Their Will Be Done

By Bill Johnstone

A car accident is the catalyst which unveils a story of disturbing sexual violence, depravity and human weakness that challenges the integrity of the diplomatic corps in Washington, the power brokers of Capitol Hill, the secrecy of the US State Department, the veracity of the city's academic community and the ability of the DC police to unravel the mystery.
Investigative journalist Mike McCabe, once more, follows the trail of clues and his news instincts in search of the story.
The book stands alone but is also a sequel to other Mike McCabe adventures: White Collar Option; Then Go Straight Forward; and Waiting for the Storm to Pass. The characters are developed through the four novels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Johnstone
• Release date: Dec 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310035579

Bill Johnstone

The author has been a journalist for more than 30 years and has taught the subject in the USA and the UK.He was born in Glasgow, Scotland and lived in London and Washington where his novels are set.He is an avid animal lover and a trusteee of a cat sanctuary in Somerset, England.He travels frequently between the UK and the USA.

Book preview

THEIR WILL BE DONE

William Johnstone

Copyright 2013 William Johnstone

Published on Smashwords

Formatted by eBooksMade4You

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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The author has been a journalist for more than 30 years; among the many outlets for which he has worked are The Times, the BBC and UPI. He has taught journalism in the UK and the USA.

He was born in Glasgow, Scotland but lived for many years in London and Washington where this story is set.

The story stands alone but it is also a sequel to other Mike McCabe adventures: White Collar Option; Then Go Straight Forward; and Waiting For The Storm to Pass. The characters have been developed over the different novels.

Many thanks to family, colleagues and friends for their support which made this book possible; special thanks to Rosamund for her support, encouragement, patience and diligent proof-reading; additional thanks to Ian who was extremely helpful in spotting errors.

All characters and incidents in this book are fictional.

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5,

Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10,

Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15,

Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20,

Chapter 21, Chapter 22, Chapter 23, Chapter 24, Chapter 25,

Chapter 26, Chapter 27, Chapter 28, Chapter 29, Chapter 30

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Chapter 1

Mike McCabe twirled the ice around the glass, had a sip of the Black Label scotch and sampled another eyeful of the blonde doing her rounds in the middle of the room. She was the perfect host, the pristine PR professional, the person whose physical presence was required during every minute of her employer’s staged event and whose charms were her stock in trade. She did the job well and her company was in demand. There was no one who didn’t welcome her, no one without a smile and no one who didn’t crave her presence. It was easy to spot the pairs of eyes following her around the room vying for her attention. He was trying too.

He had another sip of the scotch and felt the ice sting his teeth with the cold. There was no more; the glass was empty, time for a refill. He got to the hospitality table, signalled to the waiter and nodded at the scotch bottle as he handed him the glass and turned to catch another glimpse of Ingrid Johansen flitting from one group to another like an energetic bee in search of nectar. At last he caught her eye, returned her smile, and moved his head slightly gesturing for her to join him. She smiled back, gave him a slight nod of approval but didn’t get two feet before she was surrounded by another group craving attention and firing their questions. She shrugged her shoulders at him in resignation.

He turned to the barman and signalled to keep pouring. He gave McCabe a disapproving look and carefully handed him the nearly full glass. McCabe smiled his thanks, took a mouthful and turned to watch young Johansen charm her guests. Here at her native Swedish Embassy, on the edge of historic Georgetown, with a breath-taking view of the Potomac River that runs through Washington, she played her role to perfection. It was a standard set-piece, re-enacted continuously in all the embassies in DC, the world capital, where the dignitaries from every political player on earth are wooed, entertained, persuaded and with subtlety and finesse seduced into sampling their host’s views and culture. It is a ritual, a formality, a must, a requirement for those who want to be counted in the court of the USA.

As a journalist he’d observed these show-pieces many times. Now based in Washington for the London Daily Herald it was his lot to watch this unique collection of men and women lobby each other and their country host, the USA. There are nearly two hundreds countries with embassies in Washington, many trying to outdo each other in grandeur and they hoped in influence. Britain which had long since witnessed its global influence diminish and its empire reduced to a fraction of its former self, still cultivated its ‘special relationship’ with the US by owning over 70 buildings in the US capital.

These were members of an elite priesthood, a privileged community. This was the world of the US diplomats. Truthfully, it was far from being a commune. Most certainly they had much in common. A more accurate description would be to see them as competitors; diverse performers vying for the time, attention and recognition of the ring-master, the focus of the diplomatic circus; the USA.

