The Rule Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 3)

by Christopher Read

  Alternatively, Deangelo could choose to bypass Congress and use his executive powers; the present session would soon be on a two week break either side of Thanksgiving before adjourning in early December, and at either point Deangelo would be able to make ‘recess appointments’. It wasn’t quite a permanent solution, only lasting until the end of the next session, but it was a trick all presidents adopted to counter an unpopular or dubious nomination, and Dick Thorn could easily fit into either category.

  Deangelo also needed to nominate a Vice-President and whoever it was would face a similarly difficult and tortuous passage through Congress, the timescale for the hearings likely to be closer to the four months for Nelson Rockefeller than the single day it had taken Bob Deangelo. Several Republicans were already decrying the haste with which Deangelo had been confirmed and any goodwill seemed to have been exhausted even before a single name had been hinted at. Whatever their standing or reputation, every aspect of Deangelo’s nominee would be scrutinised for some anomaly or exaggeration, many in Congress determined to make amends for their previous lack of circumspection.

  Jensen and the others stood respectfully as the President entered, Deangelo immediately waving them to sit back down. This first meeting might well set the tone for potentially the next two years and Jensen was desperate for it not to turn into a five-versus-one battle with him invariably on the losing side.

  Deangelo was surprisingly relaxed, starting with the mundane and keeping the discussion moving, prepared to cut people off if they diverged from the point at issue, and it took barely an hour to move on to the more contentious problem of China.

  “Admiral,” said Deangelo, glancing across the table at the CJCS, “I think it would help to have a brief summary of the situation in the South China Sea, and what military options are presently available should it be considered appropriate.”

  Admiral Adams nodded his thanks, keen to make sure a suitable military response was agreed as soon as possible. “China has continued to build up its forces in the area, with more of the Spratly Group at risk. Having taken West York, Thitu and Spratly Island itself, the North Danger Reef is an obvious next target: occupied to the north-east by the Philippines and the south-west by Vietnam, its capture would give China a good part of the northern edge of the Spratly Group. Purely in terms of naval power, Vietnam and the Philippines are outnumbered ten-to-one, and without U.S. support they stand no chance of stopping China.”

  Adams paused for a sip of water, allowing time for his key message to sink in. He had no doubt that China would keep snatching one barren reef at a time and it wasn’t just about the area’s natural resources; a third of the world’s shipping passed close to the Spratly Islands and China was determined to control the transition of each and every vessel. That desire could only be thwarted by the power of the U.S. Navy, Adams unwilling to simply sit back and watch Beijing grab whatever it wanted.

  Adams continued, “Reinforcements from Japan including the Ronald Reagan Strike Group and Task Force 76 will be in position north-west of Manila by early tomorrow evening; the Gerald Ford is also moving south and is presently north-east of the Paracel Islands. We will consequently be able to mount an effective air or missile attack on any Chinese facility within or bordering the South China Sea by 02:00 Monday; 15:00 local time. That will still give China another thirteen hours before the deadline to withdraw expires – perhaps then the Politburo will sit up and take notice.”

  Adams paused for breath and the President was quick to interrupt. “Relocating ships from Japan hasn’t created a different problem? We certainly can’t guarantee North Korea won’t side with China if it comes to a fight.”

  Dick Thorn responded before Adams, “We’re reinforcing with units from San Diego and elsewhere, Mr President; at the same time taking the opportunity to ensure we can respond to any new threat.” It was polite and to the point, Jensen sensing nothing of the previous tension between the two men. As Secretary of Defence, Thorn was second only to the President in his authority over America’s military; as Secretary of State, he had often been far from the power base of Washington and with little chance to directly influence domestic events or military policy – now he would rarely be more than one time zone away.

  With Deangelo’s concerns seemingly answered, Adams continued with his review. “Task Force 76 will increase the total marine complement to over three thousand and the retaking of any of the Spratly Islands should be a relatively simple task; however, in order to keep our own casualties to an absolute minimum we would need to use overwhelming force – that would make it very costly for the defenders.”

