The Rule Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 3)

by Christopher Read

  Jensen slowed and headed west, following the tree-lined path as it paralleled the northern edge of the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, his head down and apparently lost in thought. His protection detail kept a respectful distance, just out of earshot, an agent merely nodding in acknowledgement as a tall figure caught up with Jensen, the man slowing to match the Secretary’s pace.

  “Good timekeeping, Agent Flores,” Jensen said quietly. “I’m sorry to drag you away from your nice warm office.”

  “Exercise is good for the soul, Sir. And it wasn’t an office, just a stuffy thirty-foot truck parked near Independence Avenue; a spacious and air-conditioned office would be a welcome change.”

  “Almost exactly what I have in mind for you,” responded Jensen glibly. “Just miss out the spacious part.”

  They walked on, Jensen waiting until they passed an elderly couple seated on a bench before continuing, his voice low but not quite a whisper.

  “I’m afraid I have need of your services for a while longer, Agent Flores. Our new President is keen to pursue the present inquiry: who’s involved, to what degree, and what precisely is their agenda. I’ve asked Derek Fitzpatrick to take over as SAC (Special Agent-in-Charge), with Bryan Walker now focusing solely on the search for McDowell. I need you and your team to work independently, somewhere discreet and well away from the Hoover Building. You’ll still have full access to the inquiry’s findings but with a different target in mind.”

  Flores nodded in understanding but stayed silent, pleased that he wasn’t being overlooked. It was galling that the Bureau always seemed to be one step behind Pat McDowell and his fellow conspirators, and Flores for one was determined to prove the FBI was equal to the task. Chances had been lost, mistakes made, Flores as guilty as anyone of misjudging their adversaries.

  “Bob Deangelo,” continued Jensen, almost sounding embarrassed at what he was asking Flores to do. “Go back over his every action for the past six months and see if there is anything to be worried about; I don’t care about any extra-marital affair or a troublesome tax return – we need to know if the President was directly involved with Thorn or McDowell to remove Cavanagh.”

  Flores was still taking it all in, not sure whether to feel honoured or appalled. He had known Deangelo might be part of the conspiracy but to be the one to prove the President’s guilt or innocence was a challenge he hadn’t quite anticipated.

  Jensen continued, “By going at it from a different angle, you might also pick up on something Fitzpatrick or Walker has missed. A month is all I can give you; after that we have to assume there’s nothing to be found.” His voice softened, well knowing what he asking, “Perhaps you should think about it, Agent Flores; it would be foolish to underestimate the risks.”

  “I don’t need to think about it, Sir,” Flores replied positively, confident that his team would be of the same mind. “And I well understand the risks… How much does Fitzpatrick know about my role?”

  “Neither he nor Walker have any reason to know of your specific line of inquiry and you’ll just be another layer of bureaucracy.” Jensen gave a frustrated shake of his head, “There’s just too much at stake not to take precautions; a single mistake or misjudgement and this Administration could easily follow Cavanagh into obscurity.”

  With Flores duly signed-up, Jensen quickly moved on to what he hoped would be a rather less contentious issue, every available avenue needing to be followed in the search for the truth.

  “Jon Carter is also prepared to make a deal; four days of hospital food and he’s already had enough. If you can persuade him to co-operate fully, then so much the better and he must know whether Deangelo was involved. We also need to find out from him if Pat McDowell’s work here is complete.”

  “So not such a good friend to McDowell after all,” observed Flores drily.

  “Maybe he doesn’t appreciate being left to take the rap, especially having been shot for his troubles. Carter’s on the mend but you’ll need to think carefully where you’re based; somehow I doubt he’ll be that co-operative if he has to sleep in a thirty-foot truck. Just make sure I get a daily update on progress direct to my office.”

