  General Morozov was known to Markova only through Grebeshkov’s occasional comments and the persona he revealed in the media: tough and uncompromising, feared by his peers, he had seemed the ideal henchman to assist Golubeva’s play for power. Grebeshkov had never really got on with Morozov, although he respected the man, recognising that he had acted more out of love for Russia than personal gain. Stocky, but not overweight, the General’s physical appearance belied his fifty years, an old scar running down his left cheek somehow adding to his no-nonsense air.

  For a good five minutes now Morozov had stuck with the pleasantries, skirting around the difficult questions while asking if Markova needed anything. She had managed to maintain a polite exterior, gradually becoming more frustrated, impatient for Morozov to get to the point. This was hardly the direct approach she had expected and she sensed he needed something specific from her, something that could perhaps even help buy her freedom.

  “You should be thanking me for saving your life, Major,” said Morozov, finally deciding he’d been congenial long enough. “If my men hadn’t taken you off the street someone else would have done so, and then put a bullet in the back of your head. I would be lying if I said if I can continue to protect you indefinitely.”

  “I don’t need anyone’s protection,” said Markova testily. “Nor am I the enemy you seem to believe.”

  “That may well be true, Major, but you obviously know far more that you’re telling. Drugs and more physical methods tend not to be that reliable, and I would prefer that we try to work together. You gave us Wilhelmshaven but we can find nothing to explain its relevance to General Grebeshkov’s murder – that would be a useful start.”

  “And if I tell you everything, then what?”

  Morozov gave a thin smile, “I doubt it would be healthy for you simply to return to Moscow. Once I understand exactly why someone wants you dead, then we can work out where you’ll be of most use – a favoured member of Grebeshkov’s team certainly has the requisite skills.” His tone abruptly hardened, “When Russia was falling apart, five of us worked together to save our nation, risking everything; now just Golubeva and I remain. I need to know why General Grebeshkov was murdered, and whether I am likely to be next.”

  Markova had already made up her mind, the General’s words simply reinforcing her own concerns. It might be foolish to put her trust in Morozov, but she really had very little choice. And what harm could it do now anyway?

  It was a complex tale to explain quickly. General Morozov asked the occasional question but was generally content just to listen, not needing to take notes. Markova left out any mention of Anderson and Nikolai, preferring not to muddy the waters still further.

  “The CIA,” said Morozov, once Markova had finished, thinking out loud. “Do they know about McDowell and Hanson?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Markova replied, sticking with the truth as best she knew it. “Of course, it’s always possible that McDowell is actually working for the CIA.”

  Morozov frowned, “Is that likely?”

  “Probably not,” responded Markova with a shrug. “But he certainly had contacts there once. It would be best to assume that McDowell, and through him Sukhov, have inside knowledge of any relevant U.S. intelligence investigation.” She gave a wry smile, “McDowell is always pretty thorough in that respect.”

  Morozov remained persistent, “And no-one thought to warn the British about a possible attack on London?”

  “As far as I’m aware, no-one in my section has been in contact with any Western intelligence agency.” Markova said it with emphasis, almost daring Morozov to challenge her assertion. Not that she was actually lying: officially, Nikolai had nothing to do with her and Anderson could hardly be considered an intelligence agency.

  The General gave her a studied look then chose to move on. “Why London, and not Paris or New York.”

  “I’m not sure; it might even just be a diversion.” She lapsed into silence and it was several seconds before Morozov spoke, his tone returning to its earlier congenial mode.

  “I appreciate your co-operation, Major. Golubeva’s people already have effective control of the SVR and Grebeshkov’s murder has now opened the door to the FSB. The GRU is similarly of unclear allegiance: I have a certain authority, but only in Moscow. Give the President another three months and I too will be redundant.”

  “That’s not what the protestors in Moscow seem to believe,” Markova observed pointedly.

  Morozov merely reacted with a shrug of frustration, “People may think I unfairly influence Golubeva, but that is simply not true. The army’s role has been to ensure stability and that is all. Government policy is entirely in the hands of the President and despite what you may believe, I have no wish for it to be otherwise. If, however, you can prove that Golubeva and McDowell are truly working together, then she is little more than a traitor...” His voice trailed away, Morozov perhaps realising he had revealed too much of his own fears.

  “We have a definite link between Sukhov and McDowell,” Markova said carefully, feeling her way. “Isn’t that enough? Surely there must be others who are prepared to stand against her?”

  Morozov slowly shook his head, “Mostly they’re too concerned with their own survival. If General Grebeshkov couldn’t protect himself inside the Lubyanka, then what chance would they have? It’s rumoured that you were supposed to be Alekseyev’s second target and not that pig of a Colonel.”

  “It makes sense,” said Markova quietly, “but only if they wanted everyone to know what the real motive was. My kidnapping will have had exactly the same effect – something Sukhov couldn’t have anticipated.”

