They circled back round in a wide arc, lining up for a second mock attack. The radar plot revealed the Hornets racing in from the south-east, two angling towards the J-15 fighters, the second pair heading for the Chinese destroyer.
The six aircraft weaved through the sky, one of the Hornets practising a low-level attack against the destroyer before pulling sharply away. It was all becoming a dangerous game of chicken, the likelihood of a mistake increasing with every risky manoeuvre.
Abruptly, the J-15s turned north, their presence more of a provocation than a threat. A pair of Hornets started to follow before abandoning the chase, their message duly noted and understood.
The tension in the CIC noticeably eased and even though the Benfold had received a reprieve, Tanner wasn’t certain the Galene would be allowed to complete her task. Vaughn was generous enough to seek Tanner’s opinion before consulting with his superiors, the fact they had found the submarine surely counting for something.
Twenty minutes later, Tanner had his answer – the Galene still fully employed, Commander Vaughn’s persuasive abilities eventually winning through. China had tried to intimidate and bully, determined not to share the submarine’s secrets; now it was simply a race to the finish.
Beijing – 18:49 Local time; 10:49 UTC
The small restaurant was on a narrow lane close to the shopping magnet that was Qianmen Street, the tourists still spending their money after first stopping off at one of the many other attractions no more than a few minutes’ walk away. The Forbidden City, Tiananmen Square and the Temple of Heaven – there were a dozen or more essential highlights within a kilometre for Beijing’s millions of visitors to enjoy, the scores of bars and restaurants seemingly always busy, whatever the hour.
General Liang ignored the main restaurant area and took the steep stairs up to the third floor. He knew he was being watched every step of the way but there was no concern written on his face – after all, some of the watchers were his people, each of them well aware of the implicit dangers of the next few hours. In a world so close to war, it was necessary to take the occasional risk, this merely the first of four such meetings planned for the days ahead.
Liang followed a narrow corridor to a room at the rear. Two guards stood outside; neither were Liang’s men, one more Caucasian than Chinese, their guns still as yet hidden. It was a clear sign that lack of trust remained a key issue, the mistakes of the past impossible to ignore; nevertheless, Liang’s very presence here proved a commitment of sorts had been made.
As to whether that would be enough was unclear. No promises had been given or asked for, Liang having no idea as to the identity or even the number of those tasked to join him there. Not that it mattered and the Politburo was fully prepared to negotiate with anyone, even the Americans, if it were to China’s advantage. While many in the Politburo remained unconvinced as to the wisdom of such talks, they were willing to delay judgement, Liang an obvious scapegoat should it all turn out badly.
One of the guards held the door open as Liang approached, a respectful nod a far more encouraging sign that the anticipated body search. He entered a small room, discreet lighting revealing beige walls broken-up by carved wooden panels. In its centre stood a circular table with just two chairs, a long cabinet the only other item of furniture.
Liang moved to stand behind one of the chairs, impatient to begin and trusting that he wouldn’t be kept waiting for long. It was barely a minute before he heard the tap of a cane along the corridor outside and a portly man crossed the threshold, breathing heavily as he struggled into the nearest chair. He barely even glanced at Liang, more concerned with getting himself comfortable, the cane delicately balanced against the edge of the table.
The normal business etiquette involving introductions also seemed to have been abandoned and Liang simply sat down, waiting whilst the other man recovered from his exertions. Mid-sixties, his features suggested he would be more at home in Ulaanbaatar than Beijing, the Mongolian influence confirmed as soon as he spoke.
“My apologies, General Liang; my body and stairs are not compatible at the best of times.” He sucked in a wheezing breath before continuing, “My name is Dagvyn Sharav, sometime entrepreneur and arms dealer. I’m told your colleagues in the Ministry of State Security have a rather thick file on me; sadly, most of it is true, although these days I live a rather more sedate existence.” He finished with a spate of coughing, silk handkerchief pressed to his lips.