  Jensen paused and his tone changed, wanting to emphasise that what came next was simply a suggestion rather than a direct order. “I leave it to your good judgement, Agent Flores, but you might also want to make further use of Anderson; for some reason, he seems to have a flair for searching out trouble. And just to make life even more interesting, Dick Thorn is back in the Cabinet as Secretary of Defence…”

  Jensen was still uncertain that he had done enough, the combination of a fixed time-limit and FBI traitor making it difficult to know how best to organise his various resources. It wasn’t just the complication of a political conspiracy; officially Pat McDowell was one of three men wanted for the murder of two Mississippi Congressmen and an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, and Congress was growing impatient, unhappy that it was taking so long to make an arrest. The FBI’s Director was soaking up most of the pressure but soon some of it would land on Jensen’s desk, the usual raft of excuses unlikely to satisfy an increasingly temperamental Congress.

  Jensen slowed to halt, gazing out towards the marble columns of the Lincoln Memorial before turning to face Flores. “To find anything conclusive in a few weeks is a tough ask – we need to hope one of you gets lucky.”

  “And if Deangelo is part of it?”

  Jensen shrugged, “Let’s just see where it all leads…” There was still good reason to be positive and despite Jensen’s earlier fears there had been no powerful clique taking control and no military coup. To the American public, Deangelo was a virtual unknown; he was also not part of any specific faction within the Democratic Party, circumstances thrusting him into the Oval Office purely as a quick-fix. In two years, unless his approval rating was particularly impressive, the Democrats would almost certainly cast him aside – two years with Dick Thorn beside him every step of the way, watching and waiting.

  “I’ve asked Fitzpatrick to keep an especially close eye on Thorn,” said Jensen pensively, resuming his walk. “State Department to Defence after a week in the wilderness – I’m just not sure how he’s gained out of all this. Thorn might be popular with the public but he’s made a good few enemies in Congress and despite the President’s optimism, I doubt he’ll get Senate approval.”

  Flores’ eyes narrowed in surprise, reading more into Jensen’s words than he’d perhaps implied, “You still think a coup is possible?”

  Jensen was uncertain in his own mind as to what he was actually suggesting, his suspicions based on a highly questionable interpretation of the facts. “Not perhaps a full-blown military takeover but maybe something more specific to D.C. itself. Two days ago Thorn had close to a million people in the Mall, the Capitol surrounded, members of Congress needing a police escort in order to vote. Now, from his perspective, it’s all fallen a little flat, his office in the Pentagon perhaps only temporary. The momentum is still with Thorn and if his ambitions extend beyond that of Secretary of Defence, then he’s in the ideal place to plan something dramatic.”

  “A million people marching through the Mall isn’t reason enough for a coup,” said Flores, trying not to sound dismissive. “However flawed our present system of government might be, Thorn would never get the military to support him. Even if one rogue general somehow convinced his troops to storm the White House or the Capitol, ten others would be beating at the door to claim it back.”

  “I hope you’re right, Agent Flores,” said Jensen with a broad smile, encouraged by Flores’ optimism. “Whatever happens, the country needs Deangelo to still be in the White House come Christmas...”

  Chapter 2 – Saturday, November 12th

  Vladivostok, Russia – 19:17 Local Time; 09:17 UTC

  The city was effectively under siege, no flights in or out, train and ferry services cancelled, access restricted via road. In the Soviet era, Vladivostok had been a closed city, not even shown on
Russian maps, but that had all changed in 1992, the city pulling in investment as it worked to become the capital of Russia’s Far East. Its geographic position also ensured it remained a key resource for the military and even though the main submarine base was two thousand kilometres to the north-east on the Kamchatka Peninsula, Vladivostok took pride in being the home port and headquarters of Russia’s Pacific Fleet.

  If a region could be considered loyal to one person, then Russia’s Far East was now firmly in President Golubeva’s camp, agents of the Internal Security Agency, the FSB, invariably regarded with suspicion and mistrust. In practice, the FSB’s struggle against Golubeva was now left to a few diehards like Markova, supporters within the Lubyanka Headquarters forced for their own safety to keep a low profile. The sole public opposition to the authority of the President came from General Morozov, her former Minister of Defence and Chief of the General Staff. On the run in Astrakhan Oblast with his back to the Caucasus Mountains, he still had many allies within the military and Golubeva’s hold on power was not yet totally secure.

