The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2)

by Christopher Read

  Leesburg, U.S.A. – 18:40 Local Time; 22:40 UTC

  Charlotte was delighted with Leesburg’s Jackson Inn, initially worried in case it would be something for Anderson to whinge about: not whinge exactly – he was more the silent-look type. Set in attractive grounds, the Inn was an ideal base for the Shenandoah Valley and the nearby historic sites, yet Washington was a mere thirty miles to the south-east; equally important, downtown Leesburg was no more than a few minutes’ walk away.

  Anderson had been impressed enough to comment favourably on their room, each one named after a Southern General, Virginia’s links to the Civil War leaping out with every brief glimpse at the map. Overall, it was an encouraging start to their trip and even the flight from Heathrow had gone smoothly, with Anderson’s assortment of electronic paraphernalia exciting no more than polite interest from the U.S. customs. Tomorrow it was Washington for them both – Anderson to seek his fortune with The Washington Post; Charlotte to do the more usual touristy things, starting with the Smithsonian.

  First, however, it was dinner and an early night. Whether Halloween was the best time to experience Leesburg’s restaurants and bars was debatable, especially as the Jackson Inn apparently had its own resident ghost, but Charlotte was well-prepared for dealing with youngsters demanding treats – after all she lived part-time with Anderson.

  As they walked hand-in-hand towards the town centre, past the ghouls, skeletons and witches, Charlotte was left wondering whether it might not be better to stay in ignorance of the world’s many problems. After all, if the president of the most powerful country in the world seemed powerless to make a difference, what could she actually do to change anything?

  Chapter 12 – Tuesday, November 1st

  MV Anaconda – 06:30 Local Time; Monday 23:30 UTC

  To the south-east of Da Nang, 120 kilometres from the Vietnamese coast, the weather was deteriorating rapidly. The three helicopters flew in line, heading south, buffeted by the wind, the rain threatening to cascade down at any moment. The dawn light was barely discernible and the radar signal from the cargo ship was the helicopters’ main guide as to their target.

  The MV Anaconda seemed oblivious to her pursuers, not that she could have done much about it anyway, the vessel easy prey for the Chinese Special Forces. With the helicopters hovering overhead, a dozen men swarmed down onto the Anaconda’s deck. There was no resistance, merely a half-hearted protest from the ship’s captain. He had already sent a Mayday call, his one hope of rescue resting with the Vietnamese Coastguard.

  The ship turned north, heading at full speed towards the protection of Chinese territory. Within an hour, the Anaconda had been searched, documents seized, computer logs accessed. Valdez and his men had disembarked at Da Nang, so there were no terrorists to find, no weapons; nothing that would physically link the Anaconda to the attack on Woody Island.

  Frustrated with the lack of evidence, the Chinese randomly selected two members of the crew for special attention, trusting that fists and boots would help improve the crew’s memory. The Anaconda’s captain had tried to intervene, wanting to explain that the whole crew had been rotated at Da Nang, but a rifle butt to his side had quickly ended any further argument.

  The captain sat on the bridge, wrists handcuffed, back resting uncomfortably against a bulkhead. His initial resentment had long since turned to anger, and he sensed the Chinese were foolish if they thought it was going to be that easy. The Vietnamese Coastguard had worked with Holland and the United States to create a modern and effective fleet, and any of the newer patrol boats would have a good 15 knots advantage over the fifty year-old Anaconda. An aircraft would be simpler but less effective, and depending on their precise course, the Paracel Islands were still some 250 kilometres away, Hainan Island at least 400. Three, four more hours at most, and the Chinese might just have a fight on their hands.

  * * *

  In fact a Vietnamese patrol boat was far closer than the captain had dared to hope, reaching the Anaconda just two hours after the Mayday call. Gunboat HQ-274 was well-armed, versatile and just eight years old, but there was no obvious way of freeing the Anaconda without a firefight and obvious loss of life. The Vietnamese commander’s main concern was the hostages, and China’s boarding of the Anaconda was considered by Hanoi as nothing more than an act of piracy.

