The Rule Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 3)

by Christopher Read

  Xinjiang had been a source of separatist conflict for fifty years, support from the Soviet Union then Russia varying from the subtle to the brazen. However, the terrorists had never become anything other than a purely local threat and there was nothing to indicate that the recent attacks were Russian-led or part of some planned incursion. For the moment, Russia seemed content to play a waiting game, watching as the U.S. and Vietnam exacted their revenge, looking for the ideal moment to strike.

  That was seen by many on the CMC as a mistake, China still hoping to dismantle the coalition before it became a formal entity. The U.S. attack against the Spratly Islands might have proved the fallacy of underestimating American resolve but Deangelo had been in office less than five days; when better than now to throw at him a major crisis, one where thousands of American lives were likely to be put at risk.

  The Politburo might still be arguing as to the actual level of any further military action but to Liang and his colleagues on the CMC there was but one brief window of opportunity to improve the odds in China’s favour. Even though it would never become a war China could actually win, an advantageous diplomatic solution was still a possibility – it would just need a little more guile than simply occupying every reef and sandbank throughout the South China Sea.

  China’s old guard had planned for a bloody war of attrition and the U.S. would certainly baulk at significant losses in terms of military personnel; this was more likely to become a battle of missiles and laser-guided bombs, the first where remote-controlled weapons could prove their versatility, almost perhaps their superiority. Despite the recent changes to the nature of the Politburo and the CMC, neither body would settle for peace at any cost, and Deangelo and Golubeva still needed to be shown that the battle ahead would be long and bloody. The challenge was to do that while ensuring the conflict didn’t escalate out of control; only then might Beijing keep some of what had been gained. The consequences of a war were unthinkable: both America and Russia were essential for China’s future prosperity and with sanctions now in place, China’s neighbours would be quick to reap the reward of Beijing’s isolation.

  In a few days, China would be at a crossroads, either plunged into a war it couldn’t win or revealing to the world its willingness to compromise. The crisis of the moment somehow seemed to draw out the leader from the pack, Golubeva a prime example, and if Deangelo was in the same mould as his Russian counterpart, then the American missile attacks would only be the beginning, further Chinese aggression met with devastating force.

  Despite being a confirmed atheist, Liang closed his eyes in silent supplication, praying for guidance, trusting as to his own innate judgement. He had no family, only an ex-wife whom he still loved, nothing that would hold him back; no reason – other than fear of failure – not to put his and his country’s self-belief to the ultimate test.

  Eastern United States – 10:20 Local Time; 15:20 UTC

  Anderson was having a bad morning, his version of events in the National Mall challenged, his integrity questioned. He steadfastly resisted the sarcastic response, answering everything as politely as he could, constantly irritated by the tone of the questions. To Anderson, the inquiry into the Mall shootings, held under the auspices of the Department of Justice, seemed blatantly prejudiced against the FBI; the Bureau might effectively be the Department’s own agency but there was no sense of holding back, and the inquiry’s three members already seemed convinced that one or more agents were guilty of over-reacting; that apparently also included Anderson, his journalistic impulses supposedly getting the better of him.

  For well over an hour he was quizzed and criticised, the inquiry’s chairman particularly scathing of Anderson’s account. Whilst the chairman didn’t go so far as to actually call Anderson a liar, the clear implication was that Anderson was paranoid enough to blame Pat McDowell for everything, seeing him even when he wasn’t there. Although the detailed analysis of thousands of hours of video was incomplete, the identity of the man Anderson had assaulted was still open to question, the supposed experts and their software presently split two-to-one against it being McDowell. The fact there was no specific forensic evidence to support Anderson’s tale was unfortunate, his word seemingly not considered proof enough.

  Ray Flores was the next to have his deposition torn to shreds, roundly condemned for putting so much faith in the opinions of an amateur, and a British one at that. Hindsight seemed to be the main weapon used to belittle the FBI’s actions prior to the shootings, it argued that their very presence in the Mall had been unnecessarily provocative.

  Flores was philosophical afterwards, more used to the style of such investigations, and not one to dwell on what the final report might say or where exactly blame would be placed. Anderson was consoled with a belated lunch courtesy of the FBI, the diner on 8th Street crowded but offering a welcome change to the stress of earlier. A corner table had already been set aside for them, burger, fries and black coffee the staple diet with the booths cleverly designed to ensure any conversation was kept as private as possible.

  The reason for such precautions became clear once Paul Jensen sat down opposite. Anderson was unsure whether to feel pleased or intimidated, left wondering whether Jensen’s presence was in response to the morning debacle.

  For most people, the topic of the day was the U.S. military strike against China and the President was due to give his first prime-time TV address later that day, no doubt keen to defend America’s actions. Deangelo’s choice of target and the level of response appeared to have met with almost universal approval from America’s Asian allies and even the U.S. media. The public were similarly supportive, most Americans prepared to give the President and his revamped Cabinet the benefit of the doubt in deciding whether to applaud or be critical. China’s claim that over a hundred lives had been lost, the majority civilians, was invariably treated with a degree of indifference and suspicion, many observers keen to remind everyone of the earlier Vietnamese and Philippine losses.

