The Rule Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 3)

by Christopher Read

  To his disappointment, there was nothing that dramatic or controversial, and no obvious link to the other key players. A joint DHS-FBI team had raided Solomon’s Manhattan office within an hour of Carter passing on McDowell’s two names and he was still being questioned, charges of money-laundering the least of his worries. Most of the financial information was well over Anderson’s head, unsure even of the difference between a hedge fund manager and a stock broker. Still single at 39, Solomon’s one aim in life appeared to be that of making money and in the six years he’d been working for himself, he had built up an enviable reputation as someone who could balance risk with profit, and as yet there was nothing to indicate he was either corrupt or involved in anything illegal.

  “One specific hedge fund seems to be the FBI’s main focus,” said Carter, for once sounding vaguely enthusiastic. “There’s a client list plus separate profiles on each person; that’s as much as I could get without it being traced back to Terrill, so it’s okay to take your time.”

  Anderson took Carter at his word, finishing off with Solomon to then view details of the hedge fund. The initial analysis by the FBI’s financial experts suggested that while it had made some gains over the past six months it was nothing extreme, the profits duly accounted for with no evidence they had been used to fund McDowell’s campaign. If Solomon had been involved in other – more secret – investments, then that would obviously take time to determine, weeks at best, maybe never.

  Anderson started to work his way through the individual FBI profiles for the hedge fund’s five members; he wasn’t looking for anything specific, just wanting to get some background as to the type of client Solomon favoured, hoping to see some sort of trend other than the fact they were all billionaires. It was only when he reached the last name that the information became far more intriguing, an FBI analyst also highlighting certain details. Anderson recognised the name simply because it had been in the news, never once guessing that the man might have some obscure connection to Pat McDowell.

  Yang Kyung-Jae: Taiwan national, worth in excess of three billion dollars, his fortune made as a property developer of large-scale commercial projects. Yang had become something of an Anglophile, spending a good proportion of his time in England; now that faith had been cruelly repaid, the bloodbath at his country house beside the Thames still attracting daily media attention in the UK a week after the event.

  The FBI had dug deeper, Yang politically astute yet not actively involved in politics, a generous proportion of his wealth spent on good causes in Taiwan and the UK. If it hadn’t been for the fact and tone of Yang’s murder, then the Bureau’s interest would easily have roamed elsewhere; now, ever so slowly, the precise nature of the conspiracy was becoming clearer, the Taiwan connection perhaps helping explain America’s more assertive policy towards China. The other members of the hedge fund were spread across the world, one each from America, the Philippines, Russia, and South Korea, all perhaps with good cause to be worried by China’s creeping invasion of the South China Sea or its claims on Russia’s Far East.

  A word to Carter and the data was instantly deleted with no trail left as to their meddling. It just worried Anderson that McDowell and Carter were being so helpful, their motive unclear. McDowell might well have had nothing to do with Ritter’s death and he would have been hard-pressed to reach Bray in time to have murdered Yang – which could imply it had more to do with self-preservation or vengeance than a sudden desire to do the right thing.

  Anderson remained unconvinced, fearful that he was merely being played by McDowell. The deal accepted by Jensen was hardly perfect, and McDowell and Carter could easily resume their working relationship once the latter was safely ensconced in Panama. In a day or a week, McDowell would again make his presence felt, of that Anderson was certain, the two of them not yet finished treading on each other’s toes.

  Chapter 8 – Friday, November 18th

  Sino-Russian Border – 08:26 Local Tine; Thursday 22:26 UTC

  The dawn sky was cloud-free, the temperature hovering around freezing with the forecast for light snow late in the afternoon. Breakfast was a low-key affair, Markova worried as to what the next few hours might bring, Nikolai merely content to escape the claustrophobia of the car. Since leaving the main highway, there had been no sign of any other vehicles, no sense that China lay just a few kilometres distant. The physical barriers meant that the border region was effectively unguarded but not completely so, the long-range eye of a helicopter their main concern.

