“Did you know about Irwin’s affair, Paul?” There was just a hint of anger in the President’s tone, annoyed that no-one had even hinted there was some sort of a problem.
Jensen managed to look embarrassed, “Yes, Sir; soon after it started.” He could have used the agents’ argument that the Vice-President’s sex life wasn’t strictly his concern, but then National Security definitely came within his remit – and perhaps he should have done something before it came to this.
“Pictures, recordings – what do they have exactly?”
“No sound recordings, just plenty of photos; most will need to be censored before publication. I can give specific details if you wish, Mr President.”
Cavanagh just shook his head. The Vice-President’s dalliance was indefensible and it couldn’t have happened at a worse time – and not just because of China.
It was barely forty-eight hours since WikiLeaks had first published two reports detailing disbursements for members of the U.S. Congress; initially, interest had been lukewarm, especially since the official ones were due out sometime in the next two weeks. WikiLeaks claim that the files proved widespread corruption within America’s elected representatives had similarly been met with scepticism, only the committed and the curious willing to plough their way through six thousand pages of data.
The House of Representatives published quarterly reports of all receipts and expenditures of its 435 members; the Secretary of the Senate did the same, twice-yearly for the 100 Senators. WikiLeaks claimed the files were based on the latest data but with certain expense claims highlighted, supposedly revealing inaccuracies and deliberate false accounting.
The first independent analysis of the WikiLeaks files had appeared online late the previous day. The news media had leapt upon it with glee, ignoring the various caveats to form their own biased opinion as to the ‘facts’.
In total, 108 Representatives and 28 Senators were implicated, the supposed frauds covering everything from inflating office rentals to inventing aides, the gross amount defrauded per year conservatively estimated at eight million dollars. The subsequent furore had led to a backlash of condemnation and contempt, the instant denials ignored, the damage already done. Early voting trends had indicated that the turnout for the Midterms was likely to be very low; now, thanks to WikiLeaks and with the Irwin’s sexual antics about to become public knowledge, it could well be a disaster.
“WikiLeaks first, and now Irwin,” Cavanagh said, sounding frustrated. “Is it just coincidence or something more?”
“It’s too early to say, Sir. There’s a lot happening here and with China, and it’s possible they’re all connected. I should be able to give you a definitive answer once we’ve fully checked Irwin’s hideaway. For the moment, I’m keeping an open mind.”
Cavanagh gave a brief nod of understanding. Despite North Korea’s threats and China’s belligerence, the naval exercise involving the Gerald R. Ford Carrier Strike Group and Japan’s Maritime Self-Defence Force had gone ahead as planned. Such joint operations were hardly unusual, normally taking place every year. Operation Dragon Shield was purely a one-off, the alternating Keen Sword/Keen Edge military exercises badly disrupted by a combination of appalling weather and bad decisions. In retrospect Dragon Shield was an unfortunate title and likely to be misinterpreted by the Chinese – Cavanagh was cynical enough to assume that had probably been the Joint Chiefs’ intention all along.
Then there was Russia. Moscow was already back to normal, the troops and Special Forces having returned to their barracks. President Golubeva had spoken live on TV to explain that their temporary deployment had been in response to a potential coup by elements within the army. The fact that Golubeva had risen to power through a similar takeover was obviously not relevant, the President’s authority confirmed by her election victory in July. The leaders of the putsch were not named, but many observers had noted that Golubeva made no mention of General Morozov, still theoretically her joint Minister of Defence and Chief of the General Staff.
Jensen interrupted his thoughts, “Is there anything else you need with respect to the Vice-President, Sir.”
“I’m not sure, Paul; I’ll let you know.” Cavanagh could see no way out but for Irwin to resign. That would then bring into play the Twenty-Fifth Amendment, Cavanagh needing to nominate a candidate for approval by both Houses of Congress. With the Midterms taking place, that wouldn’t happen until at least the end of November. In the meantime, the Speaker of the House of Representatives would become next in line should anything happen to Cavanagh, the Republicans managing to gain a foothold in the White House simply by default.