  Left to his own devices Nikolai would have long since joined up with General Morozov, loyalty to Markova the only thing holding him back. Yet their presence in Vladivostok was effectively at Morozov’s bidding, Russia’s border region seemingly hiding more than its fair share of secrets. The journey south from Khabarovsk had taken the two of them three days, one driving the other sleeping, hours spent going nowhere while yet another army convoy was waved past. The city of Ussuriysk a hundred kilometres from Vladivostok had been the worst, choked with traffic, thousands of Russian troops heading to the Songacha River and the Chinese border.

  But there had been no invasion, Markova fooled like an amateur into believing it was all for real. Not that China could relax just yet, the troops still there and ready to launch an attack should the Kremlin decide it was in Russia’s best interests. Markova presumed that also depended upon how America in turn acted, its new President having to tread a difficult path between public expectations and not involving the U.S. in a drawn-out conflict – a war against China would hardly likely to be swift, even with Russia’s help.

  The people of Vladivostok knew all of this, some of its 700,000 citizens desperate to leave, many stoically assuming they would be safe. The city was just 56 kilometres from the border, easily within artillery range and a high-value target for any enemy. With some twenty percent of its population ethnic Chinese, there was also genuine concern as the possibility of terrorist attacks, the various nationalist groups conspicuously more vociferous of late.

  Markova and Nikolai had reached Vladivostok late that morning, the final three kilometres to the port area quicker by foot than car. The city centre was a chaotic shambles, traffic barely moving, shops being boarded up, some of them already empty of stock as people prepared for the worst, panic buying anything considered useful – even electrical goods. The police and military were on every street corner, weapons prominently displayed, and every now and again an air-raid siren would wail out its warning before stuttering into silence, the city’s systems being tested just in case.

  The port area directly adjacent to Golden Horn Bay was equally hectic but in a far more organised and productive way. The berths were divided up between the fishing fleet, commercial shipping and Russia’s Pacific Fleet, the three elements almost jostling for position with a missile cruiser moored almost within shouting distance of a foreign freighter or an ageing trawler. Security was relatively tight, civilian traffic banned from several roads, including the main thoroughfare of the Korabelnaya Embankment, armed guards manning temporary checkpoints around Pacific Fleet Headquarters.

  Markova and Nikolai were stopped twice and questioned at length, IDs scrutinised and scanned. Their documents were genuine, just with false details, compliments of the FSB. Adding her new name to the list of accredited journalists had also proved astute, the military as yet unwilling to detain reporters, especially those supposedly sanctioned by Moscow.

  The ships from the Pacific Fleet presently in port looked as if they would soon be on their way, the naval facility too tempting a target; the dock area around the merchant vessels was similarly a hive of activity, captains desperate to get their ships ready for sea, no-one wanting to risk the port being attacked or blockaded.

  And the threat wasn’t just from China: North Korea was only 130 kilometres to the south-west, its relationship with Russia always difficult, neither really trusting the other. China was the only ally North Korea could normally rely on, despite the occasional spat, and if countries were forced to pick sides, then few could doubt where North Korea’s allegiance would lie.

  To the outside world, Russia was merely responding to provocation from its neighbour, Beijing clearly responsible for the murder of seventy-nine of Russia’s citizens. For Markova, it was far more complex than the media portrayed, with President Golubeva definitely playing some devious political game. Quite how Fleet Headquarters was involved was unclear, a link to events in the South China Sea as yet unproven; Markova didn’t even know whether she should be focusing on one rogue officer or if the conspiracy was far wider. Consequently, her next move was based on hope rather than any expectation of success, a vain attempt to persuade Nikolai that the drive south had actually been worthwhile.

