Sukhov’s most immediate concern lay not with China but the city of Astrakhan some thirteen hundred kilometres south-east of Moscow: Russia’s secessionists might be defeated but one very potent danger still remained. If the dissenting voice had been anyone other than General Morozov, then he and his few remaining troops could have been left bottled up outside Astrakhan until the spring. With Morozov, that would be too much of a risk, the army’s allegiance not secure until the General was dead.
Dissent amongst the military was sporadic and the majority of Russia’s armed forces seemed content not to choose sides, only doing so when forced to become directly involved. The 58th Army of Georgia fame had shown the difficulties the President faced, with some of its units joining Morozov, others staying loyal. Their base north of the Caucasus Mountains was now a Golubeva enclave in what was effectively hostile territory, with even the civilian population of dubious allegiance. The major routes south from Volgograd towards Georgia and Azerbaijan, and east from Elista towards Astrakhan, were presently impassable, other roads in Astrakhan Oblast only safe during daylight hours and in sufficient force. General Morozov was proving adept at making the most of his small numbers – no more than a thousand men, probably closer to five hundred. Astrakhan and its population of half-a-million somehow remained aloof from the conflict, the mayor managing a clever balancing act; the city wasn’t quite a no-go area for the military and Astrakhan’s small naval facility had already chosen to side with Morozov.
The General had twice managed to evade Russia’s Special Forces and Golubeva wanted the problem resolved before Russia started to press China from the north. Yet it wouldn’t be easy, the army needing to commit a large number of troops to have any hope of quickly completing the task. Loyal units were presently being transferred from the Central Military District, Sukhov concerned as to the wider implications and having to hope that the generals knew what they were doing.
Morozov’s allies included significant elements within Russia’s intelligence community, primarily the FSB, the Lubyanka Headquarters gradually being culled of its more unreliable elements. One officer in particular had been a constant thorn in the Government’s side, stirring up concern in the Federal Assembly and State Duma with images of the military build-up in the Far East. Major Markova was proving both persistent and elusive, the Lubyanka network apparently reaching out as far as Bolshoy Kamen, Markova’s confederates obviously far more than just one infirm FSB sergeant.
The interior troops of the MVD might have long since transformed into the National Guard of Russia, but the old inadequacies remained and they always seemed to be at least forty-eight hours behind Markova, it taking a combination of police persistence and teenage angst to redirect the search away from Vladivostok and towards Daniil Chavkin. The National Guard had reacted in their usual heavy-handed way, Chavkin bullied into revealing some of what had happened but terrified in case he said too much. It would take time to drag out exactly what he had told Markova and even though he was unlikely to have directly implicated the President, it had seemed prudent to allocate additional resources to assist the National Guard. It would be unhelpful for Markova to publicise Chavkin’s revelations but again not a disaster, the Kremlin braced to ridicule every accusation, Chavkin’s personal history and political affiliation already being manipulated to promote a more believable truth.
Russia’s military preparations against China were in the final stages, the key elements already in place, their strategy based on a rapid land grab south through Xinjiang and west from Vladivostok. Chinese immigrants had flooded into Russia’s Far East for decades, the population imbalance a serious threat to Russia’s security. Vladimir Putin had dallied with the concept of some Sino-Russian pact, but neither side had trusted the other enough for it to become a reality. Irina Golubeva was more mindful as to future dangers, and with each year that passed China was fast becoming the natural enemy of both Russia and the United States.
The Cold War might have been reignited with the annexation of Crimea and the conflict in the Baltic but Golubeva had worked hard to restore normal relations with the West. Publicly, America’s new Administration had distanced itself from supporting Russia, but support didn’t have to exist as some formal agreement – and Bob Deangelo seemed more than willing to play his part. Despite the Tomahawk attacks on Fiery Cross and Johnson South Reefs, America’s military commitment was still not yet sufficient to convince Golubeva that it was time to act; however, Beijing was conducting a very risky strategy and the assault on Vietnam was set to become a defining moment, the deaths of so many virtually certain to force Deangelo’s hand.