The last Vice-President to resign had been Spiro Agnew in 1973 and there had been an eight-week gap before Gerald Ford eventually took office. That was still quick compared to Nelson Rockefeller, it taking Congress four months to confirm his nomination. To Cavanagh, it all seemed an unnecessarily drawn-out process, and he was keen not to give Congress an excuse to repeat their tardiness. Yet he had no-one particular in mind to replace Irwin: the House Minority Leader would have been an obvious choice, but he was not a man Cavanagh particularly liked; also – rightly or wrongly – he was now tarnished by the WikiLeaks revelations.
One problem at a time: first, he needed to deal with Carl Irwin – everything else could wait in line.
* * *
So far, Tuesday had been excellent, Charlotte spending virtually the whole day at the Smithsonian while Anderson had come away from The Washington Post with a broad smile and a healthier bank balance. Whatever happened next, the trip was already proving to be one of Charlotte’s better ideas.
The planning for tomorrow was well in hand, Charlotte invariably creating a list. And Virginia had so much to see: the Pentagon and Department of Defence, the CIA, the National Cybersecurity Centre, plus the biggest naval base in the world. Birthplace of eight Presidents, over sixty percent of America’s internet traffic passed through Virginia’s modern data centres, the network concentrated in Loudoun County; Leesburg happened to be the county’s administrative centre and it was sheer chance that Charlotte had picked the town as their holiday base – or at least that’s what she had implied to Anderson.
Whether such facts had attracted Pat McDowell to Virginia was purely guesswork, but top spot on Charlotte’s list went to Highland County, specifically the community of McDowell. Anderson’s preference for the more usual attractions, such as Arlington National Cemetery and Williamsburg, were also on the agenda, just placed a little lower down.
Charlotte knew she was being stubborn, but since they’d got a holiday together out of it, what the hell. Her own theory as to what McDowell was up to had transformed into a full-blown coup, the target initially assumed to be Manila, before wavering as to its next destination. Washington D.C. didn’t seem such an impossible leap: every new political indiscretion and scandal was eating away at voter numbers, and the President’s approval rating had tumbled to just 31%, rapidly heading into Nixon territory.
External problems were also deepening: starting in Japan, the world’s stock markets had continued to plummet, the Dow for some unknown reason suffering the most, down by almost five percent since opening on Monday. The increasing tensions between China, the Philippines, and Vietnam were seen as the major cause, and the sudden departure of America’s Vice-President from Hanoi had simply reinforced concerns.
Diplomatic moves had accelerated to compensate. Countries within the Association of Southeast Asian Nations were being pressurised into either allying themselves with the Philippines or publicly declaring their neutrality; so far none of the ten nations had sided with China. The Secretary of State had finally arrived back in Washington, having clearly failed to put together some new compromise that would have actually satisfied no-one. Other nations not directly involved were also starting to get twitchy, notably Australia and India. In total, close to twenty nations were busy looking over their shoulders, while wondering how China would react and who else might seek
to gain some advantage.
So far Anderson had not indicated a desire to expand his interest in McDowell in the direction of Manila, but Charlotte knew it would happen sometime, quite possibly as soon as their U.S. trip was over. But then, like it or not, that was the nature of Anderson’s job, the horrible statistic that around 65 journalists were killed every year, something she struggled hard to ignore.
Chapter 13 – Wednesday, November 2nd
Port Barton, The Philippines – 10:10 Local Time; 02:10 UTC
In terms of actual numbers Louisa certainly considered it a setback, with just under a hundred boats of various sizes gathering together in the bay. Mischief Reef was four hundred kilometres to the west and in reality many types of vessel were simply unsuitable, either because of the distance to be travelled or the available depth of water.
It was still an impressive sight: beautiful motor yachts fighting for space with a chunky trawler or a cargo vessel. The pride of the fleet had to be a forty metre super-yacht, its celebrity owner a famous Filipino actor. Apart from the media, not all of those taking part were native to the Philippines, with ten or more from America, a handful Australian.
