The Trust Of The People

by Christopher Read

  Chapter 21 – Thursday, November 10th

  South China Sea – 16:05 Local Time; 08:05 UTC

  Twenty years he had lived in Thitu; now Ram and his family were being thrown out of their home, becoming the first refugees from the conflict with China. Every Filipino on Thitu Island – civilian and military – had been ordered to gather by the small harbour, Chinese troops searching every building to make sure no-one would be left behind. No animals; just take what you can actually carry. Some two hundred people had already been ferried to the waiting ship, Ram and Roberto part of the last group to leave.

  Apart from a vague reference to ‘the Philippines’, Ram had no idea where they were being taken: he guessed Manila, and at least he had some funds waiting for him there, unlike his neighbours. He had tried not to feel guilty, but his planting of the flag all those days ago seemed somehow to have led to his own downfall. What purpose would it serve now to admit anything? And it was obvious that China would have used some other trivial excuse – if not this year, then certainly next. The United States was supposed to be the Philippines’ ally, but so far all the Americans seemed to have done was watch impotently from the side-lines.

  They did so now, Ram able to see a U.S. frigate on the horizon, part of the Carrier Group which steamed somewhere to the north. Chinese warships were also visible, the two countries eyeing each other warily with neither yet prepared to strike. The transport of the refugees from Thitu had apparently been negotiated late the previous evening, with a Panamanian-flagged ship arriving earlier that afternoon to carry them to safety.

  Ram was leaving behind virtually everything he possessed: home, boat, and chickens. The five thousand dollars wouldn’t last forever and he had wanted it for his children – now they would all spend the rest of their lives in a Manila slum, struggling like hundreds of thousands of others just to stay alive.

  Russia – 22:10 Local Time; 12:10 UTC

  Markova lay on the frozen earth, camera aimed at the convoy as it headed north towards Lesozavodsk. The vehicles used both lanes of the highway, the occasional car or truck traveling to Vladivostok forced to move aside; the tarmac road was already becoming pitted, the heavyweight migration of military traffic finally taking its toll. Engineers had passed through an hour earlier with their complex bridging units, the Songacha River a half-frozen and hundred-metre wide barrier into China.

  Lesozavodsk was just ten kilometres from the border, and China could hardly sit back and ignore the overwhelming evidence that Russia intended to launch an attack. The Chinese didn’t need satellites and specialist observers, one man with a good pair of binoculars could tell them all they needed to know. As best Markova could judge, this second influx of units was from the 5th Army based at Ussuriysk to the south, and it was now obvious that this was no exercise; nor would it be a minor or brief incursion into Chinese territory. There were thousands of troops and hundreds of vehicles closing in on the border; if not yet an invasion, then it couldn’t be more than a day or two away, with Golubeva presumably trusting that the United States and Vietnam would help squeeze China from the south.

  The tail of the convoy finally trundled past, a long line of civilian vehicles following-on behind. Markova and Nikolai moved on, waiting twenty minutes before forwarding the encrypted images on to a select group of recipients.

  The time for secrecy was at an end. The Russian people and anyone with influence needed to know what was happening midway between Khabarovsk and Vladivostok; the public’s perception of reality was being deliberately manipulated and distorted by those in the Kremlin, a devastating war with China seemingly just hours away.

  Markova had done what she could; now it was down to the Lubyanka and General Morozov to do the impossible and stop Golubeva, or at least to get her to rethink. If between them all, they could sow even a single seed of public doubt, then it would be something. The will of the people had brought Irina Golubeva to power; maybe with the right motivation their frustration and anger would destroy her.

  It was all-too obviously a vain hope, and in reality Markova was simply going through the motions, fearful as to her country’s very survival. Even after eighteen months, Russia was still recovering from the turmoil of a secessionist war and a violent coup d’état, its fragility a weakness Russia’s enemies could easily turn to their advantage.