The analysts predicted it would be at most a week before the American public finally got their wish, the U.S. expected to launch a massive missile attack at key targets on the Chinese mainland. Then it would be Russia’s turn, China facing attack on at least two fronts, the various simulations indicating that Beijing would fold within a month.
A major unknown remained the attitude of North Korea: always difficult, threatening to plunge the world into a nuclear winter one minute and then offering eternal friendship the next, it was impossible to judge how Pyongyang would react. Their National Defence Commission was strangely silent on the unfolding crisis, North Korea apparently unwilling to antagonise Russia by publicly coming out in support of China. The economic and internal stresses of the past two decades had taken their toll but it would be foolish to underestimate North Korea’s military strength. Its relationship to China was complex, Beijing unhappy at the reputation of its ally but still wanting a suitable buffer; the two countries unquestionably shared fundamental national interests even if their means of achieving them was subtly different, China normally prepared to at least make some vague attempt at gentle persuasion. The U.S. – and indeed Russia – had ignored the problem of North Korea for far too long and future events would surely test the patience of their most inscrutable neighbour.
Once the G20 leaders had returned from Cologne then the battle over the Spratly Islands could resume apace. Even if they delayed their departure until the Friday, that would give Golubeva three days at most to finally deal with Morozov. And this time there could be no mistakes.
* * *
Markova had known their escape from Bolshoy Kamen was going to be difficult, the obvious choices of north and east needing to be avoided if at all possible with just one road in each direction snaking through the dense forest and mountain peaks. Markova’s alternative had been rather more convoluted, its sole advantage a clear route past the encircling police.
The Lada Niva remained in Bolshoy Kamen, its new owner presumably either stripping it for parts or changing its colour and registration plates. In exchange, they had experienced the gut-wrenching comfort of a small fishing boat, the vessel fighting its way west through a night-time storm and across the Ussuri Bay to pass south of Vladivostok; the Amur Bay was next, their trip some eighty-five kilometres in total, Markova and Nikolai eventually dropped close to the town of Slavyanka.
By early afternoon Nikolai had somehow acquired suitable transport, the six year-old black Volkswagen Tiguan speedy and comfortable, its four-wheel drive proving an essential option with snow sweeping down from an ominous-looking sky almost as soon as they had set off. There was virtually no traffic and the journey along the two-lane highway had been relatively stress-free, the road winding its way gently through the low mountains.
With China just twenty kilometres to the west and the North Korean border to the south, Russia’s military presence was a constant worry if not necessarily a threat; so far that had involved a lone helicopter flying low to the west and a line of ten army vehicles, heading south. Steep banks, rocky mountain slopes, innumerable rivers, bogs and forests: the local terrain offered its own protection against serious incursions from either side, and Russia’s forces were gathering much further to the north where the topography was rather less intimidating. The weather was hardly ideal for any invasion and by the end of the month the dai
ly high would be below freezing, with a fifty-fifty chance of snow.
The military build-up around Ussuriysk to the north would mean incessant road blocks and security checks, Markova still unsure how best to avoid them. It would be foolish to assume Chavkin had stayed silent and it wouldn’t take much to link the attack to the outsiders staying at the Laguna, their real identity unlikely to remain a secret for long. That meant their IDs were most likely worthless, their description sent to every police officer and security agent within a thousand kilometres. With all local civilian flights grounded because of the crisis, it would be a long crawl back to safety, Markova not even sure where exactly that might be. Nikolai was increasingly determined to push the General Morozov option, the lure of Astrakhan and the Caucasus beginning to look the only sensible alternative.