Louisa showed none her disappointment, outwardly thankful for each and every gesture of support. The latest reports confirmed that another eighteen vessels had already left Vietnam and two more were coming from Brunei. In Malaysia, the government had bowed to external pressure and three vessels had been prevented from leaving port; that in itself had been helpful to Louisa, the adverse publicity hardening attitudes elsewhere.
In total, including those from outside the Philippines, Louisa could end up with well over a hundred craft under her command – maybe just about an armada but only if spelt with a small ‘a’.
On the positive side, the media were ensuring the protest stayed in the public eye, with a good quarter of the boats acting as TV units, reporters from across the world learning at first hand the beauty of Port Barton and the surrounding islands. Yet there were no paved roads here and electricity was effectively rationed, the influx of visitors potentially more of a problem than any real benefit. Facilities in the small village were also at a premium, with trucks bringing in additional supplies from Palawan’s capital, Puerto Princesa. All such necessary expenditure had been paid for through Louisa’s online appeal, the total contributed now well in excess of $3 million.
There had been one unfortunate incident, two men accused of being Chinese spies harangued then beaten up. Louisa had physically stepped in to stop the assault, dismayed at any adverse publicity. Personally, she suspected the two had indeed been sent by Beijing, China needing to know exactly what it was up against.
Louisa now stood on the beach, the white sand glinting in the early morning sun. The first boats were getting ready to set off, the timings staggered so that all vessels could travel at their optimum speed. Consequently, it was more a series of small convoys, each one voyaging out into the unknown, unsure quite how China intended to react.
In slightly more than twenty-four hours they would all meet up close to Mischief Reef – then the world would see the true strength of Filipino resolve.
Saint Petersburg, Russia – 12:38 Local Time; 09:38 UTC
Markova sat on a wooden bench beside the River Neva feeling more relaxed than at any time since Grebeshkov’s murder: she had clothes that fitted, money, a phone that was her own, and even a new ID as a freelance journalist. Nikolai had once again proved to be an excellent emissary, arranging everything without unnecessary questions or fuss.
Although the FSB in Saint Petersburg had yet to suffer under Golubeva’s purge, Markova had avoided direct contact, restricting herself to a handful of discreet phone calls to Nikolai and two close friends of General Grebeshkov. There were certain aspects of the past week that still worried her, Markova needing to seek advice and work out exactly where everyone’s loyalty lay.
Saint Petersburg itself seemed immune to the upheaval affecting Moscow, people apparently more concerned as to Russia’s long-term stability. Strange then that the city’s past was rather more political, Saint Petersburg the birthplace of both Vladimir Putin and Irina Golubeva, as well as the terrorist group Narodnaya Volya, the latter’s main claim to fame the assassination of Tsar Alexander II in 1881.
Narodnaya Volya: the Will of the People. The people of Moscow had certainly been influential in bringing about last year’s coup d’état, although it had needed Morozov’s 20th Guards Army to ensure victory. Golubeva had now had over a year to form new allegiances, and Markova assumed that the President had only acted against General Morozov once she had brokered enough military clout. The TV news seemed to have little detail on what had actually transpired, Morozov not even mentioned.
Nikolai had a more substantive tale, his sources vastly more knowledgeable. In a well-choreographed operation spread across some ten separate locations, several of Morozov’s fellow officers had been arrested, hundreds of troops disarmed, with the General himself barely escaping after a vicious fire-fight west of Moscow. The GRU’s Headquarters at Khodynka had also been forcibly taken over, with some twenty dead and a good part of the top floor gutted by fire. The dacha outside Tutaev had similarly been set alight, no survivors reported.
Morozov was still at large, a focus for the disaffected and the fearful, gathering support where he could, presently rebuilding his forces from a base outside Volgograd, a thousand kilometres south of Moscow. Purely out of personal necessity, many in the Lubyanka continued to ally themselves with Morozov, and the FSB’s Headquarters had by default become a powerful fifth column. Markova had assumed that her own involvement with Morozov had ended once she had reached Saint Petersburg, but the General apparently had other ideas. Impressed by her earlier successes, he was keen for her to pursue the investigation into Khabarovsk and Vladivostok – and much to Nikolai’s disgust, she hadn’t actually said no.
