Wed 12-Oct-2022 21:24:40 +02:00
Hanson – …told to emphasise the importance of ensuring we all stick rigidly to the agreed schedule. London must be seen as the start of an unbreakable commitment; there can be no second thoughts and no unfortunate delays. One piece out of place and everything is likely to fall apart.
McDowell – There’s no reason to worry. Everyone, especially Marcelo, is well aware the attacks need to be properly co-ordinated and we’re all set for the 27th. So far the only complication is this symposium.
Hanson – The timing was unfortunate but any …(inaudible)… may not be that crucial. As long as…
Transcript ends
“Well that’s very helpful,” Charlotte said, heavy on the sarcasm. “It’s not even signed. Presumably, the sender wants you to pass everything on to the police.”
“SO15,” Anderson confirmed. “Although I’m not sure why I’m the one having to tell them the bad news.” SO15 was the Metropolitan Police’s anti-terrorist unit, also known as Counter Terrorism Command. With over 1500 staff and access to the combined assets of MI5 and MI6, SO15 was Britain’s main line of defence against any potential terrorist attack. He read the note again, more slowly, trying to digest precisely what it was saying. The comment about British Intelligence clearly seemed to put the onus on Anderson to do something constructive, but he couldn’t understand why Markova hadn’t just gone straight to MI6. And when writing under obvious pressure was her English really that good?
“So is it definitely from the FSB?” Charlotte’s tone was almost accusing, as though Anderson receiving such a package was tantamount to treason.
“I guess so; probably from one of Grebeshkov’s associates, name of Markova.”
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed, “Markova – she’s a woman?”
“Very attractive and very scary – a bit like you. I think her name is Natasha but that never quite seemed appropriate; so let’s just think of her as Markova.”
“There’s a compliment in there somewhere,” replied Charlotte, not taking offence. “There’s obviously a power struggle inside the FSB and I imagine they’re not that keen on sharing secrets, especially with the West. Markova could have chosen to ignore protocol and do the right thing. Or perhaps she’s hoping you might persuade SO15 it’s not some sort of hoax?”
Anderson pursed his lips, just not certain how much use the information would be. “McDowell doesn’t actually say it’s London that’s going to be attacked; it could be anywhere. We don’t even know which month the 27th refers to.”
“McDowell is trouble,” said Charlotte positively. “And someone seriously needs to ask what McDowell and Hanson are up to, and why these other five; unless it’s more to do with who they work for.”
Anderson knew little about Atlas Elektronik, but BAE and Thales were involved in just about all of Britain’s defence contracts. A terrorist connection just couldn’t be good news, but the journalist in him was loath to involve SO15 unless he had to; after all, it wasn’t every day that he was presented with such privileged information.
“August 14 almost split Russia apart,” Charlotte continued, determined to have her say. “Perhaps McDowell wants to try and do one better with the UK?”
“That doesn’t seem likely,” Anderson said dismissively, instantly regretting his tone.
Charlotte shrugged, “Just a thought. Markova certainly seems to believe McDowell needs stopping.”
Anderson stared down at McDowell’s photograph, still in two minds as to how to respond. Going to the media was probably a non-starter as the authorities would certainly slap a DA-Notice on any news story, citing concerns as to National Security. Contacting SO15 would also likely be a nightmare, with them asking a million questions he couldn’t answer. And he could hardly guarantee the information was genuine; he didn’t even know who had delivered it.
The silence stretched out to become almost embarrassing.
“Surely,” Charlotte encouraged, “we can’t just sit back and wait until McDowell sends a clearer message of intent.”
“Some might argue it’s safer to move on and forget McDowell,” Anderson said quietly, merely playing devil’s advocate.
Charlotte’s response was instant, “The 27th is just six days away. Whether it’s London or not, someone is going to be attacked, and more than once...”