  Washington, D.C. – 14:31 Local Time; 19:31 UTC

  Cavanagh slowly replaced the phone, then swung his chair around to stare out through the French windows, not really seeing anything, somehow wanting to delay the final moment for as long as possible. He had asked for five minutes but had wanted five weeks, or at least enough time to bow out whilst maintaining a certain amount of self-respect. He had already spoken to the White House staff, a few tears shed, no-one quite understanding what he had done that was so very wrong.

  The President felt pretty much the same, still bemused as to how he had been fooled into encouraging Deangelo’s rise from obscurity and into the Oval Office. And now Cavanagh had to go through the pretence of congratulating the Vice-President while still trying to pull the dagger out of his back.

  How should he play it? Calm and dignified, or angry and indignant, and would it really matter? Cavanagh had made a pledge to Congress but was he still bound by it, knowing now that Deangelo had betrayed him? Was it even right that Deangelo should become President on the back of a guarantee made during desperate times? Cavanagh could even argue that he hadn’t fully recovered from the effects of the Diallopine. If the Vice-President really was part of some conspiracy, then surely Cavanagh was duty bound to ignore his own promise.

  Yet Cavanagh couldn’t absolutely guarantee that was the case, and Deangelo had unquestionably followed the correct legal protocols. There was also nothing to suggest that the Vice-President had anything to do with the Diallopine incident, the precise means of its delivery still uncertain.

  Thorn might have stirred up animosity towards the Administration but if anyone was to blame for the President’s demise, then it was entirely Cavanagh himself: he had allowed the crisis to develop and he had been the one to nominate Deangelo, a decision made without anyone else exerting undue influence or pressure. Or had Cavanagh simply been too easy to manipulate? Gullible and compliant – it was certainly not the ideal combination for a President.

  Cavanagh was also well aware that if he refused to step down from office then the United Sates would collapse back into a constitutional paralysis, the internal and external problems still unresolved. Sadly, it was too late now to cry foul and somehow hope for a reprieve.

  With a sigh of frustration at his own weakness, Cavanagh stood up and walked across to the pair of armchairs beside the fireplace, choosing to sit facing the Rose Garden. He had no wish to sully the Resolute Desk by having Deangelo stand across from it, his feet on the bespoke dark-blue rug with its central presidential seal. Cavanagh and the First Lady had picked the rug’s design together, something sombre to remind the President of the duties of his office. In retrospect, perhaps he should have gone for something far brighter; maybe even in red, a daily warning that the President also needed to act with vigour and verve.

  There was a rap on the outer door and Bob Deangelo entered, looking to be more relaxed than Cavanagh had hoped: at forty-eight, he was young for a President, and shorter by two inches than the average height of five-feet eleven. Yet somehow he managed look the part, the streak of grey in his hair adding a suitably distinguished touch.

  “Mr President,” Deangelo said with a warm smile, holding out his hand.

  Cavanagh genuinely hadn’t known until that moment how he would react – refuse to shake Deangelo’s hand and seem petty, or shake it and be pathetic, certainly in his own eyes.

  Cavanagh opted for the petty alternative. “My resignation is on the desk. I will at least fulfil my promises; I sincerely hope that you are able to do the same without bringing this country to ruin and killing thousands.”

  Deangelo’s smile barely wavered
and he sat down uninvited opposite the President. “I am really no different to you, Sir,” he said pleasantly, “just a little more impatient and rather more willing to exploit others’ weaknesses. I’m genuinely sorry it came to this, but Congress would have it no other way.”

  “And Thorn: I assume you will try to force through his confirmation as Vice-President?”

  The smile disappeared, Deangelo even managing to look surprised. “We’re jumping well ahead here, Sir. I appreciate that the lack of a Vice-President has caused certain difficulties but I will need to pick someone who can help unite the country. As to whether that might be Dick Thorn, I have yet to decide. To be honest the last twenty-four hours have all been a bit of a blur.”

  “Thorn and his supporters will settle for nothing less,” stressed Cavanagh. “Your handshake outside the Capitol will be seen as some sort of formal commitment.”