  “The Vietnamese and Philippine losses,” interrupted Secretary of State Burgess, “do we have any figures?”

  There was an awkward silence, Burgess almost seeming to suggest that China should be paid back in kind for what it had set in motion.

  “Thirty-three killed on Thitu Island,” replied Thorn. “Six on West York. Vietnam has given no official figure for Spratly Island, but we estimate somewhere between fifty and a hundred.”

  Burgess didn’t pursue it and Admiral Adams brought his update to a close by voicing the Joint Chiefs’ view, if not quite a recommendation. “Any military response will inevitably involve Chinese casualties; individually, the islands and reefs are all low-value targets, some relatively well defended, some not – a few almost too easy. Sometimes we need to think about the delivery as well as the message itself.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.” Deangelo pursed his lips thoughtfully, the others waiting whilst he worked out where next to direct the discussion. “Do we have anything more on the search for this submarine that sank the USS Milius?”

  “Nothing I’m afraid, Sir,” responded Adams. “It could easily take several more days, especially if the weather is poor. There’s also been a Chinese frigate sniffing around which hasn’t helped.”

  “Very well,” said Deangelo, his mind made up. “Our action will be purely as a response to China taking over three more of the Spratly Islands. We’re going through the motions at the U.N. and together with our allies in the region putting together a set of suitable sanctions; Russia is also urging a boycott of Chinese goods although there’s no evidence they intend to shut off the gas pipeline into China. Personally, I’m not prepared to wait for a month or even a week; if the deadline is ignored there will be some form of military retaliation for China’s actions. Admiral, I know the Joint Chiefs have various alternatives in mind…”

  Adams didn’t need any further encouragement, the specifics and relative pros and cons of four increasingly punitive choices gone through in detail, the number of U.S. casualties varying from zero to potentially as many as a hundred. It quickly became clear that the first option was a non-starter, dismissed out of hand by the President as too weak a response; Jensen started to promote the second alternative, ably supported by Ellen Ravich and to some extent Woodward. Adams, Burgess and Thorn all argued for something far more dramatic, emphasising that China would only see sense once America proved its superiority.

  The discussion broadened, China’s potential response debated, the American public’s blessing – or otherwise – of concern but not a deciding factor. There was never any suggestion that it would come down to a vote, Deangelo merely seeking a range of opinions before he made the final decision.

  To Jensen’s relief and Thorn’s silent disapproval, the President chose the second of the Joint Chiefs’ proposals, China to be given an additional few hours grace just in case there was a belated change of heart. Yet no-one around the table really believed the Politburo would accede to America’s demands. Deangelo had staked his reputation on standing up to China and Beijing had set in motion a vicious vendetta from which neither side could easily escape with honour intact.

  * * *

  “I’m gonna throw up,” groaned Carter, pulling a face. “Get me a bloody bucket.”

  “Use the bin by your foot,” Anderson replied without sounding at all sympathetic. “Fai
ling that, try to avoid the computer – I find it works better without sick all over it.”

  Carter reached down for the wastepaper bin and held it on his lap, looking white-faced but not actually being sick. It was barely five days since he’d taken a bullet in the back and by rights he should still be lying in a hospital bed being pumped full of drugs, a sympathetic nurse at his beck and call. Still, considering what he had been involved in, two out of three wasn’t bad: the nurse might actually be an FBI agent but the drugs were no different, and exchanging a hospital bed for a computer chair was surely better that the threatened alternative of a prison cell.

  Making use of McDowell’s abandoned base at Terrill had been Flores’ idea: secluded, excellent facilities, good road network, close to D.C. – if the farmhouse and its outbuildings were good enough for McDowell, then the FBI would be foolish to simply let it gather dust, even if it was just temporary. The computer centre had already been patched into the FBI’s main network and Flores was impatient to make sure everything was working effectively. From his team of eight, at least three agents would provide security overnight, Anderson and Carter the only ones to actually call Terrill home. Flores had even managed to get Anderson’s passport and other belongings released from the quagmire of FBI bureaucracy, his laptop still in one piece, camera working just fine.

