The Rule Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 3)

by Christopher Read

  Markova had similarly done the research, the Ming design and its variants operated by several nations over the past sixty years. Russia’s Project-633 submarine had been exported to China in the early 1960’s before eventually evolving into the Ming-class. In turn China had exported their version to various countries, including Bangladesh and Egypt; North Korea had been a major recipient, dozens of boats assembled in-house from Chinese-supplied parts.

  While North Korea might well have the desire to attack the United States, Markova knew enough about the Kremlin’s involvement to realise that in all probability the submarine was indeed Russian, and at least one of the original 633 boats had reputedly been retained for training purposes, the Zvezda Shipyard more than capable of bringing it back to life. Yet even if she could prove the Kremlin was responsible, what advantage would there be in telling the world of Golubeva’s deception? Markova would merely be encouraging the U.S. to retaliate against her own countrymen, hundreds of Russian lives potentially put at risk. Any attack would also hinder General Morozov’s hopes of ousting Golubeva, it invariably hardening support for Russia’s Government, at least in the short term.

  Markova might have her concerns as to the advantage of such knowledge but she also had a responsibility to Morozov to get to the truth. Sadly, that could take time and it was doubtful whether Golubeva would allow Morozov the luxury of more than a few weeks grace before his forces in Astrakhan were overwhelmed. Somehow Markova needed to accelerate the process of unravelling Zvezda’s secrets, the standard recourse of bribery and intimidation likely to prove difficult without a dramatic influx of cash and at least one gun between them.

  Markova almost stumbled as Nikolai nudged her arm, her thoughts dragged back to the present. She glanced across at him, the angry words forming on her lips stilled as she noticed his attention was elsewhere.

  Up ahead were several police, two with assault rifles, stopping and checking everyone who walked past. It was too late to suddenly retrace their steps or turn aside, the two of them forced to keep going.

  An elderly couple were already being questioned by a bored-looking policeman, and a second uniformed figure stepped out from the shadows to motion Markova and Nikolai into the relative cover of a shop front.

  “Your papers, please.” The tone was polite, the policeman giving a half-smile despite the cold. They did as asked, Markova a little concerned to notice that the policeman’s insignia was that of a captain, it unclear why such a senior officer was bothering with the mundane task of checking IDs.

  “You’re from Moscow?” The question was addressed to Nikolai, the officer’s gaze swapping between the two of them.

  “That’s what it says; Moscow born and bred.” Nikolai was cold and fed up, not happy at being stopped just short of a warm and inviting restaurant.

  “Journalists,” said the policeman thoughtfully, half to himself. “And why are you here exactly?”

  “Bolshoy Kamen is in the news,” explained Markova, not waiting for Nikolai to say something they’d both regret. “Like Khabarovsk and Vladivostok it’s a potential target for China, and Moscow needs to see what people here are going through.” Markova tried to keep her tone relaxed, sensing that any further hint of annoyance would only be counter-productive; she was keen to stick to the truth where she could, too many lies always a dangerous strategy.

  The officer thumbed through the IDs a second time, not bothering to have them scanned, knowing that the two of them would have already passed through several checkpoints. He was either very bored or very inquisitive, but hopefully not suspicious. The elderly couple moved on to be replaced by a snow-spattered figure struggling against the wind, the man searching feverishly through his pockets for his ID. From further back, another policeman idly watched the interplay between his officer and Markova, gloved hands slapping on his thighs to try and create some warmth.

  “You drove here from Vladivostok?” enquired the captain, directing his question at Markova.

  “We left Vladivostok early this morning; before that we were in Khabarovsk. For what it’s worth, you’re coping far better than either of them.”

  The captain nodded in understanding although he still seemed unwilling to hand back their IDs, yet more questions needing to be asked. “And our small town is really of that much interest to you?”

  “Of course, or at least until relations with China return to normal.”

  “And you’re staying where exactly?”

  “The Laguna on October Street.”