  Their luck couldn’t hold forever. The A189 highway was the only route north and the risks of following it were all-too obvious, allies increasingly few and far between. The FSB would soon be forced to focus its full attention on the struggle against China and Markova was becoming nothing more than a renegade agent with nowhere left to call home, not even the Lubyanka.

  “The audio file,” said Nikolai suddenly, “what if Morozov passes it on to the Americans?”

  “The Americans?” repeated Markova, her thoughts still stuck in Moscow. “That might not be too helpful for Russian-U.S. relations.”

  Nikolai still saw it as a good option, “The file proves Sukhov’s involved and he leads directly to Golubeva. If the Americans understood that, it might just let China off the hook and make Golubeva think twice before invading. Isn’t that what we want – to stop a war?”

  “If we can,” Markova said frowning, “but it’s just not that simple. Deangelo is already committed to helping the Philippines and the origin of the Koschei has become a complication no-one wants. In any case, Chavkin would have said anything to protect his family – that’s the only argument the Kremlin needs. By itself, his account means nothing.”

  “Facts, names and dates – they could all be checked and verified. Morozov’s outnumbered and surrounded in Astrakhan: he needs to put the pressure back on Golubeva; perhaps even persuade a few more doubters to support him. Morozov could even threaten to give the file to the American and Chinese media.”

  Markova simply sat and stared at Nikolai, seeing the logic in what he was suggesting just not convinced it would be the right thing to do. Threaten Golubeva, certainly, but actually publicising such politically sensitive material for all to see was clearly a step too far, the repercussions impossible to judge. Would General Morozov really risk turning the whole world against Russia out of spite for Golubeva? And how would America react knowing that they had definitely been tricked into a war?

  “Morozov’s got no choice,” said Nikolai, determined to win the argument. “And if he doesn’t give it to the Americans, what use is it?”

  “You’re wrong, Sergeant,” said Markova, finally finding her voice. “Morozov’s not that desperate.”

  Nikolai made as if to reply but was distracted by the deep-throated drone of a helicopter, both of them turning instantly towards the sound. The camouflage of browns and grey left little doubt it was military, the profile suggesting a Russian Mi-17 transport. It was approaching from the north, flying low while possibly tracking the main highway. The crew might miss Markova and Nikolai but not the VW Tiguan, its regular black shape standing out against the white of the surrounding snow.

  Nikolai glanced pointedly towards the car and Markova nodded her agreement, hoping that the helicopter might simply be a routine patrol and nothing to do with them. Away from the highway the landscape was of low mountains clothed in forest, their vehicle unlikely to cope beyond the first score of a hundred small streams or an ice-covered slope. They could split up and force any pursuers to make a choice but on foot in autumn their chances of survival were fairly slim. Nikolai well knew he could bail out at any time with merely a nod of thanks – maybe even a hug – for all that they had been through together, but that was simply not an option, and despite Markova’s penchant for being high-handed and obstinate, he wasn’t yet willing to relinquish his role of protector.

  Markova sat in the passenger seat and watched in silence as the helicopter swept ever closer. It was st
ill following the highway, seemingly not interested in what lay to either side. Abruptly it turned west, angling down directly towards the Tiguan.

  A shouted command from Markova and the car engine burst into life, the Tiguan accelerating forward and lurching its way deeper into the trees. The overgrown and icy track was proving a severe test even for the four-wheel drive of the VW, the vehicle slewing from side to side, Nikolai having to fight to keep control. Markova couldn’t now see or hear the helicopter but knew it would be closing in. Even without infra-red, the pursuers would easily be able to track the Tiguan, the trees not yet providing a thick enough canopy to cover their escape.

  Above the strain of the VW’s engine, there was the rattle of gunfire and Markova instantly ducked. Nikolai merely speeded up, powering through a small stream to follow the track as it twisted and climbed.

  There was a second burst of gunfire, bullets exploding into the trees to the left, splinters ricocheting from the car. The Tiguan bucked suddenly as a front tyre shredded, the car careering left. It ploughed through the undergrowth, bouncing off one tree to smash into another, air bags instantly deploying to cushion the impact.