  “With respect, Mr President, I don’t agree. If it can be proved that Dick Thorn really is part of some plot involving Pat McDowell, then his reward should be a prison cell not an office in the West Wing. The country needs a period of calm, time to heal the divisions of the past few weeks; in the meantime, if I have to be polite to Thorn while working out whether he’s an ally or a traitor, then that is a small price to pay. It was a handshake, nothing more; no promises or bribes asked for, or indeed given.”

  Cavanagh held his own surprise in check, unconvinced by Deangelo’s words, certain in his own mind that Deangelo and Thorn were working together. The scene on the terrace of the Capitol could have just been a ploy of the Vice-President’s, a quick fix to appease public anger, but to Cavanagh it was a way to publicly acknowledge that each needed the other. Even if Thorn wasn’t the next Vice-President, then a key Cabinet position was a virtual certainty.

  “Your confirmation has set an unfortunate precedent,” said Cavanagh, with a hard edge to his voice, “which can only reduce the authority of this office. Few will thank you for that, certainly not those of ambition inside Congress. One mistake is all it will take for someone else with power and influence to question your right to be President.”

  “I fully understand that,” acknowledged Deangelo. “I guess I’ll just need to make sure I don’t make that one mistake.”

  Cavanagh was irritated by Deangelo’s cavalier attitude, seeing a side to the man that had been kept hidden from him, his show of self-confidence more alien to Cavanagh than he would have liked to admit.

  “I’m sorry to press you, Mr President,” Deangelo continued, “but the crisis with China needs prompt and decisive action; I must – with the greatest of respect – ask that you formally resign before the end of the day.”

  Cavanagh didn’t quite know what to say, angered that Deangelo had felt it necessary to be so pushy, yet understanding the logic of a speedy transfer of power. Time now to end this farce; just a single minute with his one-time friend was more than enough to turn his stomach.

  “I will be gone within the hour,” Cavanagh said with emphasis. He stood up, and nodded in dismissal at Deangelo. “I trust and hope that history will view your Administration in a more positive light than they seem likely to do with my short tenure.”

  The President held out his hand, choosing finally to ignore his personal resentment and be magnanimous. “I wish you luck. The people of America are not noted for their patience, especially when the lives of their loved ones are on the line.”

  Bray, England – 20:49 Local Time; 20:49 UTC

  The view from the balcony was one Yang never grew tired of, down past the long manicured lawn and on to the pair of weeping willows which framed the Thames. A gentle glow spilled out from garden lights as they stepped down to the river and it had just started to snow, no more than a fine sprinkling, the icy sparkle only adding to the magic of the evening.

  It was cold enough to see his breath but Yang had a hot drink and a warm coat, and he was quite happy sitting, just looking. Everything about Bray fitted neatly into Yang’s perception of what British life should be like: tranquillity, stability, and refined living. He even had a butler to complete the full package.

  Yang felt wonderfully at peace, still amazed at how well the second phase had progressed, his confidence as to their future success growing with each day. The danger now was impatience, and it would be foolish to rush into the final phase without ensuring the same level of planning that had led to Bob Deangelo’s rise to power. And it had all been achieved at the first time of asking, Cavanagh instinctively reacting to external pressures and subtle steers by nominating Deangelo. Yang had fully expected it to take longer, with Deangelo the second or third choice to come before Congress, McDowell anticipating having to maintain the stranglehold on the Capitol Building for several days at least. With the loss of Terrill that could easily have proved impossible, there being a limit to how much Thorn and Henry could actually influence events.

  The cabal’s sway over the new Vice-President was based purely on shared goals, all of them frustrated by America’s lack of foresight as to the threat posed by China. For over twenty years, one President after another had talked of curbing China’s ambition but had done nothing, hoping that by leaving China alone they would in turn constrain North Korea. Give it another twenty years and China’s power in the South China Sea would be unassailable with a dozen military bases spread across the islands and reefs, its air and naval forces able to strangle trade whenever they wanted.