  With a reluctant frown, the captain passed Nikolai’s ID back to him; as Markova reached out to take hers, the officer gave one final piece of advice. “We are a town that doesn’t always appreciate strangers, especially during difficult times. You have until Wednesday morning and then I expect to hear you’ve gone back to Vladivostok.”

  The threat wasn’t specific, just implied, no reason given as to why their stay was being limited to some thirty-six hours. It wasn’t even clear if it was the police that they needed to be concerned about or whether the captain was actually trying to be helpful, perhaps hinting that the military had some odd grievance against journalists from Moscow.

  More likely, the town had grown used to keeping its secrets safe, old habits form the Soviet era proving hard to forget. Markova’s visit to Bolshoy Kamen was proving more complex than she had anticipated, one full day hardly enough time to enjoy the sights, let alone open up the enigma that was the Zvezda shipyard.

  * * *

  Nikolai’s impressive record of extracting information was fast deteriorating, the townspeople seemingly inbred with a natural reluctance to reveal anything worthwhile to people they’d only just met. Markova had tried the journalist card but that had simply made things worse, no-one willing to talk about their work; even the threat of conflict with China seemed off-limits. Club, bar, restaurant, hotel: it made no difference where they tried, rumour and gossip were not words recognised in Bolshoy Kamen.

  By the time they walked back to the hotel, it was close to midnight, a couple of undercover police following-on behind; the two men didn’t yet seem to represent an actual threat and their presence was more intimidating than anything else, a reminder as to the dangers of prying too deeply.

  Despite the frustrations, the evening hadn’t been entirely wasted, a few useful facts learnt here and there, and with time pressing Markova was again forced into considering more extreme measures. Of late her moral boundaries as to what was acceptable had become more elastic and she was fully prepared to do whatever it took to get to the truth, the KGB stand-by of intimidation and threat likely to prove far more effective than any possible bribe.

  Nikolai would no doubt argue that it was a task better suited to his particular skills, something in the Russian psyche making men far less willing to bare their soul to a woman; not that Markova was in any mood to be dissuaded, the enmity and bitterness of the past month finally starting to boil over. Nikolai would still have a full part to play, the acquisition of two handguns and several spare magazines his first priority.

  Eastern United States – 12:46 Local Time; 17:46 UTC

  Carter was back on whingeing mode, feeling sick and decidedly white-faced. Flores was unsympathetic but didn’t push it, Anderson left to try and get Carter to focus on the job in hand. Anderson wasn’t optimistic, concerned that it would only get worse once Carter discovered that two of those arrested with him had been freed on bail, the evidence against them considered nothing more than circumstantial. That at least was the official line, Flores intimating that someone high-up had helped push for their release.

  Such interference only hindered the task force’s ongoing investigation and it didn’t help that the FBI was still under a cloud for what had happened in the Mall and its relationship with the D.C. Police was steadily going from bad to worse, the Ritter case merely an additional bone of contention. Dick Thorn’s allies camped out close to the Capitol definitely seemed happy to lump the FBI in with Congress and China as being
evil incarnate, it sometimes difficult to know which of the three was despised the most.

  The focus for the news media had started to move elsewhere, CNN taking the lead in trying to predict Deangelo’s next move should China simply ignore the fast approaching deadline. Generals and other experts were quizzed, scenarios guessed at, no-one bothered that such conjecture was in danger of giving China vital intelligence. Every man and his dog seemed to have an opinion as to what the U.S. should do to support the Philippines and Vietnam, past enmity now totally irrelevant. Secretary of State Burgess would soon be on his way to Manila, followed by Hanoi, it assumed Beijing might well be the final stop on his itinerary. The President too was also on the move, Tuesday the start of the two-day G-20 summit in Cologne. Whether the two men’s absence from Washington would delay any military action was debatable, the White House certainly not giving any clues.