  Washington itself seemed to have put aside the problems of the past few days and reverted to its more usual frenetic state, the number of those camped out close to the Capitol now reduced to just a few hundred; the police were happy to leave them well alone, Dick Thorn’s supporters still active although rather more inconspicuous than before. Despite Anderson not being party to the FBI investigation into Thorn, Flores had hinted that nothing incriminating had yet been found, the delicate nature of the operation adding significantly to its complexity. A breakthrough seemed as far away as ever, Jon Carter not quite the helpful source any of them had hoped.

  “What’s happening about Carter’s offer?” asked Anderson between mouthfuls, “He seems genuinely keen to give us something.”

  It was Jensen who answered, willing to allow the FBI’s newest recruit a certain leeway. “We’re not interested in re-negotiating the present deal; the Midterm results are already part of an official review and I’ll pass on Carter’s allegations… You’re convinced his change of heart was down to the murder of Neil Ritter?”

  “Definitely; Carter’s convinced that Ritter was murdered by the D.C. Police and worried that he might be next.”

  “As to who’s responsible for killing the Ritters is still open to question,” responded Jensen, voicing the official line. “The motive might have more to do with the wife, so let’s not jump to conclusions.”

  Neil Ritter’s job as a political strategist had involved regular contact with a host of potential conspirators but there was nothing that stood out as being overly suspicious, and Jensen wasn’t willing to refocus the investigation purely on some arbitrary comment from Carter. Similarly, D.C.’s Chief of Police might be a supporter of Dick Thorn and the FBI might have issues with some of its officers but that was no reason to condemn a whole department, and until there was clear evidence to the contrary, then the police version of events over the murders of Neil and Karen Ritter would stand.

  “We also assume nothing about McDowell,” continu
ed Jensen, “either in terms of where he is or whether he still has some role to play. Thorn’s nomination as Secretary of Defence is meeting stiff opposition in the Senate and there’s no chance he’ll be confirmed before they adjourn on Thursday; maybe that will be enough to galvanise McDowell into activity.” Jensen’s tone hinted at his sense of frustration, Anderson one of those who needed to pull their finger out, his supposed expertise in everything McDowell the main reason he was on the FBI’s payroll.

  Their conversation returned to Carter and how best to keep him working, the occasional reference to Dick Thorn or Mayor Henry kept to a minimum, nothing sensitive revealed. Whilst the two agents from Jensen’s protection detail seated in the next booth might be deaf to what was being discussed, the same couldn’t be said for the general public or the diner’s staff and trust was proving a fairly rare commodity in Washington at the moment, with D.C. Police, FBI, Secret Service and even White House staff all under investigation.

  It was early evening by the time Anderson renewed his jailer duties, Carter looking shocked at the Bureau’s lack of interest in re-negotiating his present deal.

  “I guess it’s give them McDowell or it’s nothing,” said Anderson unhelpfully. “Accessory to murder: what’s that, ten years, fifteen? With a reduced sentence, that’s probably down to eight; out in four. That’s not so bad… Hang on though, it was an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court that was murdered, plus Flores wanted your FBI contact – so I guess we’re back up to at least fifteen, maybe even twenty.”

  “Fuck off,” Carter muttered. He retreated back into his shell, ignoring Anderson’s attempts to rile him further. Anderson gave up, annoyed with himself for getting carried away, now worried that Carter might just refuse to co-operate at all. Anderson – and the FBI – desperately needed some luck, a breakthrough that would help them confirm exactly who the major players were and precisely what they were trying to achieve. Even then, Anderson could sense difficulties ahead, no-one quite sure what would happen if – or when – they actually found damning evidence against America’s new President and his Secretary of Defence.

  Carter’s meals were brought to him in his room, the bedroom door always locked, windows alarmed, an irregular check made even at night. Deactivating an alarm should be child’s play to Carter but he certainly hadn’t made any attempt to try and escape, his present level of fitness meaning he might just about reach the fence before collapsing – or that’s the impression he liked to give.

  Anderson idly checked the window lock just to be certain, deciding to wait until Carter had finished his meal before leaving him in peace. Carter ate slowly, looking even more morose than normal, before downing his usual concoction of drugs with a resigned flourish.

  Abruptly the bedroom door opened, Flores shutting the door softly behind him and leaning back on it, angry eyes glaring at Carter. Anderson watched confused, sensing that it was more than just Carter being difficult, his daily petulance a pain in the neck but not yet worthy of physical harm, that looking to be Flores’ likely intent.

  Carter glanced at Flores, not able to hold his gaze, well aware that something was very wrong. “It’ll be Pat,” Carter said nervously, as though that explained everything.

  “Quite right,” Flores confirmed, almost whispering. “He was kind enough to text; my wife’s phone.”

  Anderson caught the fear in Flores’ voice, Carter simply staring wide-eyed and unwilling to say anything else just in case. It was obvious McDowell had issued some sort of threat, Anderson aware that Flores lived south of Washington and had a son at university somewhere on the East Coast but that was about it; he didn’t even know the wife’s name.