Markova felt she had certainly done more than enough to gain the General’s trust. Better too that he should be the one to decide how best to profit from what they had learnt, the implications far too complex for someone who had barely slept in forty-eight hours. Chavkin had made no specific mention of Golubeva, but Sukhov and the Commander of Russia’s Pacific Fleet had clearly been part of the project from the very beginning. The involvement of Valeri Karenin was of unclear significance, Markova needing to listen again to Chavkin’s revelations, every whispered word and strangled plea recorded on an audio file.
Each time she heard it, there was always the thought of what would she have done if Chavkin had lied or played for time. Would she really have let his son be mutilated just to satisfy her personal quest? The fear was that she would have done so without a moment’s hesitation and she had no doubt Nikolai would have followed her orders without any qualms of conscience. Necessity and morality were often uneasy allies, and Golubeva’s Russia had left little place for sentiment, Markova with her own scores to settle.
A copy of the audio file had been sent to Morozov whilst they had still been in Bolshoy Kamen, the satellite phone often their only viable link to the outside world. Russia’s satellite intelligence network was second to none and each brief call became a calculated risk, a safer alternative rapidly climbing up their list of priorities. Cash, food, fuel – their resources were increasingly limited, Markova with no clear plan other than that of trying to reach the urban sprawl of Khabarovsk.
The VW bucked suddenly, Markova’s thoughts jerked back to the present as Nikolai fought to keep the car under control, the road icing up under the continued onslaught of sleet and snow. The car slid to a stop just off the highway, the lethal combination of encroaching darkness and foul weather persuading Nikolai that it was time to reconsider their options.
Despite the lack of traffic, it seemed unwise to simply spend the night parked beside the highway and after a short break Nikolai pulled the car round, heading back the way they had come. Five minutes later, he turned right onto an unmarked track heading west, it quickly narrowing to barely a car’s width. Another three kilometres and Markova called a halt, the weather and night closing in around them to offer a dubious element of privacy.
They had food and a couple of blankets, past experience proving that Nikolai could sleep anywhere, Markova finding it harder not to dwell on the dangers ahead. It surely couldn’t be long before Russia was at war, Golubeva manipulating events with little concern as to the thousands that would die as a consequence. Markova might not be able to stop her but nor was she prepared to be just a passive observer, determined at least to try and make a difference. However she looked at it, General Morozov seemed to offer the only genuine hope for Russia, his own future survival perhaps even more tenuous than Markova’s.
Terrill, U.S.A. – 15:04 Local Time; 20:04 UTC
The repercussions of the previous day seemed significantly more extreme than Anderson had anticipated and for some unknown reason both he and Flores were taking the fall, Anderson’s temporary contract terminated, Flores ordered to take two week’s leave. The base at Terrill was also a casualty, most of the agents already re-assigned, the computer centre due to returned to its pre-FBI state the following morning.
Anderson was allowed one more day to enjoy the dubious privilege of being an FBI consultant, then it was back to a lower rate of pay and no stylish jacket. Carter similarly had one more night of Terrill hospitality to endure before the promise of an early-morning flight to Panama, the FBI seemingly content to abandon him to his fate. Carter was annoyingly cheerful, some offshore bank account doubtless about to suffer a large withdrawal, the stress of the past week needing to put behind him.
Rachel Flores would have to try and do the same, the FBI first teasing out everything they could from her time with McDowell. Imprisoned in a windowless room, there had been no obvious indication as to the type of house or where it might be, and the journey from her home and back to D.C. had taken well over an hour each time, no sense as to the direction or any audible cues. The FBI’s profilers would now be attempting to match her evidence to what they already knew about McDowell’s preferences: a Virginia house or farm, isolated yet close to good road links, bought or rented around the same time as Terrill. If that didn’t work, they’d spread the net wider, trusting that McDowell wouldn’t choose to break the mould by hiding out somewhere unexpected, like a commune in the heart of Baltimore or a houseboat on the Potomac. Carter had made an off-hand comment about McDowell lying on a beach – that too would be added into the mix.