Liang felt a strange sense of rapport with his new adversary, immediately liking the man and knowing that he would be foolish to underestimate Sharav. Yet he hadn’t the time to waste on pleasantries, needing to know how much influence Sharav might actually wield.
“I’m grateful for the introduction,” said Liang with a polite smile. “But I’m more concerned as to whether you are the man with the power to strike a permanent deal.”
Sharav pulled a second brightly coloured handkerchief from his pocket, cleaning the thick lenses of his spectacles before choosing to answer, his every action slow and deliberate. “I have no such power, General. I listen and make suitable recommendations; that is all. We are the same in that respect, no?”
“Perhaps,” replied Liang. “I at least have come with some specific proposals to put on the table.” He struggled to keep his frustration in check, unhappy that yet another layer of diplomacy would delay any chance of real progress. “You are not quite what I expected,” he said, instantly regretting his choice of words.
Sharav had managed to control his heaving chest, able now to smile at Liang’s discomfiture. “An overweight, half-blind and rheumatic Mongolian – in your shoes, I’d be disappointed too.” The words came in short rushed phrases, Sharav still struggling to breathe. “No doubt you anticipated a professional diplomat or a high-level politician, someone who would listen politely while you promised the impossible; I’m not even the right nationality.” Sharav’s crooked smile grew ever wider, “That’s what makes me the ideal negotiator. I have no preconceptions, no prejudice as to what is right or fair; if it is a good deal, then I will simply say so. And the fact Beijing is desperate to find some form of agreement would seem to put my clients at a distinct advantage.”
“We both have to sell any agreement to a sceptical audience,” said Liang. “If either side is seen to have lost face then we are wasting each other’s time. Compromise can be a way forward to something far greater, where both parties are seen to have won something worthwhile.”
“Well said, General,” Sharav acknowledged with a smile, “but please spare me the rousing speeches. Let’s just focus on what the Politburo is prepared to offer.”
Liang eased himself back in his chair, getting himself comfortable for the long haul of bluster and debate. China desperately needed to reduce the number of threats arrayed against it but not at any cost. Some in Beijing expected little more than a second-rate agreement that could be passed off as a historic victory, however improbable, and the media were well used to twisting a story to best advantage. Yet Liang knew that still wouldn’t be enough to persuade the many doubters in the Politburo and he needed far more from Sharav and his clients than China had any right to expect.
It was the best part of three hours before the debate moved away from the abstract and on towards an uncertain future. Sharav’s influence over those who would make the key decisions was debatable but Liang was regaining his optimism of earlier, impressed by Sharav’s grasp of the geopolitical nuances of even a minor concession.
If it ever came to anything worthwhile, then it would be a compromise where both sides would be willing to take the risk despite knowing that they had given far too much in exchange. If their respective masters followed the line of argument and prevarication, then the greater the chance it would all come to nothing, and whatever agreement Sharav and Liang might hammer out between them could easily be overtaken by events elsewhere.
For Liang this was just the first stage of the Politburo’s complex strategy to blunt the
various threats, other equally difficult promises needing to be made. Ultimate success would depend on Beijing’s ability to meddle outside of China’s borders, and at the very least they had to delay the threatened squeeze from both north and south.
Liang had his own more personal doubts, wondering whether it was self-interest or cowardice to want to avoid a fight. He was not someone who had ever experienced war, but he was sensitive enough to abhor such needless sacrifice. If he could save a hundred lives that would be something; if he could save a thousand then that would be a miracle.
Eastern United States – 08:00 Local Time; 13:00 UTC
The two car convoy set off exactly at eight: two black SUVs, no markings. Anderson led with Carter in the passenger seat handcuffed to the door, a week’s supply of pain killers and other drugs stuffed into his jacket pockets – Anderson would have let Carter take his chances but Flores had been more amenable, even resisting the temptation to add in a tracking device.