  The ongoing tensions in D.C. were an added incentive to get Carter to talk and for some unclear reason responsibility for his welfare was shifting away from his FBI nursemaid and even more onto Anderson; a good part of his time was now spent listening to Carter complain, the search for evidence continuing to be dragged out, painfully so. It was depressing to realise that Terrill had become almost as much of a prison for Anderson as it was for Carter and his contribution to the wider investigation was virtually nil, hours spent staring at a computer screen while trying to second guess McDowell’s next move, a score of clever ideas pursued and then abandoned. Flores’ own pursuit of Deangelo was considered solely the purview of the FBI and Anderson was basically being well paid for doing very little, his feelings of guilt just about countered by the annoyance of Carter and the Spartan nature of his present accommodation.

  Carter’s room was on the top floor of the Terrill farmhouse, one along from the computer centre. He sat looking sorry for himself, Anderson choosing to take a short break from his part-time role as deputy interrogator, staring out of the window at nothing in particular, the view one of a high chain-link fence and lines of bushes leading up to the wood beyond. For all they knew, McDowell could be watching from the treeline while planning Carter’s escape, Flores’ precautions perhaps not that impressive when put against McDowell’s ingenuity and Carter’s skills.

  Flores had earlier chosen to have another go at questioning Carter, trying to tease out something constructive, even an obvious lie. Forty minutes had been as much as Carter could realistically handle, Anderson brought in at the end for a final ten-minute burst, not always remembering that he was supposed to be acting out the ‘good cop’ role. The FBI now had plenty on Carters’ own involvement, with the number of attempts to defame the political system and its members far greater than had been assumed; Carter still seemed shy of revealing names, steadfastly insisting that his only job was as hacker-in-chief.

  “Did you check out Neil Ritter?”

  Anderson turned back in surprise, not even realising that Carter was wide awake. “That’s down to the FBI,” he replied. “There’s no evidence yet that your friend McDowell was involved but it’s only a matter of time.”

  “No; I meant did you check out what happened with Ritter?”

  Anderson nodded slowly, although still not sure what Carter was after. “Two gunmen broke in through the back and when the Ritters tried to escape, there was a third man out the front; seems simple enough.”

  “And you believe that?” Carter said sharply, obviously unconvinced.

  Under normal circumstances Anderson wouldn’t have questioned the police version of events but he had also now seen the initial FBI report, it highlighting the problems of a badly contaminated crime scene and few independent witnesses, none of whom could quite agree. Two neighbours from across the street claimed that the police had arrived on the scene a good minute after the last shots had been fired. How then did a police officer get killed? And he evidently wasn’t your standard patrolman: SWAT trained, the officer had been promoted to detective two years earlier, joining an elite anti-crime unit. Then there was the crime scene itself: the FBI’s forensic team had first entered the Ritters’ house some thirteen hours after the attack to find it ransacked, mobile phones and computers missing, the police vehemently denying it had anything to do with them.

  It had all the elements of a hurried cover-up, Anderson just not sure of the real sequence of events. His willingness to blame McDowell was purely to try and get under Carter’s skin, it fairly certain he wasn’t directly involved; as to the real perpetrators – then that was relatively simple, the D.C Police already near the bottom of Anderson’s Christmas card list.

  “So what’s your take on what happened?” prompted Anderson. Carter seemed genuinely worried by the Ritters’ murder and the FBI’s laxity in not immediately linking it to the conspiracy was starting to look foolish.

  “It’s obvious,” Carter replied. “D.C. police go in through the back not expecting trouble. Ritter kills one and they then fuck about trying to cover it up.”

  “And why would they do that, Jon? You’re telling me Neil Ritter is a key part of all this?”

  “I didn’t say that,” said Carter petulantly, realising he’d already revealed too much. “I saw his name on a file somewhere – that was all.”

  Anderson persevered but the moment was lost, Carter reverting to the relative safety of amnesiac mode, the origin of the reference to Ritter joining a thousand other ‘forgotten’ facts.

  “Still looks more like McDowell’s style to me,” said Anderson, back to being annoying. “We both know his work here isn’t yet complete and I guess Neil Ritter just got in the way.”

  “What makes you think Pat’s not lying on a beach somewhere?” replied Carter with a half-smile. “You won’t catch him that easily; not like me.”