McCabe had another drink of his whisky. He wondered how many there this evening would make it and what price they would pay if they didn’t. For many it was difficult to bury their natural prejudices and biases and behave with a balanced dignity towards those whose company, in other circumstances, they would reject outright. Washington was a hard school. Apart from presenting their credentials to the President in the White House, there was no real induction course, no handbook or instant guidebook which would talk the new diplomat into successful office; no guarantee of conquest. It was down to the individual. Many a diplomat took months to realize that the Washington demands were different from any other diplomatic billet; others never made it. No matter how experienced the diplomat, this was a difficult posting, a hard place to make any impact, a major challenge to any in the corps. It was a case of find your own feet and your own level. Some made it with relative ease, others struggled badly; a surprising number fell by the wayside, never to recover, lost in a world they could not relate toward. The ability to socialize with ease was the passport to success. The Americans loved informality even in a formal setting, they expected frankness despite the diplomatic backdrop which in other countries might be considered crass and lacking subtlety. It was a contradiction to some, a puzzle they were never able to solve. Conversely, those with such skills blended into any company like political chameleons. McCabe had another gulp of the scotch and wondered how many would make an impact tonight or return to their respective embassies in despair and frustration.

He looked at his glass. He’d need a top-up soon. He smiled again, watching his enchanting hostess weave her spell again. If he didn’t know otherwise, he might have thought she was running for office; those predictable smiles, the warm and firm handshakes, the intense focus that made everyone feel important; the gestures that oozed sympathy and understanding; an intoxicating art-form displayed in all its magnificent splendour by a true professional.

He was soon at the hospitality table again and signalled to the barman. Since he wasn’t on duty, he didn’t have to remain too sober, as long as he observed the proprieties expected of his office. He was the guest not of Swedish diplomacy but of the charming Ingrid. At the moment he shared her with others who hungered for her company. Later, he’d have her all to himself, a totally selfish indulgence in which he would wallow without the slightest conscience. He warmed to the thought and to another gulp of his scotch.

The horizontal and perpendicular hairlines that met to produce the menacing focus on the telescopic sight mounted on the rifle, homed in on McCabe’s head from outside the embassy. The gunman lay on a small patch of green behind the building sheltered by a few bushes and trees. That part of the building was in shade even in the daylight. In mid-evening it was almost impossible to detect any presence. The guards, a mixture of the Secret Service on Diplomatic Protection duty and private security appeared fairly relaxed. The officers, positioned at different strategic points around the perimeter checked in frequently on schedule. The event was routine and the procedures reflected the same.

The cross-hair followed McCabe across the floor as he moved towards the centre of the room to the hospitality table to replenish his scotch. It quickly zipped across the building onto the next window and rested on Ingrid Johansen. The trigger finger moved to adjusts the sight. The gunman smiled at the vision and murmured his approval. He zipped back to McCabe and refocused on his head. Two people drifted in front of McCabe who was still trying to refill his scotch. The gunman relaxed, dropped the gun from its focus, repositioned the weapon and adjusted the scope on the crowd now leaving from the entrance.

Dignitaries and their entourages began pouring onto the street. The chauffeur- driven cars lined up. McCabe and the girl appeared sheltered behind a group from China. The cross-hair moved to the girl, then back to McCabe behind her.

A dog barked loudly. His handler loosened the chain. The silencer-muffled rifle was thrown off-line a little as it fired; barely a sound pierced the night. There was no real target. Neither was the ammunition live

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Chapter 2

Lieutenant Pat Kovarik, Homicide Detective, Washington Police, read the memo on his desk. ‘Shit’ he whispered to himself. ‘What does he want?’ The question was rhetorical. The answer would undoubtedly spell trouble. His boss, Captain Norton, though an amiable sort and fairly supportive, still had a conservative streak which he found difficult to shake. It was in his genes; in his blood. He couldn’t be anything other than who God had created. Kovarik had tried to change him but to little if no effect. Despite the years of exposure to the Lieutenant’s unconventional approach to policing, the captain remained uncomfortable. At best he thought Kovarik cavalier, at worst careless.

Kovarik picked up the phone and pressed a button. ‘Yes sir’ he said quickly when he heard it click at the other end.

‘Have you got some time this morning’ said the voice from the phone. ‘The Chinese incident has resurfaced but in a different form. I want to take a look at the issues. Something else has turned up’.

Kovarik’s brow drew together. ‘Resurfaced? Chinese? I don’t understand’.

‘Not the incident’ said the captain on the phone. ‘The issues; when you have time let’s get together. I’ll explain. Pull out the file’.

Kovarik put the phone back on the cradle and pressed another button. He didn’t want the Minh Ly incident dragged up again. Surely his boss didn’t want it either. It had taken weeks to get back to normality, if he could ever describe his work in the precinct as such. In simple terms he’d been lucky to professionally survive the incident, as his boss so delicately described it. The simple truth was that he’d shot a Chinese national dead. There was no wounding; his intent to kill was clear and obvious. He said as much to the inquest.

The Asian had already killed and was about to do again. Immediately before Kovarik fired, the Chinaman had shot a British journalist dead and was about to do the same to another. The previous day, a girl in the detective’s custody had become one of his victims too. He admitted to the inquiry that he felt particularly bad about that shooting.