  Deangelo and Thorn had been recruited – as with Irina Golubeva – through a drawn-out process of conjecture and supposition, Yang and his four confederates the prime movers. Slowly, almost painfully so, the trust that was essential for their success had been established, a year spent planning Cavanagh’s downfall. As to which of Thorn or Deangelo would effectively sacrifice himself for the other had surprisingly never been in doubt, Thorn’s more blatant hawkish tendencies unlikely to win him Cavanagh’s support. Thorn also had far more authority and influence with members of Congress, able when necessary to beg a favour or persuade a waverer, helping ease Deangelo’s passage though the confirmation process. Thorn’s reward might not immediately be obvious, but the debt was not one Deangelo could ignore for long. If Congress needed another subtle shove in the right direction, then the cabal’s billions would once more be put to good use.

  If Yang now had one major concern, it was still Golubeva. The cabal’s leverage over her was – as with Deangelo - more subtle than real, and with respect to Beijing, Russia’s President seemed keen to push through her own distinctive strategy. Within reason, such differences could be accommodated, but Yang was determined to press for a unified approach, fearing that piecemeal attacks would be ineffective. Beijing’s capture of three more of the Spratly Islands had always been a possible outcome, a temporary sacrifice that was a worthwhile price for Deangelo’s victory.

  The accelerating crisis wouldn’t allow Deangelo the honeymoon period extended to Golubeva, but his route to power had been far easier than the insurrection that had touched many of Russia’s cities, and the U.S. military had been unaffected, its loyalty still to the President. Together, the U.S. and Russia had the military might to stand up to China. Beijing had already blackmailed the nations of the world once, refusing to have diplomatic relations with any country that formally recognised the Republic of China in Taiwan. Now there was now a clear opportunity – with undeniable justification – for the U.S. and Russia to force Beijing into abandoning its expansionist policies, ending once and for all its outrageous territorial claims.

  Each of the five members of the cabal had their own unique reasons to want such an outcome. For Yang, it was complicated: his homeland of Taiwan had lived in fear of upsetting Beijing for some seventy years, many wanting true independence, others hoping for reunification. The majority preferred the status quo, unwilling to risk the unknowns involved in either of the other options. Beijing had even implied that a majority vote for independence would be grounds for a military attack.

  Yang hoped one
day to see his homeland become genuinely independent, accepted without reservation by the Chinese mainland as a sovereign nation. While fear of Beijing remained, there would never be a truly representative vote; if that subsequently brought about reunification, then so be it.

  Yang didn’t hear the van pull up outside the house’s side door. Even if he had, he would have ignored it – whoever it was had already passed the front security gates and he would have assumed it was a delivery of some sort.

  The new maid let the two gunmen in, the three of them maintaining the sham of an emergency repair, the water leak too persistent to ignore until the morning. It took two minutes to get Yang’s bodyguard into the kitchen, the first gunman’s silenced automatic living up to its name. The three other staff were dispatched without ceremony, the second gunman rewarding the maid as instructed with a bullet to the back of the head.

  Yang heard none of this, still sitting on the balcony, enjoying a whisky while working out how much of a bonus McDowell deserved. He did react when the door onto the balcony slid open, expecting either his butler or bodyguard, momentarily surprised to see a man in a navy workman’s jacket and trousers.

  Then he saw the gun. Yang’s eyes widened in shock, bewildered as to the why, a dozen names flickering into his consciousness as he struggled to work out exactly who. His last thoughts were a strange mix of despair and self-reproach, knowing that he had been nothing more than a fool, someone naïve enough to believe that with enough money you could try to rule the world.

  Washington, D.C. – 18:20 Local Time; 23:20 UTC

  Anderson stood on the south edge of the Mall and watched the hard-core of demonstrators gathered south of the White House. Their numbers had continued to decrease throughout the day, the Vice-President’s promise and Thorn’s apparent endorsement considered a victory of sorts. The list of casualties from the previous day continued to mount and in total nine had died, including two FBI agents. Anderson himself was looking a little battered, face and stomach bruised, knuckles badly scraped; he even had several deep scratches on his arms and legs with no idea as to when or how they had happened.