For some reason McDowell was still close at hand, his FBI contact and the conspiracy’s banker sacrificed for what had to be more than just Carter’s freedom. It was a bargain which Jensen might have cause to regret, no doubt prejudiced by the fear that political manoeuvring could well free Carter anyway. The actual names of those given up by McDowell were considered well outside of Anderson’s reduced role and even his computer access had been restricted to that of a visitor. Flores had been apologetic, unwilling to speculate as to why Anderson was out in the cold – but at least he wasn’t being put on a plane to Panama. Despite being reminded as to the dire consequences of revealing anything of his time at Terrill, Anderson was already working on a piece for The Washington Post, drawing comparisons between Golubeva and Deangelo and their respective routes to power.
The FBI had insisted on extracting a final day’s work out of Carter, Anderson supervising, two agents remaining at Terrill to ensure he didn’t disappear off somewhere. Overall, it was a pretty pointless exercise, Carter unwilling to do anything too onerous, the two agents more interested in watching the TV downstairs than listening to Anderson’s woes.
Carter sat at the workstation two along from Anderson, official duties completed, his time now spent investigating the delights of Panama. Like Anderson he had been logged on as a visitor, no-one concerned that he could do anything too outrageous – but just to be sure, everything related to the data link to the Hoover Building had already been deleted.
Anderson mostly ignored him, busy researching his Post article, relevant pages sent to his phone for later perusal; he had most of the content already sorted in his mind, just needing a few more facts to draw it all together rather more effectively. Or that had been the plan, Anderson having to swap focus once the House of Representatives abruptly chose to lead the fight back against Dick Thorn.
The news article was barely minutes old, Anderson needing to read it several times to grasp the complex constitutional processes that were being used to block Thorn’s confirmation. If the President wanted to use his executive powers to confirm Thorn as Secretary of Defence – through a recess appointment – then the Senate had to actually be in recess. An adjournment of longer than three days had once been the accepted norm, later increased to ten by a Supreme Court ruling; however, in order for either House to adjourn for more than three days, it needed the other’s approval.
With a seventeen-day recess for Thanksgiving on the calendar, the House of Representatives had voted not to give the required consent and the Senate would now be forced into holding pro forma sessions every third day, a si
ngle senator going into the empty chamber and banging the gavel, no formal business completed.
The article detailed various precedents, Anderson shocked to realise he probably now knew far more about the U.S. Constitution than the UK’s diverse set of laws and conventions. The Republican-dominated House of Representatives had clearly thrown down the gauntlet to Thorn and his supporters, the ones still camped out in the National Mall likely to be stocking up with their eggs and expletives.
Anderson’s musings were interrupted as the computer screen in front of him abruptly changed to show a man’s photograph, his personal profile detailed alongside. Confused, Anderson tried to return to the news page but without success, the screen acting as if frozen.
“David Solomon,” explained Carter, as though just making conversation, “Pat’s so-called banker, except he’s actually a hedge fund manager. It’s just as I’ve always said: the money came from targeting specific investments, Solomon the frontman. Most of the info is copied from the FBI’s recent research into Solomon, the rest picked up here and there – I’ve kept it to the basics.”
Anderson glanced to his right, Carter still apparently focused on Panama City. With most of Terrill’s security system offline and the two agents otherwise occupied downstairs, there was little real need for such a charade; but then that was just Carter’s style, always wanting to add a bit of drama to everything, always keen to impress.
Anderson took the easy option and simply went with the flow; there seemed no advantage in ignoring Carter’s help and plenty of reasons to accept it – he just had to trust the information in front of him was genuine. The fact Carter was still able to hack into the FBI’s data centre was impressive but also slightly worrying. Anderson briefly condemned himself for sinking to McDowell’s level, then moved on, determined to get as much out of Carter as possible. For some reason, simply reading it all off the screen seemed less of a crime then copying the data to his phone and Anderson tried to memorise the key facts as quickly as he could, concerned as to how much longer it would be before Carter’s hacking skills got them both into trouble.
The Rule Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 3) Page 13