  The Anaconda ploughed her way forward at a steady ten knots, the gunboat’s attempts to slow or divert the vessel failing miserably. Radio and loudspeaker threats were ignored, the gunboat’s weapons finally brought into play – warning shots only. The non-lethal alternatives of laser or sound cannon were considered, and then ignored, both devices inappropriate for an adversary entrenched inside a metal box.

  Hanoi was left with a difficult choice: use deadly force or abandon the chase. A Chinese aircraft was already on the gunboat’s radar, the coastguard undoubtedly close behind. There were no Vietnamese nationals aboard the Anaconda, the vessel itself registered in Sierra Leone.

  The gunboat gave it another hour, waiting until a Chinese warship was within twenty kilometres before turning tail and heading west. For the time being, China held the upper hand, but Hanoi’s patience was wearing thin, prepared now to consider all options, however extreme.

  Yaroslavl Oblast, Russia – 07:37 Local Time; 04:37 UTC

  At first light, Markova crept out of her refuge of broken branches and ferns. She hadn’t slept, it being after midnight before she was dry enough to put on her clothes. Two bars of chocolate had helped ease the hunger but not the cold; it just made every action so much more difficult and it had been hours before she had eventually stopped shivering. She had kept thinking about the phone, wondering whether to make a call but knowing there was no help close at hand. Why then take the risk unless there was some definite advantage? The urge to seek help had been almost over-powering but her stubborn streak had finally won through, Markova deciding to put more distance between herself and the Volga before contacting anyone.

  There had been another frost overnight and Markova could do little to prevent the scuff marks as she headed north-west. The countryside was a mix of farmland and forest, the going fairly easy although she was constantly on her guard for the sound of pursuit. Police or military, she wasn’t sure, but she assumed there would be helicopter, maybe even a road-block or two.

  Despite the physical activity, she was still bitterly cold, the wind chill more extreme than in previous days. If she didn’t get warm within the hour, hypothermia would most likely take control, and already her arms and legs felt numb, almost as though they belonged to someone else.

  Her target was the highway that ran parallel to the Volga, roughly two kilometres from the river. It was thirty minutes before she caught sight of the road: two lanes carrying a smattering of early-morning traffic, just two or three vehicles every minute. Getting a car or lorry to stop was probably easy enough, but she was concerned about the cars that passed by without stopping – a lone female, in dilapidated military uniform and no coat or hat would undoubtedly attract attention. Was it really worth taking the risk?

  Markova knew she would collapse if she didn’t do something soon. She kept moving, staying inside the tree line and so virtually hidden from the road, waiting for the right set of circumstances. The stretch of road was relatively straight, just a slight incline, allowing her to see well into the distance.

  Five minutes later Markova stood alongside the highway, watching a black sedan as it headed north towards her, the south-bound lane looking to be empty of traffic.

  Markova had never hitched a ride in her life and she had no intention of starting now. She could have picked one of several semi-trailers, but she really needed something a bit faster. A car was a risk, especially as it might well have one or more passengers, but she couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

  She moved out onto the highway and waved her arms, hoping she looked as anxious as she felt, unsure whether her uniform would be a help or a hindrance.

  The car – an A
udi – slowed, the driver obviously working out his options; then he pulled over and braked to a halt, the car now halfway onto the grass verge.

  Markova moved round to the driver’s side: the man was in his early-forties, dressed in suit and tie, probably a businessman. Markova would have preferred he was at least fifty, the older generation less likely to question her authority.

  The driver’s window slid down, just a few centimetres. “Are you okay?” the man asked, looking more suspicious than concerned as to Markova’s health.

  “My name is Major Markova,” she said, showing her official ID with her left hand and trying her best to sound authoritative. “There’s been a terrorist attack; I need the use of a phone.”

  The man looked confused, unsure what to believe, probably worried he was going to be robbed or carjacked. “Terrorist attack?”