  The initial shooting incident was still the subject of argument and online debate; the FBI’s own internal investigation had found that the agent blamed for the shooting had no gunshot residue on his skin. The only residue on his clothes was on the back of his right arm and shoulder, suggesting a gun had been fired from close behind him. Such evidence was not yet in the public domain, but it seemed doubtful whether it would be accepted as genuine, recent events ensuring everyone was a cynic.

  As far as Anderson could judge, McDowell was home free, a suitable reward doubtless already in his offshore account. There’d be no point in him hanging around and his associates presently in custody seemed confident that all charges would eventually be dropped, either through lack of evidence or by orders from on high. According to Flores, the base at Terrill had proved unhelpful, the crimes committed by most of those arrested there unclear, with hacking into government networks likely to be about it. Two of the men and one woman were also being linked to the secret recordings of the former Vice-President but that was also likely to be swept under the carpet, someone high-up wanting to save Irwin from further embarrassment. The prime suspects for the various murders had certainly escaped, leaving the FBI with some fairly circumstantial evidence against just Carter – not that he was saying much just yet, only recently released from intensive care.

  The American media were split as to Deangelo’s confirmation: most were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, but there was significant concern as to his public display with Thorn, it provoking a range of adverse comments from members of Congress, even those who had voted for him.

  Cavanagh was obviously a lame duck President, rumours circulating that he would officially resign before the end of the day. Bets were even being made as to whom Deangelo would nominate as Vice-President, with Dick Thorn evens favourite. Neither Anderson nor Flores were quite so sure, both in agreement that Thorn’s confirmation by Congress would be significantly more difficult than the previous day’s rushed affair; if Deangelo wanted a quick resolution, then he would have to pick someone far less divisive than Thorn.

  Deangelo’s greatest concern had to be China: the tone of Russian threats to retaliate for Khabarovsk was becoming more assertive, and both the Philippines and Vietnam were being urged by a vociferous mix of public demonstrations and media propaganda to actively enforce their exclusion zone.

  It had only been ten days since Anderson had arrived in the U.S., his status changing from tourist to FBI special agent, Anderson just hoping he’d be allowed to keep FBI cap and jacket as a memento. His FBI duties certainly seemed to be coming to an end, the task of finding McDowell now likely to be passed on to someone more senior than Flores, unless it was abandoned altogether.

  Anderson would give the U.S. another day or two, just to be sure that McDowell’s role was complete, and then it would be back to Marshwick and Charlotte. He was looking forward to it, but was already working out how best to break the news that the Philippines and Vietnam were next on his itinerary, an interview with Louisa Marcelo an intriguing possibility.

  He sensed someone beside him and glanced around to see Flores, the agent looking even more serious than usual.

  “Bad news?” asked Anderson, eyes narrowing.

  “I guess so. CNN is reporting that thousands of Russian troops are massing near the border with China, north of Vladivostok.” He turned to stare across the Mall at the White House. “Whatever Deangelo’s got planned, I have a bad feeling about this; give it a month and we could have Dick Thorn as Vice-President, Congress frozen out, and the Marines landing in Hong Kong...”

  The Rule of the People

  The story concludes in the final part of the Conspiracy Trilogy, The Rule of the People, also available as an e-book.

  The battle for control of the reefs and shoals of the South China Sea intensifies as the U.S. and Russia squeeze China, the repercussions of the past moving rapidly between Beijing, Moscow and Washington, the truth invariably nothing more than a political inconvenience.

  Determined to make sense of the complex schemes played out by those now in power, Michael Anderson’s search for answers inevitably leads him back to Washington’s National Mall, the perpetual struggle between the White House and Congress threatening to spiral into something far more violent than the usual war of words.

  In the South China Sea, the fight-back against Beijing’s increasing dominance escalates into a bloody war of attrition, the fear that others will ally themselves with America forcing China into a series of desperate gambles. Russia becomes one such gamble, Natasha Markova drawn into a fight for survival as the conflict reopens the divisions within the Kremlin.