The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2)

by Christopher Read

  New York – 12:37 Local Time; 17:37 UTC

  Cavanagh dressed quickly, eager to return to the White House and trusting that medical advice to give it another two hours wasn’t actually enforceable. He was still suffering minor side-effects from the Diallopine and its antidote, but a good night’s sleep had made him more than ready to face the world, and more importantly the public gaze. First, however, he had to contend with the Attorney General, Cavanagh unsure whether her arrival at Mount Sinai was in her official capacity or as a representative of the Cabinet. There was also the possibility that she had been persuaded to act as a spokeswoman for the Democratic Party’s elder statesmen, their sense of panic obvious from the incessant phone messages.

  A private room on the fourth floor had been set aside for their meeting, Secret Service agents stationed outside, just in case. Ellen Ravich was one of Cavanagh’s braver appointments: the war on terror, political scandals, electronic voting, civil rights abuses – the Attorney General’s short time in office had seen its fair share of controversy.

  “Mr President, I’m delighted to see you looking so well.” Ravich stood politely as Cavanagh entered, looking nervous, even apprehensive.

  “Cut the crap, Ellen,” said Cavanagh, his warm smile of welcome countering the harsh edge to his words. “If you want my resignation, think again. The bastards drugged me up to the eyeballs and I will not give them the satisfaction of just giving up.”

  They sat down opposite each other at a small table, Cavanagh feeling he was being assessed and determined not to show any sign of weakness. Legally, he felt on safe ground, Congress unable to impeach him without just cause, specifically charges of ‘treason, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanours’.

  Ravich took the President at his word and got straight to the point. “Mr President, you need to nominate a Vice-President and call an emergency joint session of Congress; for tomorrow if possible. The members are already heading back to Washington in preparation and will do what they can to speed up the confirmation process. The country needs a Vice-President, Sir; the attack on you proves that.”

  Cavanagh had expected such a request, the various names still rotating their order in his mind. The danger was that whoever he picked, then the 25th Amendment could immediately be enacted, the Vice-President and Cabinet working together to oust him – a month, three months at most, and the daggers would be out. And if he chose someone who wasn’t up to the job, either Congress would block him or the United States would end up with someone even more of a turkey than himself.

  “Is this a request or a demand?”

  The Attorney General’s face softened, “It’s pretty much a demand, Will. Refuse and they’ll go for impeachment and damn the legal arguments. They know they can’t win but the members are getting desperate; they feel they need to prove to voters that the United States Congress does actually have some balls.”

  “And yet this is legal, rushing through the confirmation process with a joint session?”

  “With the Chief Justice in hospital and Enrique Garcia dead, the Speaker was left with Judge Sanderson. He’s looked into it and agrees that it’s all legal and above-board.”

  Cavanagh thought of making an acerbic comment but knew it would be pointless: the Attorney General certainly wasn’t his enemy, nor even the Senate and House of Representatives. “Very well, Congress can have its joint session tomorrow. I’ll give you my nomination once I’m back in D.C.; I just need to make a few phone calls first.”

  The Attorney General nodded her thanks. “There’s more, Sir, I’m afraid. Congress needs a personal commitment from you to support the Philippines.”

  Cavanagh finally showed his true feelings, “But not Vietnam?” he said angrily. “The President doesn’t take his orders from Congress. I can give no such commitment, but I am determined to honour all of America’s obligations, both moral and legal...”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a double rap on the door, a Secret Service agent barely waiting before thrusting it open.

  “My apologies, Mr President; we need to move to a more secure area.”

  Cavanagh knew better than to question or argue, thrusting back his chair and following the agent out into the corridor, Ellen Ravich close behind. Six Secret Service agents were fanned out along the corridor, none with guns drawn, their demeanour determined but not outwardly concerned. Amy Pittman and a dozen others stood around looking confused, the gaggle of suited figures moving quickly along the corridor past surprised hospital staff and patients, no-one speaking, just staring in shocked silence.

  The lead agent paused, hand clamped to his earpiece. A quick word of confirmation, then they followed the signs to a bank of stairs, ignoring the elevators, to head higher; still no word of explanation.

  Amy Pittman’s phone sounded and she waved the others on. The rest were escorted up the stairs, the President allowed to set the pace; only now did it dawn on everyone that there was no medic in close attendance should the President feel faint, the Secret Service doing their best by keeping a wary eye on Cavanagh’s every step.

  After four flights the lead agent signalled a pause, moving across to speak quietly to the President.

  “There’s been an incident in Washington, Sir; at the protest march. Shots fired; one fatality. Some demonstrators from the New York march have started to gather outside the hospital and the situation is in danger of turning ugly. It seemed advisable to move you, Sir; just in case.”

  “Move me to where exactly?”

  “Just away from the lower floors, Sir. Unfortunately, there’s no helicopter pad at Mount Sinai and we need to wait until the situation outside is secure.”

  Cavanagh understood the concerns but he wasn’t happy at having his return to Washington delayed further. The mantle of power seemed to slipping slowly away and he desperately needed to get a grip on the situation. He’d give the doctors their two hours, and then he’d get winched off the roof if he had to.