Markova’s musings were interrupted by Nikolai struggling into the seat opposite, two mugs of tea and a large helping of baked Pirozhki dumped onto the table between them.
Markova warmed her hands on the nearest mug and then looked quizzically at Nikolai. “What did you do with the evidence against Sukhov?”
Nikolai froze in mid-bite, pastry crumbs tumbling to the table. “Sukhov?” he replied, momentarily confused. “I did what you said: papers put somewhere safe, your letter and the rest of the photos to Anderson – took me hours to find a copy of that fucking book.”
“And where exactly did you decide was safe?”
Nikolai shrugged, “It was a toss-up between my cousin and under the floorboards; for some reason he seemed the safer bet.”
“And he’s still got them?”
Nikolai realised that Markova was implying something; he just wasn’t sure quite what. “Last time I checked, yes; he’s pretty reliable despite being a cop.”
Markova nodded thoughtfully, as though there was still something bothering her. “Anderson miraculously turning up in Washington: I assume that was your doing?”
Nikolai took his time replying. “You trusted Anderson enough to tell him about Hanson and Wilhelmshaven; I simply wanted to give him a helping hand. Maybe it was a bad choice but I cashed in a favour from the GRU. For some reason that led him to Washington; I’ve no idea why.”
“And your GRU friends didn’t mention anything about McDowell?”
“No, did yours?” Nikolai was starting to get annoyed, unsure what Markova expected him to say. “The GRU were keeping tabs on Anderson but I guess that’s all finished now. All they told me was that he’d booked a flight to Dulles with his girlfriend, so maybe he’s there on holiday.”
Markova remained unconvinced, “There’s more to it than that. Someone wants Anderson in Washington to try and draw McDowell out.”
“Well it’s not down to me; maybe it was Morozov. We all thought McDowell’s target was London, so I helped Anderson where I could; that was all.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, Nikolai realis
ing he should have explained about Anderson and Berlin earlier. Over the past weeks the line between friends and enemies had not just become blurred, it had overlapped, and the fact Markova would question his judgement was more an indication of the stress she had been under than a genuine rebuke. She seemed to blame herself for General Grebeshkov’s death and was desperate to make amends.
“Why bother with Khabarovsk?” he asked, deciding it was best to change the subject. “Sukhov’s contact could be anyone; you’ve got at least half-a-million suspects and where would you start? We’d be better off joining up with Morozov.” To Nikolai, Markova’s eagerness to leave Saint Petersburg appeared to be unnecessary and an almost foolish rush back into danger.
“Something is obviously happening along the border,” responded Markova with emphasis. “We need to understand what Golubeva is trying to hide and whether China is to be an ally or an enemy.”
“This contact in Khabarovsk, Major Yashkin; are you sure we can trust him?”
“He’s ex-Lubyanka,” Markova replied, “and once worked under Grebeshkov; that’s as much as I know.”
Nikolai frowned, still far from happy, “Give it a few more days at least.”
Markova shook her head, unwilling simply to sit back and let events pass her by. “I don’t need a babysitter, Nikolai; go join your family. I’ll get in touch if I need anything.”
Nikolai’s eyes widened in mock shock, as though Markova had suggested the unthinkable, “I think I’ll tag along, just in case. Ten hours, stuck in one of Aeroflot’s finest with my knees thrust up under my chin – I’m looking forward to it already.”
Eastern United States – 09:42 Local Time; 13:42 UTC
Anderson was feeling pleased with himself, his early-morning breakfast negotiations having been successful in adjusting the day’s agenda: if the two of them were going to visit the site of the Battle of McDowell, they should at least learn up on its context first, especially since their route took them right past the Civil War Orientation Centre at Harrisonburg.
The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2) Page 16