The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2)

by Christopher Read

  Cavanagh let out a sigh, his wife gripping his hand in sympathy. He could visualise the scene in Congress, with Deangelo getting ready to take the oath of office as Vice President of the United States. Tradition dictated that it was the Chief Justice who administered the oath of office to the President-elect, but for a Vice-President it was a much more relaxed affair, and nowadays they tended to pick close friends and associates. The location, however, was rather more traditional, with the Vice-President reciting the oath on the west front terrace of the Capitol – that would now prove difficult with Thorn and his supporters standing just yards away on the lower terrace.

  The picture from CNN flipped to the view of the terrace as seen from the west, the presenter talking through the momentous events of the day as the camera panned back across the National Mall, before roaming at will to show people settling down for a second night. The unrest of earlier had passed, the police securing the area east of the Capitol without the need for tear gas.

  Cavanagh sensed his wife crying silently beside him and he held her close, a strange sense of desolation seeming to settle over them. The White House was never really their home, more of a temporary refuge. Cavanagh had modestly expected four years and hoped for eight; now he would have to settle for just two.

  The image from CNN re-focused on the steps leading down from the Capitol’s west front, zooming in to show Mayor Henry apparently leading three others down to the lower terrace, the D.C. police acting both as escort and a protective barrier.

  Cavanagh couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, CNN confirming the identities of those accompanying the Mayor: Bob Deangelo, his wife, and Judge Gerald Sanderson.

  The protestors closest to the terrace quickly recognised Deangelo and they started to jeer, only to be silenced with a wave by Thorn who somewhat hesitantly strode across to the microphone.

  “Everyone,” Thorn pleaded, the speakers carrying his voice across the Mall, “let’s give Bob Deangelo a chance. He has asked to speak to you all and I believe it’s important that we listen to what he has to say.”

  Deangelo nodded his thanks, and moved to the microphone, his wife and Judge Sanderson standing to either side.

  “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to say a few words on what has been a very difficult and emotional day for us all. We have seen blood spilt just yards from where Congress has sat in an emergency session; Dick Thorn stands beside me now with his arm bandaged, and the bravery and resolve shown by everyone in the Mall has been truly remarkable.”

  There was a smattering of applause but Deangelo quickly held up his hand to indicate he had far more to say. “Indeed the presence of so many of you here today is proof of the genuine strength of feeling that is shared by millions across America, and I understand your sense of frustration with the state of democracy in our great nation. We have all been concerned by the decisions taken by the present Administration, and the lack of support offered to our friends and allies in the South China Sea. Dick Thorn has been a faithful servant to the United States, and as Secretary of State has flown twenty times around the world to ensure we stayed safe in our beds. No-one could have asked for more.”

  He turned aside and held out his hand in thanks to Thorn, the two of them shaking hands to a renewed and more expansive surge of applause.

  Deangelo moved back to the microphone. “I stand before you all to make a public commitment; a simple affirmation that the United States does have the vision and strength of will to live up to its birthright as a great superpower. I will not make promises and then ignore them; I will not ignore the pleas of our loyal allies; I will not let others believe they can threaten or try to blackmail the United States without fear of retribution. We must not be afraid to show the world that we are a good friend and a fierce enemy, a nation with the courage to carry us through the difficult times, safe in the knowledge that our cause is just. There should be no reason to feel ashamed to say you are an American, every reason to be proud of what this great country stands for… God bless these United States of America.”

  Deangelo stepped back a pace and Judge Sanderson moved quickly to the microphone, the crowd staying silent, most people confused as to what was happening.

  Deangelo’s wife stepped forward, holding out a bible; a smile of thanks and Deangelo placed his left hand down onto it, Thorn’s presence just feet away a clear sign to everyone that the ceremony had his full backing.

  “Please raise your right hand,” announced Judge Sanderson, “and repeat after me.” Sanderson then read out the whole oath in one go, not bothering to separate it into small chunks.

  A brief nod and Deangelo stepped up to the microphone, speaking slowly and with emphasis, his deep voice booming out over the National Mall. “I, Robert Michael Deangelo, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.”

  There was sustained applause, led by Thorn, the two men again shaking hands. Together they turned to face the Mall, Deangelo taking hold of Thorn’s left hand, and with arms raised they stood together in a clear, almost blatant, gesture of mutual respect and support.

  Cavanagh watched in silence, wanting to scream loudly, but fearing to show any emotion lest he completely lose control. By the strict definition of a coup, then this wasn’t an illegal seizure of power, but it was difficult not to regard it as such. He had thought Deangelo a friend, but Cavanagh realised that he had just been a gullible fool. The apparent alliance between Deangelo and Thorn wasn’t a spontaneous gesture to appease the protestors; this had to be part of some previous agreement. Deangelo, Thorn, Henry, and McDowell – they had each played their part to perfection, the separate elements that made up the conspiracy now all too obvious.

  Cavanagh definitely didn’t have until Christmas; probably not even a week left as President – Deangelo had already set his heart on the main prize and he wouldn’t be patient for long.

  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 hu
ndreds 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 certainly 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 unfortu
nate 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.