  Washington, D.C. – 13:51 Local Time; 18:51 UTC

  The key reports and images revealed the drama of what had happened no more than three hundred yards from the White House, Jensen knowing that these could well be the first planned steps on the road towards chaos.

  It had all started so modestly, when a few on the fringe of the crowd had berated the FBI and Secret Service agents lined up outside the South Lawn of the White House. It wasn’t exactly abuse, more derision as to whether the agents felt embarrassed at having to protect such an unpopular and weak president. The situation had gradually become more troublesome, four young men trying to climb the railings into the White House grounds. A struggle ensued, more people and agents joining in, shots fired.

  One of the young men had been shot in the back, dying at the scene. With close to half a million demonstrators in the Mall, most not understanding what had happened, the FBI had an impossible task to try and secure the area. Thorn’s band of volunteer marshals had bravely stepped in, managing to coerce many of the marchers to join those headed for the Capitol or move back beyond Ellipse Road, but it was a good twenty minutes before the area around the attack site had been cordoned off.

  Two protestors had been arrested but neither was armed. The agents involved had been re-assigned elsewhere once their guns had been checked, but none had been fired, the gunman presumably one of the protestors. The FBI had begun an investigation but the situation around the Ellipse was particularly tense, the agents subject to catcalls and chants, with the police keeping well away.

  As news of the shooting had spread, the mood of the protestors had quickly bypassed shock to become outrage, their anger directed at anything associated with the government, whether it be human or inanimate. Many of the police now openly displayed the Stars and Stripes emblem on their jackets, leaving the FBI as the prime target for the crowd’s wrath. Agents had been spat at and abused, several coming close being attacked. Fearing that more arrests would only inflame the situation, the majority of uniformed agents had be
en pulled back from the Mall, it almost becoming a no-go area for those identified as being FBI.

  The main group of demonstrators, headed by Thorn, were now gathered close to the Capitol Building’s west entrance. Surrounded by police, Thorn and Mayor Henry were holding a question and answer session, hosted by the MC, the two of them managing to turn it into a series of reasons why the present government was corrupt, the President incapable. Several of the more-coherent amongst the protestors were invited up to the microphone to give their views, the MC skilfully cutting off the more extreme while encouraging those that reinforced the key message.

  Under different circumstances, Thorn and Henry could have been ignored as two citizens making the most of their right for free speech; even though they were certainly verging on the limits of slander, the police seemed unlikely to intervene, acting more as an honour guard, with the D.C.’s Chief of Police joining them at one stage before slipping away. Hundreds more police were clustered in groups around the outside of the Capitol, no-one in the White House able to discover why they were there; in fact, all attempts to contact the upper echelons of the D.C. hierarchy failed to get past an electronic wilderness of static or an annoying silence.

  The whole eastern side of the National Mall was still thronged with demonstrators; there even seemed to be thousands more drifting in from the surrounding streets as though drawn there by some invisible force. In fact it turned out to be the mundane pull of social media and chain texts, Jensen being guided through a jumble of messages to the crucial edict.

  “Listen up!” Jensen shouted, needing to be heard above the general hubbub around him. “We have Thorn on social media calling for people to blockade the Capitol and the White House in order to force the President to step down. He claims to have broad support for his actions from the unions, business leaders and the military – no names as yet. It’s not a coup d’état but we’re getting close.”

  But what to do? Jensen and Deangelo started the discussion, with virtually everyone from the White House Chief of Staff to the Director of National Intelligence wanting to have their say. No-one was even sure what specific federal law Dick Thorn had actually broken. Treason seemed a little extreme, Malicious Mischief not relevant, Conspiracy unclear. The most promising was an all-embracing Chapter 84 crime: ‘whoever knowingly conspires to impede or disrupt the orderly conduct of Government business…’

  The Cabinet vote to arrest Thorn was an equal split: Deangelo and Jensen in favour, two against, one abstention. As a vague compromise, Jensen proposed that they try a simple test, a gauge as to the extent Thorn and Henry were prepared to go. And along the way, they might even gain some insight into the D.C. police: given a choice, would the average officer obey his Chief, his conscience, or his Oath of Office?

  * * *

  Special Agent Tony Fracassi pushed his way through the crowd, wondering whether it had been wise to break his father’s golden rule and actually volunteer for something. With just five other agents he was expected to ‘request’ that Thorn accompany him to the cars waiting close to the Botanic Garden: no arrest, no force, and definitely no guns. Two hundred and fifty yards, past thousands of angry protestors and armed police of unclear loyalty – there were even half-a-dozen bodyguards, also probably armed.

  Fracassi’s path was abruptly baulked by a tough-looking bodyguard, the man simply standing in front of the FBI agent, the two of them standing eye-to-eye, neither man speaking. A mix of protestors and bodyguards moved to prevent the other agents from reaching Thorn, a barrier of people which Fracassi and his men would have to fight their way through.

  “Move aside,” demanded Fracassi, more loudly than he’d wanted.

  The bodyguard merely smiled; no intention of going anywhere. Around Fracassi the crowd started to close in, some of the agents being jostled, the atmosphere unpleasant, even threatening.