  Markova’s face was on fire and she sat stunned and unmoving before the survival instinct kicked in. She wrestled the car door open, gun dragged from her jacket as she fought her way into the open air. Belatedly, she looked back to see Nikolai sliding out through the driver’s door, face bloodied.

  Markova moved round to help, pulling Nikolai away from the car, and the two of them stumbled through the trees, moving higher up the slope while hoping for some sort of miracle. Markova couldn’t hear the sound of the helicopter, her ears bombarded by a loud high-pitched hiss, no time to work out why.

  The trees were denser now, Markova not wanting to stop but knowing that Nikolai was struggling badly. They slithered down a rocky incline and lay on the ground, Nikolai’s chest heaving, blood still dripping from his nose.

  Markova scanned the trees, a gentle breeze barely enough to disturb the remaining leaves. With its complex mix of broadleaf and coniferous, the forest undergrowth was a thick and yielding cushion, footsteps deadened to become almost silent. The background hiss in her ears was slowly easing and Markova looked again at Nikolai, needing to know whether to make a stand or try and flee.

  Two minutes later they were hugging the ground and heading north-west, edging closer to the border. The trees slowly began to thin out, the steep slope becoming rock-strewn and bare, Markova pausing every few minutes to let Nikolai catch his breath; he would never complain and was doing his best, but the wounds of the past were taking their toll.

  Markova guessed they’d come as much as a kilometre; still no sign of the helicopter or anyone on foot but it was just too much to hope that the pursuers had abandoned the chase.

  “I’ll catch up,” said Nikolai softly. “You go, Major.”

  “We go together, Sergeant.” Markova was growing tired of running from one problem to another; time now to make a stand. Somehow she needed to forget those chasing them were simply Russian troops following orders – worse still, they might even be fellow Special Forces, the elite spetsnaz.

  The first clatter of feet on stone came from their right, then more sounds from further down the slope. Markova and Nikolai separated; handguns against assault rifles was never likely to be a winning combination and the pursuers could take their time, maybe even under orders to keep them alive.

  The rattle of automatic weapons dispelled that hope, bullets pummelling the rocks around Markova, something grazing her cheek. She squirmed left, firing at a figure kneeling beside a tree, seeing his body jerk back.

  The gunfire from both sides intensified, Markova judging at least four attackers. She eased her body further up the slope, hugging the ground, knowing that she had but a few shots left, the final outcome inevitable.

  There was another flurry of shots, Markova hearing a grunt of pain from away to her left. She glanced across to see Nikolai lying motionless, blood pooling under his head, eyes staring blankly.

  Markova tore her gaze away, firing wildly, uncaring now as to what happened next, Nikolai’s sacrifice proving the futility of the past two weeks. There was a sudden sound from behind her, a heavy weight thudding into her back, the gun torn from her hand.

  Seconds later she was hauled upright, her captors’ Russian army uniforms and insignia belying the fact they were definitely Special Forces. With hands tied behind her, Markova watched in silence as Nikolai’s body suffered the ignominy of a search, anger and bitterness overwhelming her sense of despair.

  A hefty shove encouraged Markova back down the slope, Nikolai left for others to recover. Two of the spetsnaz team of six had been wounded, one struggling to walk unaided, but there was no outward show of resentment and except for an occasional curt word of command Markova was barely even acknowledged.

  After some twenty minutes, they emerged through the trees, the final few hundred metres a steep climb onto a rocky plateau where the helicopter waited. Abruptly, the lead spetsnaz paused just thirty metres short, waving the others to a halt, some sixth sense warning him as to danger.

  Markova waited, body wavering slightly, trying to control her emotions, no idea as to what had so spooked her captors. Even as one of the spetsnaz shouted out a warning there was the sudden staccato chatter of gunfire and the man beside Markova took a hesitant pace back before sinking to his knees, blood bubbling at his lips. Markova stood stock-still, somehow knowing she wasn’t in danger, watching transfixed as the lives of those around her were brutally extinguished. The spetsnaz barely had a chance to fire back, a dozen or more guns used against them.