Anderson half nodded to himself, knowing it was a problem he couldn’t just ignore – the potential consequences of simply doing nothing were unthinkable. Yet he was starting to worry that it was all some sort of FSB scam with him as the naïve victim. That was pretty much the norm for Anderson, with early expectations of glory invariably dashed by a subsequent dose of reality. An innate stubbornness ensured he tried anyway, and he was more a ‘glass half full but might soon be empty’ personality, always trying to look on the positive side while knowing it wouldn’t last.
Decision made, Anderson’s first task was to coerce Charlotte into going home, not seeing the need for both of them to be grilled by SO15. McDowell’s reach had once extended into the local police, perhaps even MI5, and as a form of insurance Anderson emailed a handful of key contacts, before finally contacting the anti-terrorist hotline.
Anderson’s past history ensured he was treated with a semblance of respect. He stuck rigidly to the truth – he neither knew the origin of the data nor its delivery method, although he assumed it was from someone associated with Russia’s Security Services.
An uncomfortable few hours followed, Anderson unsure quite what to expect, the landline and mobile unusually silent, his email inbox empty.
With nothing better to do, he reordered his earlier plans: coffee, shower, unpack, dinner. The final component had sadly been reduced to just dinner for one, contact with Charlotte off limits until SO15 had done their worst.
Even as Anderson finished his meal, the phone finally demanded his attention. It was SO15 once more, a different more authoritative voice, Anderson told to expect visitors the next morning.
It perhaps had been too much to expect to get away with one phone call and nothing more, but Anderson was still disappointed. Spending a morning, maybe even longer, being harangued by the police was not something he was looking forward to – to his mind, it fell somewhere between a root filling and a colonoscopy.
Chapter 2 – Saturday, October 22nd
Marshwick, England – 11:23 Local Time; 10:23 UTC
It was well after eleven before the sound of a car on the gravel drive announced SO15’s arrival. A hundred and twenty miles up the motorway and clogged A-roads in a mix of driving rain and drizzle – not the best way to put Anderson’s inquisitors in a good mood.
A three hour grilling duly followed. There were two officers, both male, neither in uniform, their initial queries focusing on Anderson’s source and why he suspected it was the FSB. Then it was on to the information itself, and a whole raft of questions…
Did he know Gastrell? What about Hanson? And the others? When did he last see McDowell? Who else had he contacted? What exactly had he told them?
Anderson had nothing to hide but he still sensed SO15 didn’t fully trust him. For some reason they seemed to believe he knew more about Judith Gastrell than he was letting on. But he was only economical with the truth the once, blithely denying that Charlotte knew anything about the box or its contents.
Laptop and phone were examined, his insurance email duly read and copied. Anderson hadn’t actually disclosed anything in the email that he shouldn’t, merely requesting information on the ‘Wilhelmshaven Five’ as he’d started to call them; then – almost as an aside – mentioning that he’d heard McDowell might still be alive. He’d left Hanson out completely, preferring to keep certain aspects to himself for the moment. At the time such a lack of detail had seemed a good compromise between protecting Anderson and his source, while widening the search for information – now it just seemed an effective means of wasting a money-making exclusive.
Finally the cottage itself was
put under the microscope, supposedly to check its security. Anderson had tried his best to get something useful out of the two officers, but neither offered any clue as to what would happen next, or even whether Anderson was merely reinforcing something they already knew. Whether Markova would have been satisfied with his persuasive skills was doubtful, Anderson happy to voice his opinion that London might not actually be the target.
It was late-afternoon when SO15 finally left. As expected they took the cardboard box and its contents with them, but fortunately not Anderson’s phone or laptop. In return, he was handed a formal but utterly useless receipt; he was also instructed not to discuss the matter any further with his target list, but for once dire warnings concerning the Official Secrets Act were left unsaid.
That had seemed about it. Problem over, SO15 had it all in hand; Britain was safe and secure once more.