  Carter’s return to Terrill had been confirmed only once an agreement of sorts had first been thrashed out, the promise of a lighter sentence traded for his help in the gathering of evidence against his former employers. Not that Carter had so far offered up any names, sticking rigidly to his story that he had simply followed McDowell’s orders. The plan now was for Carter to retrace his every action over the past three months, with a list of internet searches made, networks hacked into, details of files copied and modified. Somewhere in that mass of data might be the one clue that would reveal McDowell’s next move or conclusively prove Dick Thorn’s guilt; maybe even Deangelo’s innocence. There were no guarantees as to whether it would actually be worthwhile, but at least it potentially offered an insight into the complexity of the conspiracy, perhaps also identifying others who were actively involved.

  Once Flores had reinforced the rules as to Carter’s special status, it became clear that Anderson’s consultancy role included that of chaperone, it down to him to try and get something constructive out of Carter. If Flores anticipated that their shared nationality would somehow create an immediate rapport, then he was very much mistaken; to Anderson, Carter was as much to blame as McDowell for the trauma of the past – he might not have been present when people had died, but he was equally guilty nonetheless, a dozen deaths on his conscience in the last week alone.

  Allowing Carter access to a computer also seemed a very high-risk strategy and even though every tap on the screen and keystroke would be monitored, Anderson didn’t doubt he would find some way around it. It was a gamble Flores was happy to take and having Carter permanently based at Terrill was also a form of bait, it always possible that McDowell wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to try and contact his prize asset. With the farmhouse fully-alarmed and several armed agents never more than a room away, anything more adventurous would be a mistake. McDowell wasn’t an idiot and it didn’t take much intuition to realise Terrill was potentially a set-up. Carter had already commented as much and in reality, both he and Flores were simply waiting to see who would renege on the agreement first, neither man with any high expectations of the other.

  Since the facility’s seizure on the Monday, the forensic and computer experts had tried to learn what they could, Terrill unwilling to give up its secrets easily; it had certainly given no hint as to McDowell’s future plans and so far the FBI was struggling to pin anything conclusive on any of those arrested there, other than Carter. Their case had been taken up by a respected Washington law firm, money seemingly no object, the legality of the arrest already under scrutiny. Even to Anderson it seemed an odd way to exact justice: one FBI agent had been killed in the attack on Terrill and the fact McDowell’s associates were arguing that they were the injured party was manifestly perverse, their lawyers quick to claim that the FBI hadn’t correctly identified themselves.

  Now even Carter was being treated with kid gloves, his initial enthusiasm for his new task inexorably turning into one of grudging co-operation, the sporadic memory loss blamed on the drugs or lack of caffeine, even the presence of the FBI. Patience, civility, empathy – Anderson had tried his best but a couple of hours was all he could manage before a form of impatient pessimism had finally prevailed, coercion and bullying the obvious next step.

  Carter well knew he was facing multiple charges, including terrorism and accessory to murder; however, none of it seemed to convince him that it was time to co-operate fully and he claimed to know nothing of significance: no idea as to where McDowell or his two remaining accomplices – Martin Lavergne and Lee Preston – might be, no clue as to McDowell’s next move. The concept of there being someone higher up the chain of command than McDowell, or with the money to fund it all, was invariably met with a blank look, it not part of Carter’s well-rehearsed cover story. A lighter sentence still depended upon his willingness to come up with something worthwhile and two weeks was about as long as Flores’ patience was likely to last, the name of McDowell’s FBI source the bare minimum he would settle for.