An anxious Flores followed in the second car, another agent driving. Five more unmarked vehicles were in position in and around Washington, everyone impatient to discover exactly where the exchange would take place; even if McDowell dragged out revealing the final location then each text sent could be traced back to specific cell towers, perhaps giving Flores’ team a few minutes advantage, time enough to get some more agents into place.
They had to assume that McDowell was in turn tracking them, Flores not willing to risk his wife’s life with some misjudgement or a stupid mistake. He had dealt with several hostage situations and not all had ended happily, patience an essential ingredient for success. Not an easy ask under the circumstances, Flores having no choice but to rely upon Anderson to play his part, McDowell seeming to have more faith in him than anyone from the FBI – or perhaps he would just be less of a problem should the shit actually hit the fan.
The traffic on Interstate 95 was typically heavy for the time of day, Anderson not too sure whether McDowell had made allowances for such problems or even if it mattered. For the first stretch Carter tried making conversation but he quickly gave up once it became clear Anderson wasn’t interested and the rest of the journey towards the Potomac was made in relative silence. Contact with Flores was via an earpiece and lapel microphone, Anderson also wearing the essential of a bullet-proof vest. He perhaps should have waited until the actual exchange before putting it on but Anderson was wary of McDowell doing the unexpected, worried that the SUV might suddenly find itself rammed or blocked in.
For once, McDowell had decided to stick to the script, the journey north a routine rush-hour crawl with it taking almost two hours before the Pentagon appeared to the left, the bridge over the Potomac straight ahead.
“Follow 395 onto 695,” announced Flores’ voice in Anderson’s ear.
“395 onto 695,” Anderson repeated. The route meant nothing to him, the satnav indicating that they would be turning east towards the Washington Navy Yard. He was having to concentrate hard, a quick glimpse in the mirror showing that Flores was still on his tail.
“Exit 2B for 295 north.”
Anderson could feel the stress beginning to build, uncomfortable with having to make belated changes into the correct lane. If Flores had worked out where they were going then he wasn’t letting on, the phone trace likely to confirm that someone was following close behind. The freeway couldn’t seem to make up its mind how many lanes it wanted to be, vehicles continually merging from the left, the signs seeming to suggest either Pennsylvania Avenue or Andrews Air Force Base.
The west exit came and went, the traffic now much lighter than before. Anderson kept his speed as near fifty as he could, the road taking them north-east, following the Anacostia River.
“It’s Kenilworth Park,” muttered Flores. “Take the Burroughs Avenue exit, then Deane Avenue through the park.”
Anderson did as he was told, using the satnav as a guide, the park’s access road scything through the park, acres of flat and open ground to the right, ideal for a few games of football.
A final instruction from Flores and Anderson pulled over onto the grass, the second SUV halting directly behind. Flores immediately jumped out, striding across to help Anderson get Carter out into the open, keen to emphasise to those watching that he was sticking to his part of the bargain. The park area looked to be virtually empty, the sky overcast with a crisp breeze making it feel distinctly cold.
Anderson stood and nervously scanned the treeline to the north: there were some three hundred yards of open ground before the first scattering of trees and beyond them the Anacostia River. The exchange was supposed to follow the classic pattern and take place roughly in the centre of the play area – just Anderson, Carter, McDowell and Rachel Flores.
“Let’s get on with it,” encouraged Flores, gesturing at Anderson to help Carter. The latter was already looking a little pasty, right hand resting on the SUV for support, no apparent need for handcuffs.
A reluctant Anderson grabbed Carter’s left arm, guiding him forward, the two of them trudging towards the far-off trees. Flores and the second agent waited beside the two SUVs, both using binoculars to scan the park to the north, their FBI jackets a warning to any casual observer that something unusual was happening. To both left and right, even behind them, was a swathe of open ground before a belt of close packed trees – certainly plenty of cover for a sniper.