  Silence returned. A single figure dressed in winter camouflage appeared from near the helicopter, his features clearly marking him out as Chinese. More men emerged from cover to Markova’s left, assault rifles aimed vaguely towards her. Her rescuers seemed to know exactly what to expect and Markova was evidently not some random victim of a cross-border incursion. One at a time, each of the spetsnaz was expertly searched, Markova last of all, no allowance made for her sex but no liberties taken either. Everything considered important was placed in a backpack resting on the ground, Markova surprised to see the bags from the VW Tiguan standing alongside.

  Despite her animosity towards Golubeva, the role of traitor had never been one Markova had felt she deserved, until now. Thanks to her, the future of the audio file and Chavkin’s tale of deceit was no longer for General Morozov alone to decide, and China now had a key piece of evidence to help prove their innocence. The Kremlin’s strategy of coercing the United States into a war with China was rapidly turning sour, Russia herself perhaps equally likely to become the surprise target for American anger.

  It was barely five minutes before the group moved off on foot, heading roughly west and always uphill, an occasional prod from a rifle an incentive to Markova not to tarry. Russia’s military wasn’t the only obvious danger, the region home to the endangered Amur Tiger and the even rarer Leopard, a few hundred in total roaming south of Khabarovsk and into China.

  After some ten minutes the leader called a halt, the trees far more sparse now. A dejected Markova waited uncertainly, trying to prepare herself for what was next but no idea what it might be. Strong hands on her shoulders forced her to her knees, head held rigid. She tried not to resist but it was an instinctive reaction, worse still when something damp was thrust across her mouth and nose. There was an unpleasant tingling as the anaesthetic took effect, Markova strangely content that it wasn’t going to be an injection or a simple rifle butt to the head.

  * * *

  It was a nightmare from which she couldn’t escape, Markova standing in a bare circular room with the wall seeming to close in around her, a pair of doors facing her no matter which way she turned. She knew she had to make a choice but the doors all looked the same, no clear sense of colour, just a bland grey.

  She picked one randomly, needing to know what was on the other side. With the barest o
f touches, it slid open; beyond lay a swirling darkness, beckoning her into the unknown. She walked forward across the threshold and instantly a cold shiver of dread gripped her body, no logic or reason as to why; she stumbled but somehow didn’t fall, the door closing silently behind her.

  The darkness dissipated, sucked up into some mysterious void and Markova realised she was back in the circular room. The twin doors could almost be laughing at her, their image shifting and changing, yet somehow always the same. It was a game she couldn’t seem to win, let alone understand, and whichever door she opened the oppressive sense of dread was her only reward. Back where she started, she seemed unable to resist the need to keep trying, something – or someone – always urging her on.

  She could hear voices, her own included, but had no idea what she was saying; if she tried to ignore the room and focus on the voices, then the wall accelerated towards her, instantly grabbing her attention. The fear never quite went away, her body cringing in trepidation as she touched her chosen door, the darkness beyond always inviting, always false.

  Time meant nothing. It could have been a few minutes or even a full day, Markova stuck in a whirlwind of confusion, unable to break out. She desperately wanted to sink into a peaceful dreamless sleep, accepting the urge to race ever faster through the doors as though they might eventually lead somewhere.

  And so they did; darkness and warmth finally enveloping her, pulling her close, the welcoming embrace of unconsciousness an acceptable reward.

  USS Benfold – 15:38 Local Time; 07:38 UTC

  The Galene edged forward from the submarine’s sail towards the bow, the ROV’s lights probing a narrow fissure which stretched along the port side. The submarine was effectively in two parts, the larger section some fifty yards long: control room, living quarters, galley, forward torpedo room – Tanner could just about gauge something of the internal structure but access was proving impossible. Based on the blueprints Tanner had been given, the submarine patently matched the original Ming design; there was even clear evidence of strengthening for a gun close to the bridge, an anomaly that had been repeated for all the Ming-class, even though no such weapon had ever been mounted.