  Anderson was similarly minded to give his new role some sort of time-limit, a fortnight maybe, definitely no more than a month. He had already broken one promise to Charlotte, her calm acceptance of him staying in the U.S. not a particularly good sign. Blaming the Department of Justice inquiry had seemed a good move if a little unfair, Anderson coerced into revealing more about the dramatic events of the past few days than had seemed wise. Even with Charlotte, he had stuck with his opinionated view that McDowell was still somewhere close at hand, the power struggle in Washington not yet completely resolved.

  But maybe that was just Anderson being stubborn, unwilling to accept that McDowell might have escaped scot-free. Carter obviously knew far more than he was letting on and Anderson just needed to drag it out of him, preferably before Carter’s selective amnesia became terminal.

  Chapter 3 – Sunday, November 13th

  Washington, D.C. – 00:36 Local Time; 05:36 UTC

  A townhouse of three storeys, the building stood on a popular residential street close to Columbia Heights and its bars and restaurants; not that either of the house’s occupants had recently made much use of such diversions, Neil Ritter and his wife both too busy with the demands of work – Ritter as a Political Strategist, Karen as an attorney in the Department of Justice.

  The house was in almost complete darkness, the only light that filtering in from the street outside. Ritter sat alone in the living room, toying with a cold beer, finding it hard not to worry, the complex events of the past months weighing heavily on his mind. Ritter had gone straight from Cornell University into the U.S. Foreign Service, a dozen years spent mostly in South-East Asia; then it was back to New York with his new bride to help the Democrats plan their election campaign. D.C. was next, Ritter’s experience and contacts ensuring he was always in demand. In his line of work reputation was everything and so far he had managed to match perception with a hefty dose of luck, quickly building up an impressive client list.

  Almost by default Ritter had become the one person both Deangelo and Thorn were prepared to trust, their passion and rhetoric convincing Ritter as to the legitimacy of their cause. Since early December he had acted as liaison between the American side of the conspiracy and its billionaire backers, trips to London and Moscow finalising the precise means and the relatively inflexible timetable. To begin with Ritter had been somewhat blasé as to the risks, his occasional meetings with Pat McDowell adding a certain excitement to his day, the two men getting on better than Ritter had anticipated. Only in the last few weeks had he fully appreciated the dangers, the confidential nature of his assignment obvious, the murders blamed on McD
owell and his associates not part of any agreement Ritter was aware of.

  Somehow he had managed to convince himself that such sacrifices were justified, a necessary evil to ensure Deangelo’s place in history; then had come the deaths in the National Mall, followed soon after by a news update from London, the British police only now starting to release the names of six people murdered at a house in the village of Bray. The first name was the only one Ritter had recognised, his brain struggling to accept it, the fear that it had everything to do with McDowell difficult to ignore.

  Yang Kyung-Jae: without Yang the conspiracy would have faltered at the first hurdle, his imagination and drive invariably persuasive, his influence and financial muscle helping ensure money was never a problem. Now someone had chosen to break that link, Ritter desperately wanting to understand who and why. And if a key figure like Yang was judged to be expendable, then could any of them ever be considered truly safe?

  Certainly not Ritter. It was just five hours since he had met with Mayor Henry and Ritter had returned home close to despair, Henry all-too obviously motivated by self-interest, his true regard for Ritter now verging on contempt.

  The degree of secrecy involving the cabal had led to various levels of understanding and Henry was firmly in the second tier: he might sense a far wider conspiracy but it was never admitted and Ritter had always regarded him as something of a loose cannon. Yet the Mayor’s very public support for Thorn and the implicit co-operation of D.C.’s Chief of Police, Sean Kovak, had been an essential ingredient in the conspiracy’s success, Henry’s reward the promise of a future Cabinet position. In six years he might even hope for something better, the ease with which Deangelo had crept into power proving that anything was possible. Or maybe he would continue to ride on Dick Thorn’s coat-tails, the latter’s high public profile and popularity likely to make him the Presidential front runner once Deangelo’s tenure in the White House had ended, whatever the elder Democrats might want.