  “A simple exchange,” Flores explained, a dangerous edge to his voice, still looking at Carter. “My wife for Carter.”

  “She’s in no danger,” said Carter quickly, managing a hesitant smile. “Pat’s not like that.”

  Flores remained silent, Anderson merely an unhappy spectator, feeling guilty that somehow it was all his fault. Carter’s faith in McDowell’s nature was definitely ill-placed, Flores well knowing that McDowell wouldn’t hesitate to kill if it served his needs.

  “When?” Carter asked, still looking apprehensive but gaining confidence from Flores’ silence.

  “Tomorrow morning,” replied Flores, for some reason turning towards Anderson. “You, me and one other agent; McDowell wants you to make the actual exchange – seems he doesn’t trust me.”

  Anderson stared back at Flores, appalled as to what he was saying. “I get within a hundred yards of McDowell and I’m dead meat. Forget anything face to face; I just don’t trust him.”

  “You don’t trust him,” repeated Carter unhelpfully, “Pat doesn’t trust the FBI – seems fair to me.”

  “Just shut it,” said Anderson, realising that Carter’s attitude wasn’t helping. It would have been far better to have kept Carter in the dark and Flores obviously wasn’t thinking straight, too worried about his wife to know how best to cope. There was no suggestion from Flores that he had passed the problem higher-up the chain of command, and true to form McDowell was turning this into something far more personal than a simple battle of wills.

  Anderson grabbed hold of Flores and pulled him towards the door, both of them needing to get away from Carter before the latter suffered a serious mishap. Flores started to resist, then nodded his understanding, it obvious a clear head was needed to plan out their part of the exchange. His wife’s life was dependent on Flores making the right decisions and at least they had a few hours to work something out, maybe even weigh the odds more in their favour.

  Two hours later, Anderson was one of ten seated in the farmhouse kitchen, Flores back in control and working on a suitable counter. Rachel Flores had been snatched from their home outside Centreville, the house itself offering no clues, just left unlocked with Rachel’s car still parked on the drive. A trace on her phone proved equally unhelpful: it confirmed that McDowell’s text had been sent from Centreville but then nothing, the phone’s battery presumably removed.

  McDowell’s instructions for the first part of the exchange had been explicit: two cars only, set off dead on eight, Anderson and Carter leading, stick to the speed limit, the route from Terrill specified as far as the Potomac. Further instructions would be sent once they reached D.C; any deviation, any tricks, any sign of other agents and it would be a no-show, Flores given just one chance to get it right.

  With the FBI mole still unaccounted for, Flores had put his total trust in those agents stationed at Terrill. No-one else in the Bureau had been informed of the exchange or even the kidnapping, Flores prepared to worry about the potential repercussions once his wife was free; that meant no helicopter support and very limited resources. If the other agents had concerns about the exchange, then they kept such thoughts to themselves, all of them knowing Flores would do as much for them. McDowell was no doubt expecting that Flores would try something but he too had limited help – Lavergne and Preston certainly, but that might be about it.

  Until they knew exactly where the exchange was to take place, then it was difficult to plan effectively, but at least Anderson was finally on board. His earlier reluctance was no more than a gut reaction, his various meetings with McDowell never turning out well. In practice, his desire to get even with the American was as compelling as anyone’s, even Special Agent Flores.

  Chapter 6 – Wednesday, November 16th

  Bolshoy Kamen, Russia – 02:11 Local Time; Tuesday 16:11 UTC

  Daniil Chavkin jerked awake, confused as to why he was sitting and not lying in bed, his head throbbing as though from a hangover. He opened his eyes but saw only darkness, his bewilderment growing as he realised there was something covering his eyes. He made to speak but his mouth was taped shut; panicking, he realised his arms and legs were held tight, wrists also bound to the chair, fingers free to flex and clench but nothing more. A surge of adrenalin raced through his bloodstream and his whole body shook, Chavkin trying again t
o speak, wanting – needing – to know what was happening to him. He could remember his sleep being disturbed by a noise, then nothing, no sense of being moved or tied up, no clue as to whether his wife and son were close by.

  “No need to panic,” said a soft female voice. “Relax and you’ll be fine; a few questions and then your life can return to normal.”

  Chavkin took deep breaths through his nose, working hard to control the panic, becoming more conscious of his situation and his surroundings. It was chilly but not freezing, Chavkin sensing that he was still wearing his t-shirt and shorts. The chair had a familiar feel to it, high-backed and robust, Chavkin’s bare feet pressing against the smooth surface of a wooden floor. There were no sounds, other than his breathing, and the only smell was a faint hint of polish, Chavkin realising now that he was in his own study.

  “That’s better,” said the woman. “Co-operate fully and no harm will come to you or your family.” He felt her head close to his, the woman now almost whispering. “Sometimes people choose to lie and stonewall; that’s when it becomes difficult. Someone always gets hurt as a result and there’s no reason to see a person you love suffer; a single scream of pain, a plea for mercy, and it will haunt you for the rest of your life. You might not care for your own life but the lives of your wife and son also depend on what happens here.”