Or maybe not… From Anderson’s perspective, having satisfied his conscience, he now felt justified in pursuing his own more selfish agenda. He had naturally photocopied Markova’s information, although he still had no idea what else he could do with it. Britain might have its political problems but it was hardly Russia, and the logic behind a McDowell-led terrorist campaign temporarily escaped Anderson – not unless some of the various nationalist movements had become desperate enough to resort to violence.
On the face of it, everything in the UK looked pretty normal: no obvious crisis, the economy struggling along, the stock market typically twitchy. Britain’s terrorist threat level remained as it had done for the past year at ‘Substantial’, midway between the two extremes of Low and Critical, and even the Government was just about managing to stay ahead in the polls.
Like Anderson, SO15 would doubtless scoff at the possibility of the Wilhelmshaven symposium being linked to some future political agenda; however, McDowell’s involvement just made everything a little bit more complicated. Although a key member of August 14, he had worked on the fringes of the terrorist campaign, his role a combination of security chief and frontman.
Anderson decided to ignore his preconceptions to try and work out a more logical reason for the symposium. Even ignoring the fact it took place at Germany’s largest naval base, the defence connection was obvious, and Atlas Elektronik turned out to be another major defence contractor. For no particular reason, Anderson first focused on the British and American links, basic details on Gastrell and Drummond readily available on the internet.
Judith Gastrell: age 46; five years as a senior consultant with BAE Systems; specialism combat systems and sonar. Previously principal software engineer and acoustic analyst at Thales UK Naval Division, covering data processing algorithms and modelling for the Director Submarines acoustic signature database.
Walter Drummond: age 50; Professor Applied Physics, John Hopkins since 2016; area of study sonar theory and analysis. Six years at Washington’s Acoustics Intelligence Laboratory as a senior investigator, working on behalf of the Office of Naval Intelligence.
Again the similarities were unmistakable, although their joint area of expertise was hardly the norm for August 14, the terrorists preferring car bombs and cyber-attacks to blasting a target with sonar. There was also the Naval Intelligence link between Drummond and Paige Hanson, and the answers were obviously there somewhere; Anderson just needed to tease them out. He even began to wonder if the terrorism link was simply an irrelevance with McDowell moving on to something new.
Frustrated, Anderson re-read Markova’s handwritten sheet, looking for a subtle clue that would help reveal all; basically all he was left with was one name, Marcelo. Spanish?
A potential Spanish link opened up a wealth of outrageous possibilities, prime amongst them Gibraltar and Argentina. Of course, Marcelo might be American like McDowell, the duo planning to blow up one of London’s many icons. Maybe they could somehow resonate Big Ben to bits from afar – first Big Ben, then the Tower of London…
Anderson’s mental trail of destruction was interrupted by the sound of his phone. Anderson saw the name and took a deep breath, answering on the fourth ring while preparing himself for an earful.
“I can’t say I appreciate being quizzed by SO15,” said an aggrieved voice. “In future, leave me out of your insane quests, it’s much too troublesome, not to mention bloody dangerous.”
“Adam, so nice to hear from you.” Anderson was completely unconcerned as to the caller’s tone, it being the norm for his one-time boss. Never one for wasted pleasantries, Adam Devereau was both a good friend and a well-used resource, someone who would invariably complain but always come through with something worthwhile.
Devereau had been high-up on Anderson’s target list for Markova’s data, his own contacts covering everyone from the local hack to the BBC’s Director-General. Of rather more relevance was his circle of associates from the security services, the quid pro quo principle still as effective as ever. Devereau also had his own purely personal reasons to want McDowell brought to justice, the slurring of certain words evidence that he still wasn’t quite back to his old self.
“Had to vouch for you again,” Devereau continued. “You need to let SO15 do their job and not go poking your nose in where it’s not wanted.”
“That’s not what you taught me, Adam; upsetting people was always supposed to be a good sign.”
“That was before someone bounced me off their moving car. Seriously Mike, leave it to the experts.”
“You know I can’t do that; it’s not in my nature.”