But the waters surrounding this shooting were murky, a distinctly opaque colour that could only be found in the political turbulent sea of Washington where decisions were frequently made by his masters as they sought to square the increasingly distorted diplomatic circles.

The shot gunman had been a member of a mission attached to the Chinese Embassy. The Chinese were at pains to point out that the antics of the gunman were unauthorised but nevertheless he had diplomatic immunity. They failed to mention he was a member of the Chinese Security Service, no matter how unauthorized were his activities. But it was the classic DC fudge, where a picture was repainted in different colours, so making it unrecognizable. He’d seen the trick a dozen times before; that was the nature of working in the nation’s capital. Things were not always what they seemed, at least not permanently. The only thing permanent in this city was change. So, the political fallout from the shooting was inevitable.

Kovarik had been labelled incompetent, trigger-happy and irresponsible. There was plenty of other rhetoric he had to decipher and insults to endure. It had taken him some time to grasp the meaning of the government-speak in this politically driven city. He learned to have a thick skin. The gunman had immunity, couldn’t be guilty of any crime, couldn’t be held accountable and therefore the detective had acted irresponsibly by acting as he did; so their logic determined. It was the inevitable consequence.

Kovarik had been suspended. It was expected to last two months. In the end it was a matter of weeks but resolved only by the same political manoeuvres that seemed to have created the dilemma in the first place. The Chinaman’s crimes hadn’t happened, neither had the shooting. They had best go away was the thinking; the entire incident never took place. Kovarik was returned to duty none the wiser. But the fallout had evidently not entirely disappeared. Something had resurfaced.

To his credit, the captain had stood by him. He’d defended him at the inquest and claimed there wasn’t a better example of professionalism on the force. Kovarik had been as embarrassed as he was surprised but, nevertheless, immensely grateful.

‘No that’s not what I mean’ said his boss as Kovarik closed the office door.

‘The diplomatic community, that’s what I mean’.

‘Sir?’ queried Kovarik, still looking puzzled. ‘Not the Chinese shooting incident?’

‘No nothing to do with that but we need to look at the surrounding issues again’.

Kovarik felt a slight shiver run up his back. He was beginning to recognize the hand of his political masters again, waving their ballot papers in his direction. ‘I’m a cop, sir. I don’t want to get involved in any of that’.

‘I’m afraid you are; we are’.

Kovarik looked very uncomfortable. He felt awkward.

‘I’m assigning you to special duty’ said the captain quickly.

‘Sir?’ responded Kovarik. He was now looking puzzled and more uncomfortable.

‘You’re one of our best. I can’t think of anyone more suitable to head a special unit’.

‘Hang on a minute. We’ve gone from me assigned to special duty to heading a special unit’.

The captain rubbed his face and sighed a little. He did wish Kovarik could see the bigger picture, as he could. ‘Kovarik, you have to learn to read between the lines. You’re the man for the job. That’s what I told the senator’.

The detective could feel his mouth going dry. He didn’t like the sound of any of this. He closed his eyes, trying not to imagine the worst. His words came out slowly. ‘What senator?’ he asked, staring straight at his boss.

‘Someone tried to fire a shot at the end of a diplomatic function in Georgetown last night. No one was hurt. It was barely noticed by anyone, except the security at the Swedish Embassy where it was being held. Looked like a rifle shot that went off prematurely; sounded like a shot with a silencer. No one else saw or heard anything. The security guard on duty, used to be on the DC force for 20 years. He reported it this morning’.

‘Sir, what’s that got to do with us. No one hurt. It could have been anyone who fired that shot and for a host of reasons’.

‘You’re right. But it gives us an excuse to be asking questions’.

‘About what?’

‘Senator Al Newton, a Republican from Southern California is the man. He’s sponsoring a bill to dramatically alter the terms of diplomatic immunity’.

Kovarik shook his head from side to side. He felt he wasn’t getting through. ‘Let me ask that again. What’s that got to do with us?’

The captain pulled open his drawer and extracted a large blue folder. He put it on his desk, opened it and rifled through the first half-dozen pages. His eyes rested back on the first sheet which appeared to be a summary.

‘There is a list of the crimes itemized in this file’ he said, placing both hands on the folder.

‘Crimes?’

‘They’re crimes apparently committed by those claiming diplomatic immunity. Newton’s researchers compiled the list. I don’t know where he got the data from, if there’s any truth in it or if he’s just out for political plaudits. If this file is to be believed, these crimes are at epidemic levels. The senator wants our input. We need to respond’.

Kovarik took the file from the desk. He quickly looked through the folder. The supposed crimes had been listed in alphabetical order and cross-referenced to the respective date and diplomat involved. It made grim reading. He could almost see himself sinking into this doubletalk quagmire.

He’d experienced this issue before; long before the Chinese incident and it hadn’t been pleasant; not at all. A rape in Baltimore had been the crime. He had arrested him and the son-of-a-bitch waved diplomatic immunity in his face. The feeling of disgust and revulsion he’d felt then began