  Anderson shook his head in mock disappointment, still hoping to get something more from Carter. “And I thought you were here to help, Jon. Ritter clearly outlived his usefulness and now he’s dead – maybe you should bear that in mind.”

  Carter remained adamant, ignoring the dig, “Pat didn’t kill Ritter; that was definitely the cops.”

  “So you say; personally, I’d be a little more worried about his likely policy on informers.” The fact Carter had come close to confirming Ritter was part of the conspiracy was a useful start, although the FBI would no doubt want something more convincing than just Carter’s off-hand comments.

  “We all know why I’m here,” Carter said sourly. “If you want someone to take a potshot at me, just stick me in a wheelchair out the front; that’s bound to keep Flores happy.”

  “You’re here to help sort out this mess, no other reason. And you’re far better off here than in jail.” Carter might not be too worried that McDowell was going to murder him in his bed, but the actions of the D.C. Police Department were rather less predictable. Terrill was hardly ideal but it was still a haven of security for Carter compared to the dangers outside, Anderson just not sure how important Carter’s secrets might actually be.

  Carter rubbed at his head, deep in thought, looking rattled enough by the Ritters’ murder to perhaps want a way out. It was as near as Anderson had got to some sort of breakthrough, the steady drip of threats and innuendo finally paying dividends.

  “Persuade Flores’ boss to offer a proper deal,” Carter said reluctantly. “All charges dropped and forget about me being a witness in any trials; also, a cast-iron guarantee that I get put on a flight out of the U.S. before the end of the month.”

  Anderson took his time replying, dubious as to what Carter would be willing to provide in exchange. The potential charges against him were impressive and the authorities would expect something significant, perhaps more than just the name of one renegade in the FBI. “And what exactly do we get in return?”

  “I can’t give you the name of the FBI informer; Pat always dealt with him directly. It’s the same with his police contacts.”

  “Then what can you give us?”

  “Proof as to election fraud; proof that the re
sults of the Midterms were deliberately rigged.”

  This was not at all what Anderson had expected. The U.S. election process had long since been in crisis, different systems used, with many of the electronic voting machines condemned as being outdated and insecure; however, the number of miscounted votes was always considered to be within acceptable limits. Now Carter seemed to be implying deliberate fraud on a large scale, it presumably just one more part of McDowell’s overall strategy.

  It was an intriguing and potentially worthwhile bargaining chip but only if based on fact, and Anderson couldn’t help but be suspicious as to Carter’s motives – after all, he had been trained by an expert.

  “Proof is a very slippery concept, Jon. What are we talking about here: computer files, emails, a paper trail?”

  “Speak to Flores first; see if a deal’s even possible, then I can be more specific. Believe me, you won’t be disappointed.”

  “And Neil Ritter? It would help if you could stop pissing about and just confirm he’s involved.”

  “Speak to Flores,” repeated Carter firmly.

  A thoughtful Anderson studied Carter with suspicious eyes, worried that it was all bluff and nothing more than another attempt to waste everyone’s time. He just had the sense that something now was different, the murder of Neil Ritter perhaps a step too far. Despite the brave words, Carter really was worried that he might be next.

  * * *

  The safe house was an hour’s drive from Washington, an isolated ranch-style home with enough resources to keep the three of them self-sufficient for at least another month. It was only now that they could actually relax and as far as Lavergne and Preston were concerned their role in the conspiracy was complete, their bonus more than matching McDowell’s expectations.

  To be fair, McDowell knew it was well deserved, every problem and difficulty countered, their strategy adapted to match the accelerating political crisis. Not everything had gone smoothly, especially that last week once Anderson had interfered more directly, but the fact McDowell’s face was black and blue from Anderson’s fists was more of an embarrassment than anything else, a blow to his pride that he would prefer to forget. The free-for-all in the National Mall had never been part of any plan and actually shooting Thorn – albeit in the arm – had turned out to be an inspired mistake, adding an impressive element of authenticity to the attack.