  Fracassi chose to give it one last go, his superiors needing to know if the agents would be forcibly prevented from even getting close to Thorn. He went to go left round the bodyguard and as the man moved to block him, Fracassi quickly sidestepped to the right – simple but usually effective.

  Someone barged into him and he almost fell; he was pushed again, left ankle kicked. Fracassi tried to force his way past, but he was shoved from either side, a fist thumping into his back. Fracassi stumbled, instinct telling him to reach for his gun.

  From nowhere a uniformed police officer stepped forward and two-handed grabbed Fracassi’s right arm, pulling him upright, their faces almost touching.

  “Give it up,” the officer whispered. “You’ll only get yourself killed.”

  Fracassi shook his arm free. He glanced around: the other agents were trying to form a protective circle, sour-faced protestors closing in, the faces of his men determined but fearful.

  Fracassi waved the agents back: the White House had its answer, no need for anyone to risk a beating or a bullet.

  * * *

  To those watching events unfold from the safety of their homes and offices, the news media provided a clear analysis of what was happening and where. Across America, there were similar protests in various cities, the largest – other than Washington – in New York, with a crowd of around a hundred thousand gathering in Central Park and spilling out to surround Mount Sinai Hospital. The President remained marooned inside, the police attempting to clear a safe route out of Manhattan; relatively peaceful at first, the crowd was becoming more volatile with the number of arrests surging past a hundred.

  Yet it was clear it would be D.C. which would decide Cavanagh’s fate. Although a small crowd sat it out in the Ellipse south of the White House, the main target for dissent became the Capitol, and the complex was now surrounded by a sea of protestors. The Capitol’s own police officers ensured the building remained secure, and officials and staff and were able to leave and enter without difficulty. Not so the FBI, agents turned back by the D.C. police.

  Thorn’s associates and marshals moved from one group to another handing out more leaflets, trying to keep the mood positive. By some devious means, hot-dog carts started to make an appearance, the Park Police relaxing the rules to follow the lead shown by their D.C. colleagues. As the afternoon wore on, the number of demonstrators gradually decreased, with just a hard-core several thousand strong preparing to stay overnight, tents being set up for the long haul.

  A burst of jeering announced the arrival of Marine One, the President having finally escaped the claustrophobia of New York. Then it was back to the status quo: the police, FBI, protestors, and even Thorn – everyone seemed to be merely biding their time, waiting for the President and Congress to decide their next move.

  * * *

  Anderson was back on McDowell mode, unwilling just to let him ride off into the sunset. McDowell might still have a job to do, and with Thorn and his associates not yet installed in the White House, there were protests to be co-ordinated and the final moves executed.

  The good news seemed to be that neither side was prepared to raise the stakes by bringing in the army, the coup becoming more of a personal struggle between Thorn and Cavanagh. Quite what Thorn had in mind if – or once – Cavanagh resigned was keeping the media fully occupied, their political correspondents and analysts enjoying the limelight. Even the stock market couldn’t seem to make up its mind what it wanted, shares fluctuating wildly, some suggesting it might need to close temporarily.

  Despite the chaos around him, Anderson felt more relaxed than he had for days, able to actually have a conversation with Charlotte without worrying as to whether someone might be listening in or having the police suddenly barge through the door. It was proving to be the most dramatic Election Day he could remember, Americans always having to do everything to an extreme.

  Anderson tried to see it from McDowell’s perspective: communications and intelligence would be the most basic requirements, plus somewhere secure. Without a proper base he would have to settle for second-best, the situation now potentially far more dyn
amic and complex than in the past. Live images and data could presumably be pulled from the police or other friendly agencies, communications perhaps even using the same piggy-back route.

  Of course, McDowell might already be sunning himself in Hawaii, a blonde on one arm, a brunette on the other. Special Agent Flores was still tasked with the search for McDowell, the success of Terrill apparently outweighing the means by which it was achieved. With nothing else to go on, Flores had agreed with Anderson’s premise that McDowell would likely be here in Washington, much closer to the action than he had been in Terrill, wanting to complete his task.

  A brief word to Flores, and Anderson jumped down from the FBI mobile command centre, walking up Fourth Street towards the National Mall. The FBI jacket made him feel a little self-conscious but he wanted to get a better sense of what was happening around the Capitol, needing to suck in the atmosphere and maybe gain inspiration.

  He moved along Independence Avenue past First Street, the Capitol maybe two hundred yards away to the north-east. The protestors were busy organising their evening routine, preparing for a cold and uncomfortable night, the hundreds of tents a multi-coloured sign as to people’s anger and frustration. The FBI estimated that around twenty thousand were aiming to stay the night, a second day of protest planned for the morning, few doubting the organisers’ claim that more than a million demonstrators would throng the Mall by midday. Thorn was apparently spending the night at a local hotel, with the D.C. police supplementing his own security arrangements.

  Anderson turned and looked up at the buildings behind him, wondering if McDowell was somewhere close by. It was only by being close to the Capitol that you could have any real sense as to the demonstrators’ mood, McDowell surely needing to judge how they would react to a specific stimulus.