That was just one aspect of many that worried Anderson about the whole sorry experience. Lavergne had already proved he could hit a moving human target at four hundred yards and he found himself checking for the tell-tale laser dot on his chest; not that Lavergne would make it that obvious, especially if it seemed likely the FBI might be shooting back.
Carter was finding it hard going: the ground might be grass-covered and flat but today was the first time he’d walked more than ten yards since he’d been shot. Anderson slowed, their pace now barely a shuffle.
They were close to halfway to the treeline. Away to the right a woman was walking her dog, a couple of joggers further on. If any of them thought it odd to see two men – one in a bullet-proof vest, the other obviously ill – walking at a snail’s pace towards nowhere in particular, then they politely didn’t give them a second glance. Maybe all three were FBI, some of the other agents surely having had enough time to have reached the park; the addition of a dog was an unexpected if clever ploy, or maybe Anderson was just being overly hopeful.
“That’s far enough,” said Flores’ voice in his ear. Anderson stopped and studied the trees opposite, finally noticing two figures striding out from away to his left; one all too obviously was McDowell, his six-foot four frame dwarfing Flores’ wife.
Carter seemed to perk up immediately, his back straightening, a smile of relief touching his lips. Anderson merely watched in silence, trying not to say something he might later regret. One consolation was that McDowell’s bruises looked worse than Anderson’s and he was walking more stiffly than usual. Rachel Flores seemed to be holding up well, a little dishevelled but no sign she’d been hurt, hands not even tied.
McDowell halted some ten feet away, giving a brief nod of welcome to Carter. “You’re looking better than I thought possible, Jon; I’m pleased to see Mike’s been taking good care of you.”
Anderson interrupted before Carter could respond. “Let’s just make the exchange,” he said harshly. “That’s what we’re all here for.”
“Of course, Mike,” McDowell said, an amused edge to his voice, “I know the rules. I was just hoping we could discuss something of mutual benefit to both of us.”
“He’s up to something,” muttered Flores, sounding agitated. “Remember why you’re here.”
Anderson was finding it difficult coping with McDowell let alone having Flores whispering instructions in his ear and he pulled the earpiece out in frustration. “Rachel first; then if you want to explain why you’re murdering the odd politician, I’m all ears.”
McDowell gave Anderson a thoughtful look as though
working out whether to comply. “No tricks, Mike; that vest won’t do you any good if Lavergne goes for a head shot.”
Anderson hardly needed the pointed reminder. “Just stop fucking around and let Rachel Flores go,” he said, eyes warily watching McDowell’s every move.
McDowell acknowledged Anderson’s words with a shrug, gently pushing Flores’ wife forward, trusting in Anderson to follow suit.
For a brief moment Anderson hesitated, then he released Carter’s arm. Rachel somehow stopped herself from running and Anderson gestured at her to keep walking towards the two SUVs. Carter instantly made a dramatic recovery, striding out to join McDowell, a glance back and a broad smile merely another annoyance to Anderson.
McDowell kept his greeting to a minimum, whispering quickly to Carter, the latter responding in kind, his expression slowly returning to one of concern. Finally he stood a pace back from McDowell looking uncomfortable, hands thrust into his jeans.
Anderson also needed to put his trust in someone else; not just McDowell but also Ray Flores, and the only thing stopping the FBI from trying to apprehend McDowell was the threat that Anderson’s future wellbeing would be at risk.
“I regret needing to involve Flores’ wife,” McDowell said quietly. “Make sure he understands that.”
Anderson glanced behind him to check that Rachel had reached safety before answering. “At least she’s better off than Karen Ritter,” he said, choosing to be petty. “Did you regret killing her?”
McDowell stayed silent, a brief hint of annoyance showing in his eyes. Anderson duly noted the fact, pleased that at least he’d got some sort of reaction. “I think we’re done here,” he said curtly, turning to leave.
“Two names,” said McDowell quickly. “Between them, they’ll give you everything you want. Just drop all charges against Jon; the rest of us will take our chances.”
The Rule Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 3) Page 11