  Markova felt she had little choice but to rely upon gossip and rumour, desperate to search out the unusual and unexpected, that one whisper that might help to point them in the right direction. For once Nikolai was keen to make a start, the two of them trawling the waterfront bars and clubs, every overheard comment or intrusive question adding to the obvious risks, the whole city wary of strangers.

  It was a task Nikolai excelled at and Markova was at best a silent spectator, at worst an obstacle to dragging out something interesting. By midnight they were both drunk, several dozen drinks bought to help loosen tongues, friends for life made and then immediately scorned.

  Despite Nikolai’s social skills and the FSB’s roubles, nothing useful had been learnt, their money and time seemingly wasted; Russia might well be a country bursting with state secrets but not apparently in Vladivostok.

  Eastern United States. – 11:24 Local Time; 16:24 UTC

  Jensen settled into his usual seat in the Cabinet Room, hand-written notes on the table in front of him, waiting patiently while the others worked out where best to sit. True to his word, Deangelo had made relatively few changes to the Cabinet, two Republicans adding a bipartisan feel; although that was one less than Obama’s first Cabinet, it was still a brave move and a sign that Deangelo’s politics were barely left of centre. The fact he had managed to pull it all together in less than thirty-six hours was an impressive achievement, the only contentious appointment that of Dick Thorn as Secretary of Defence.

  The first meeting of the full Cabinet was set for early Monday; today, Saturday or not, it was the turn of the President’s inner circle to listen and then have their say, no-one quite sure how much influence they might have. Including Jensen, there were only six of them in total, each occupant of the White House having a differing view as to the precise makeup and number of their chief advisers; Ronald Reagan had even picked a group of business friends. President Deangelo was rather more traditional, although two of the six were still not actually members of the new Cabinet.

  Directly opposite sat Dick Thorn, his Democrat credentials on hold of late and if he were to propose anything less than a massive retaliatory strike against the Chinese mainland, then Jensen would be surprised. Next came the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff (CJCS), Admiral Adams an equally forthright if mellower version of the Secretary of Defence. The Attorney General, Ellen Ravich, was more difficult to categorise; having had some of her precious FBI appropriated by Jensen, she might just want to make a point, but in any case Jensen doubted she would be sympathetic to his more conciliatory point of view. Then there were the two new faces: Secretary of State, Ryan Burgess, and the National Security Adviser, Morgan Woodward. Jensen knew both men
more by reputation than personal experience, Burgess very much in the mould of Thorn; Woodward was a close associate of Deangelo and formerly the U.S. Ambassador to NATO, his past comments contrarily suggesting he might be more open to a non-military solution than some of his colleagues.

  Jensen’s rough analysis suggested that he and Woodward would be the only voices likely to urge caution. The President had come to Office on the back of a promise to stand up to China and defend the sovereignty of America’s allies, specifically the Philippines, and he would undoubtedly want to honour that commitment – to do anything less would be tantamount to political suicide. There might still be a Democrat in the White House but the flavour of the administration was becoming more Republican by the day.

  Ryan Burgess and Dick Thorn still had to be officially confirmed in their respective roles and, unlike for a Vice-President, a Cabinet appointment simply needed a majority vote in the Senate. The ‘lame duck’ sessions of Congress which occurred immediately following the Midterms were generally used to finalise unfinished legislation with those members not returning in January simply going through the motions or – worse still – choosing to be obstinate. While Burgess could well coast through the committee hearings and subsequent vote, getting Thorn’s nomination passed by the Senate before Christmas was likely to be impossible; he had his supporters but his orchestration of the protests in the National Mall was seen by many in Congress as a form of blackmail and he could expect a hard time, even from the Democrats, and an ‘unfavourable’ recommendation was virtually certain. The next session in January would be equally difficult, the Senate’s new Republican majority doubtless readying themselves to do everything they could to discredit Thorn and belittle his reputation.