  “I haven’t the time to explain; I need your phone.” Markova’s ID seemed to be gaining a life of its own, her hand shivering uncontrollably.

  The driver looked again at the shaky FSB photo, before finally accepting Markova’s story. As another vehicle sped by traveling south, the man reached into his jacket to take out his phone.

  The driver’s window slid all the way down. Markova leant forward, reaching through right-handed, her elbow remaining bent, as though to take the proffered phone. The man’s head was turned slightly up and Markova’s right hand shot out, using her whole body to hit him open-handed, her palm striking the driver just under the chin.

  The man’s head snapped sharply back, pinching the nerves at the top of his spine and he instantly slid into unconsciousness.

  Markova looked to left and right: just one car traveling north, too far away to understand what had happened. She leant on the car window, body blocking anyone else’s view. One-handed she grabbed the driver’s jacket and pulled the man upright, hoping it wouldn’t look too unusual as the other vehicle passed.

  The car overtook without slowing down. Markova checked again and then pulled open the car door, dragging the man’s body out and into the deep undergrowth. He was still breathing but would be out cold for at least another twenty minutes – better for him to remain here than a potentially dangerous ride stuck in the Audi’s trunk.

  Markova searched the driver’s jacket, taking the money from his wallet but throwing his phone into the undergrowth. The Audi itself was virtually brand new: nothing useful in the glove compartment, a pair of cases in the trunk. The satnav had already been set with a destination in Rybinsk: Markova scrolled the display to north and south, looking for any traffic hold-ups which might in turn indicate a police checkpoint, but there was nothing.

  Unconvinced, Markova pulled the car round to head at speed towards the south. At least one driver had seen her, probably already reporting a suspicious-looking woman in military uniform talking to the driver of a black Audi.

  Markova reached into her memory, trying to recall every minor road, a quick glance at the Audi’s satnav proving unhelpful. The road started to curve gently to the right, and with the road ahead clear of traffic, Markova swung the Audi across the opposite lane, then down a slight dip to follow a narrow farm track.

  The pot-holed lane ran almost parallel to the highway but was hidden from it by a dense thicket of conifers. Then it was a series of left and right turns, the Audi jolting its way along a dozen dirt-roads, all the while heading roughly north-west.

  After a half-hour and having pushed her luck as far as she dared, Markova finally abandoned the car. For the first time in almost twenty hours, she was actually warm, her hands having lost their previous bluish-tinge. She was hungry and tired, but at least the problem of hypothermia looked to have passed.

  It took her just over an hour to reach the outskirts of Rybinsk, Markova finally deciding it was time to make use of Belinsky’s phone: there were a handful of people she would trust with her life, but just one who might have escaped the notice of her enemies.

  As expected the call went to answerphone, her message brief and typically cryptic. Not that she was concerned, Markova already working out how best to reach St. Petersburg by early the next morning.

  Hanoi, Vietnam – 14:50 Local Time; 07:50 UTC

  Vice-President Irwin realised he was still getting nowhere but he stuck with it, determined to prove he was worthy of such a task. The second meeting with Vietnam’s President had started as had the first, Irwin impatient to discuss the key problem of the South China Sea, the Vietnamese preferring a more leisurely approach.

  Now that they had finally moved on to more important matters, the President was being obdurate, arguing that there could be no justification for the seizure of the Anaconda and unwilling to debate the wider issues. The cargo vessel and her crew were reportedly being held on China’s Hainan Island, with no indication as to when either might be released.

  Conversely, Hanoi was unwilling to criticise the terrorist attack on Woody Island, it seen as a direct consequence of China’s own actions against Louisa Marcelo and her peaceful protest near Mischief Reef. Irwin was also being pressed to support Vietnam’s and the Philippines’ case in the U.N., a motion condemning China due to go before the Security Council on the Wednesday. China would of course veto it, but the message it sent was considered important.