  “Which could explain why the President seems determined to purge the FSB of those loyal to Grebeshkov; four section heads culled in less than a week. Like me, the Lubyanka is on borrowed time.”

  “Then it would seem we are definitely on the same side after all.”

  Morozov seemed to have reached the same conclusion. “Very well, Major, continue your research into Sukhov and let’s see where it leads; his visits to Khabarovsk and Vladivostok may also be more relevant than you imagine.”

  Markova was confused, “Sukhov only spent a couple of days in each city. What makes you think it’s of importance?”

  “There have been persistent rumours of military redeployments, but none have been authorised, and the relevant satellite data may well have been doctored. The Commander of the Eastern Military District seems to have allied himself with Golubeva, along with everyone else of consequence in Khabarovsk. I have little leverage there or indeed in Vladivostok, and am effectively working blind.” Morozov gave a shrug of resignation, “I sent two of my best men to investigate but it’s been three days and
I’ve heard nothing back; I have to assume they’re most probably dead. Golubeva must either be over-confident or desperate to have gone to such extremes.”

  Markova nodded in understanding, “So maybe it’s nothing to do with London at all. Could Golubeva be looking to interfere in North Korea?”

  “Possibly, unless it’s somehow related to China or even Japan; that’s why I need to know exactly what is happening there.” Morozov gave a wide one-handed gesture at their surroundings. “There is a limit to what I can do without compromising my own safety. This house is the best I can offer; that and half-a-dozen staff. There is also a direct link to GRU Headquarters at Khodynka; they are loyal at least for the moment.”

  He stood up: now the decision had been made, he was keen to return to more urgent matters. “I am not a patient man, Major. We are all taking a risk here and I expect to see results. You have a week; after that I will need to rethink whether such risks are actually worthwhile.”

  Bray, England – 21:20 Local Time; 20:20 UTC

  Pat McDowell didn’t consider himself a romantic but if ever settled down then Yang’s lifestyle – indeed this house – would do very nicely indeed. Yang’s home did in fact have certain similarities to the Vice-President’s hideaway outside Washington: waterfront property, large secluded plot, beautifully furnished, just a short distance from the capital – but in reality the two simply couldn’t compare. The Bray house exuded old-fashioned elegance, from its entrance hallway and curved staircase, to the landscaped gardens and the River Thames beyond. Grade II listed, nine bedrooms, three storeys, swimming pool and a hundred yards of river frontage – it was simply breathtaking. And this was merely one of Yang’s four residences, his second in the UK and worth barely a quarter of his London residence.

  Yang Kyung-Jae was only one of the five men whose millions had turned August 14 into a genuine threat, but if anyone deserved to be called its leader, McDowell judged it to be Yang. He was certainly the driving force, yet pragmatic enough to pick others who could turn the cabal’s ambition into a reality. To date their success had been far greater than any of the key players had believed possible, the coup in Russia a reward for the many sacrifices made. Golubeva’s elevation from covert manipulator to President of Russia had been totally unexpected, her sudden rise to world prominence a concern, no-one quite sure how she would handle such power. Yet so far she had continued to prove a worthy asset, still mindful of the debt she owed and fully prepared to play her part.

  The second phase of the cabal’s dream was more complex than had been required with Russia, where its own internal divisions and the fears of Russia’s Eastern European neighbours had been profitably turned against it. This time the target was far more stable and a dozen tangled threads needed to be pulled together to ensure a successful and effective outcome. If one failed, no matter; more than one, and a year’s planning would most likely be wasted. The timing of each individual event also had to be precise; a couple of days out and the steady build-up of momentum would be irretrievably lost. The angry exchanges between North Korea and Japan were to be expected, even helpful, but they now threatened to get out of hand, complicating matters still further.

  August 14 had been a convenient vehicle for Russia, with forty-six million dollars the total outlay. Now, with a new target and a more subtle strategy, such titles were an irrelevance. McDowell’s budget had also more than doubled, but when put against the cabal’s total wealth of well over twenty-five billion it was considered an acceptable expense for such a laudable aim.

  McDowell and Yang sat in the large study, a half-empty bottle of scotch resting on the table between them. A liking for good whisky was about all they had in common, although the physical differences between them were not as extreme as some might imagine. McDowell: forty, six foot four, hair cut short, muscular; Yang: sixty-three; five foot ten, still with a good head of hair, and a regular user of pool and gym.

  It was two hours since the main meeting had broken up, with six of the ten participants preferring to make use of the ultra-secure video-link rather than attending in person. Paige Hanson’s American associates now had their ‘unbreakable commitment’, the various elements already moving into place.

  “The symposium at Wilhelmshaven,” Yang said, giving McDowell a questioning look. “I sense you were more concerned than you let on.”