There was a long pause at the other end of the line before Devereau responded. “Very well; be it on your own head. In any event SO15’s pursuit of Judith Gastrell will take a little while. She’s apparently on holiday: South Africa, so I’m told. I know nothing about the others. If I can get anything on McDowell you’ll be the first to know… This has a slightly ominous sense of familiarity about it, Mike; it might be wise to watch your back.”
With that the line went dead. Anderson’s brain activity temporarily did the same – back just over a day and, with little more than a few dodgy photographs and a poison pen letter, he’d already managed to upset just about everybody.
Washington, D.C. – 16:50 Local Time; 20:50 UTC
Paul Jensen knew that the President was wavering; although of the five men and one woman seated in the Oval Office, he was the only one who seemed to believe there was a second option, something which would cleverly assuage North Korea’s concerns without upsetting Japan or the U.S. losing face.
Jensen well remembered the frequent criticism of Obama when he had been too tentative: against terrorism, the Islamic State, Russian-backed separatists, Ebola, and even the BP oil spill – the media was always happy to criticise, invariably wise after the event. With the Midterm elections just two weeks away the President needed to act decisively, if only to prove to the doubters that he really did have that killer instinct. Either that or America would have its second one-term president in a row, the instant turnaround from one party to the other set to be repeated once more.
In truth, apart from one serious foreign entanglement, President Will Cavanagh had had a relatively easy two years: no recession, no major scandal, and no serious domestic crisis. The war against terrorism still stumbled from one entanglement to another, but the decisions had come easily and the President had been able to keep his pre-election pledge of ‘no boots on the ground’. The situation in the Middle East was no worse than under Cavanagh’s predecessor, and until now even North Korea had kept its belligerence to a minimum, provoking new hopes of a more stable relationship between North and South.
The only real crisis had been of Russia’s making, the turmoil in the Baltic bringing NATO into direct conflict with Russia. It had been three days before common sense had finally prevailed – thanks in part to the willingness of Russia’s new president to actively search out a suitable compromise. Cavanagh had done what had been deemed necessary to support Poland and the Baltic States, and although later criticised for being indecisi
ve, his approval rating had barely changed.
As to whether Russia or NATO had actually ‘won’ was unclear: over thirty killed on both sides, including a dozen U.S. naval personnel. The NATO alliance had held firm, despite some disagreements, and the region was slowly returning to normal. Poland, Ukraine and the Baltic States had been publicly censured for their apparent willingness to harbour anti-Russian terrorists, but Moscow no longer had cause to consider August 14 a threat. The blame game was still ongoing, although most of the combatants seemed content to move on, Russia especially keen to rebuild its tattered relationship with its NATO neighbours.
“Very well,” said the President, mind finally made up. “To accede to any of North Korea’s outrageous demands is unacceptable, and the joint naval exercise with Japan will go ahead as planned. Any less would surely only increase Japan’s anxiety. I cannot believe North Korea has any intention of carrying out its threat of a nuclear strike; in a week or so we’ll be back to the standard level of intimidation. Heaven forbid I’m proved wrong, and if necessary we will action the Joint Chefs’ recommendations… Dick, I still need you back in Tokyo – Japan’s own attitude is hardly conducive to easing tensions.”
Secretary of State, Dick Thorn merely nodded, mentally readying himself for his third transpacific flight in as many weeks.
A deep sign of resignation, then the President glanced across at Jensen, “I believe you have something else, Paul? Not Korea but August 14?”
“Yes, Mr President.” Jensen twisted in his chair slightly so that he could turn easily from the President to face any of the other inner cabinet members. This was Jensen’s first real test in five months as Secretary of Homeland Security and he was conscious of the need to make his mark. His predecessor had been a victim of the fallout from the Baltic conflict, treating the terrorist threat as purely a Russian problem and Jensen was determined not to make the same mistake. He could have temporarily buried the bad news, at least while he made additional checks, but he sensed there was little point.
The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2) Page 3