  Even though Vietnam and the Philippines were allies of the U.S., Irwin hadn’t been expecting them to be working so effectively together, their governments obviously deciding that a share of the Spratly Islands was far better than no share at all. The U.S. Seventh Fleet was seen by Vietnam as key to pressurising China into compliance, Irwin urged to dramatically increase America’s military profile in the South China Sea, its present commitment of daily surveillance flights and four warships, considered to be totally inadequate.

  While Irwin had some sympathy for Vietnam’s demands, he was very conscious of Cavanagh’s insistence that persuasive diplomacy be the preferred option. The President had stated more than once that he had no intention of letting the U.S. be drawn into a pointless battle of wills with American lives unnecessarily put at risk. Now Irwin was finding it hard to defend that policy, knowing that he should really be the one going on the attack and making demands of the Vietnamese.

  Irwin took a sip at his water, readying himself to take the initiative and get the meeting back on track. Abruptly, from outside the conference room came the sound of raised voices, then the door burst open.

  Greg Duarte, one of Irwin’s Secret Service agents entered, followed by a confused looking Vietnamese aide. Ignoring everyone else, Duarte walked past a stunned President and straight to Irwin, leaning down to whisper in his ear.

  “You need to leave now, Sir. No delay; make your excuses and follow me.”

  The tone and its message was not at all what Irwin had expected. For a moment he froze, then as Duarte stepped back to stand behind him, he regained his composure.

  “My sincere apologies, Mr President, ladies and gentlemen; I must take this call. I will be back shortly.”

  He stood up; his three associates looked at each other, unsure quite what to do, eventually deciding to follow Irwin’s lead. The President graciously nodded in understanding, although his frown suggested otherwise. Duarte stayed close to Irwin as they walked out into the corridor, immediately grabbing Irwin by the arm and guiding him towards the stairs.

  Irwin shook his arm free. “What the fuck’s going on?” he demanded, rather more loudly than the elegant surroundings dictated.

  “I honestly have no idea, Sir; all I know is that you’re needed back in Washington ASAP.”

  “Washington?” Irwin simply stared at Duarte. “I can’t just leave without giving some sort of explanation.”

  “The State Department will smooth it over. I’m sorry, Sir; but I have my orders.”

  Irwin glared angrily at Duarte but chose not to push the matter; he spoke briefly to one of his aides, wanting to at least offer a more formal apology to his hosts.

  The Vice-President’s irritation gradually still
ed as he was driven to the airport. He sat alone, trying to work out what event could have been dramatic enough to drag him away from Hanoi. If something had happened to Cavanagh, Duarte would have probably known, and another incident in the South China Sea Chinese would surely have made it more likely that Irwin needed to remain where it was. Of some concern was Duarte’s attitude – it seemed rather less polite and respectful than normal, almost verging on the insolent.

  The Vice-President’s convoy proceeded at pace towards the military airfield and the waiting Air Force Two, pre-flight checks already in hand. Just fifteen minutes after Irwin boarded, the plane was airborne, hurrying back to a chilly Washington.

  Eastern United States – 08:50 Local Time; 12:50 UTC

  President Cavanagh stood in the Oval office and looked out at the Rose Garden, the early-morning frost still evident, the sun merely a golden glow sitting low in the sky. It was such a peaceful scene, the web-encrusted trees a reminder that Thanksgiving and Christmas weren’t that far away. Not that the economic news was encouraging, with the Dow not yet bottoming out and the latest Personal Income report showing a disappointing rise of just 0.1%.

  Cavanagh turned back towards Jensen, knowing full well the difficult decisions wouldn’t wait any longer. It was just a question of which one to deal with first. Jensen would at least give him the facts without embellishment, the private meeting between the two men squeezed in before an emergency session of the full Cabinet.

  “The Vice-President,” he said, sounding resigned, “is now on his way back from Hanoi. How long do we have?”

  “The New York Times,” replied Jensen, “will publish it as an exclusive tomorrow.”

  Cavanagh finally sat down. “And it’s all been verified.”

  “I’m afraid so, Sir. The agents knew of course but they’re not allowed to say anything, even to the President of the United States; it’s considered purely a personal matter.”