  “Concern’s too strong a word,” responded McDowell, picking his words carefully. “Despite Sukhov’s assurances, I’m not so convinced the proposed changes are irrelevant, and with this leaked report linking me to Hanson, that makes her a serious risk.”

  Yang drank down his scotch in one. “Let’s not worry about what we can’t control. Which leaves us with Hanson; I assume you have a suitable solution in mind?”

  McDowell nodded, “It makes sense to resolve the problem as quickly as possible before it too is taken out of our hands.” He didn’t elucidate further, knowing from past experience that Yang wasn’t interested in hearing the exact details. He had put his faith in McDowell and the American had never yet let him down, a good chunk of the total investment put aside to reward McDowell and his accomplices. A total payroll of just forty-five men and women – it seemed a ridiculously small number, and a mere fraction of the total personnel involved in bringing Golubeva to power.

  The three basic principles this time around were the same as with Russia, even though the means of achieving them were rather different: an external threat, an internal crisis and a complete lack of faith in the government’s ability to solve either. Most governments were quite likely to face such a scenario at some time during their administration, and the key was to ensure that each discrete component was sufficiently potent to complement and reinforce the others, as had been achieved with Russia.

  It sounded easy enough, as long as you also had an enormous amount of luck and the right sort of inside help. In Russia’s case that had included significant elements within the SVR; this time, they had decided to be rather more selective, personal ambition and selfish greed ensuring McDowell had a tentative foothold within America’s Intelligence Community. And if that wasn’t enough, then there were always the basics of blackmail and extortion.

  McDowell, however, did have one immediate concern that was entirely personal. The police and the various intelligence services were once again searching for him, and there was a limit to how many times he could chance his luck. The UK was now too great a risk, and even a return to the U.S. would be dangerous. McDowell had grown used to bypassing the security forces, but his options were daily becoming more limited.

  Yang seemed to read his mind, “Do the British know you’re back in the UK?”

  “They have a good idea,” McDowell confirmed, “but they don’t know enough to cause concern. Hanson created the problem with her mention of London but she’s also done us a favour, keeping everyone’s focus well away from the main event.”

  Yang poured them both another drink, moving the topic of conversation on to something more mundane. He liked McDowell, and even though placing him in total charge of the second phase had been a risk, it was a well calculated one. The American had well learnt the lessons of Russia, growing into his role as each month had passed. Yang had quickly come to respect McDowell’s judgement and he trusted him implicitly – or as much as Yang trusted anyone.

  If there was a weak link, then it certainly wasn’t Pat McDowell. Initially Yang had been concerned that McDowell might have certain reservations as to their target, a natural reluctance born out of misplaced patriotism – after all he had served in the U.S. military. But such worries had been totally unfounded, McDowell more intrigued than fearful of the challenges ahead.

  In terms of wealth, Yang’s three billion made him the poorest of the five members of the cabal, but their hopes and ambitions were the same. Just four more days and they would start to see whether the months of planning had actually been worthwhile. And that wasn’t even the end, just the beginning of the final chapter.

&nb
sp; Whatever the eventual outcome, and however history judged him, Yang had no regrets. Success, wealth, respect – he would gladly discard them all if it would guarantee victory.

  Chapter 4 – Monday, October 24th

  Washington, D.C. – 08:31 Local Time; 12:31 UTC

  Raymond Flores sat in the FBI’s mobile command centre and watched the central display as it tracked Hanson’s car turning right onto Swann Road, heading south towards the ONI’s Technical Analysis Centre. Paige Hanson’s security clearance was TS/SCI – Top Secret, Sensitive Compartmented Information. That was the same as Flores, neither of them quite making it up to the top level and so requiring a polygraph test.

  Special Agent Flores hadn’t been kept completely in the dark as to why Hanson merited a twenty-two strong FBI surveillance team, but he sincerely doubted he’d been told everything. Twenty years in the FBI, the last four as part of the National Security Branch, Flores exuded an air of quiet confidence, rarely if ever rattled and never yet heard to swear. If someone needed a rebuke, then a simple cold stare and a quiet word were generally enough.

  Paige Hanson’s personal profile certainly looked fairly routine: married, now divorced; no steady boyfriend; social drinker; finances secure; fitness fanatic. There really was nothing unusual, certainly no extremist political leanings or any obvious reason as to why she would betray her country.

  Thus far it had been forty hours of boredom: Hanson out for a run on the Sunday morning, then at her sister’s for the afternoon; the rest of the weekend had been spent at home, no visitors. Her phone calls and emails were equally uninteresting, just family and a couple of friends. The FBI had hacked into her computer, an agent with the appropriate security clearance following her every tap on the keyboard. Hanson’s profile hadn’t labelled her as a workaholic, but a good proportion of her free time had been spent on work-related aspects – nothing though that seemed to threaten National Security.