The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2)

by Christopher Read

  Overall, it was difficult not to believe Hanson’s job was done, the chances of her leading them to Pat McDowell already looking remote. But that’s what made Flores’ job so intriguing, the target lulling everyone into a false sense of security and then suddenly doing the unexpected.

  Once Hanson walked through the doors of the ONI building, she would be outside of the FBI’s view and their authority, others no doubt taking on that particular responsibility. If nothing else, such investigations taught the art of patience, Flores certain that Hanson would eventually make a mistake – he just hoped she did it sooner rather than later.

  Hanson parked in the main car park, walking quickly across the tarmac towards her office in the Farragut Building, her breath showing clearly in the cold morning air. There were still two cameras on her and six agents; another thirty seconds and they could all relax, Hanson likely to be out of their jurisdiction for at least three hours.

  Abruptly Hanson seemed to stumble; her body lurched a second time then she crashed face down to the ground. Flores saw it all on the central display, the camera revealing the blood-red stain spreading across the back of her jacket.

  “Shooter! From the north-west!” Other voices now added to the clamour from the loudspeaker to Flores right. Instinctively, he knew where the sniper was, seeing in his mind the layout north-west towards Washington National Cemetery.

  “The water tower!” he ordered. “All units – the shooter’s atop the water tower at Swann and Suitland.”

  It was all too easy. The tan-coloured water tower was a prominent landmark, the recreation centre at its base even available for hire. It was maybe four hundred yards from where Hanson’s body lay – too far for a rank amateur, but still a relatively easy shot for a trained sniper. That meant someone either from the military or the police, and with very steady nerves.

  It took just seconds to confirm Hanson was dead, the two hollow point bullets less than two inches apart a lesson in overkill. It was another full minute before the first report came through from the Suitland Water Tower: one community worked murdered; no sign of the shooter; one possible suspect – a white male, traveling in a black sedan heading north-west.

  Flores made the appropriate calls, the suspect’s details so vague as to be completely useless. Only now did he realise that the sniper most likely had an accomplice tailing Hanson, someone to warn that the target was approaching the ONI. The FBI team hadn’t noticed anything, but then they hadn’t been looking.

  Flores belatedly ordered a review of the video records. Not that he expected to discover anything worthwhile, resigned now as to it being just another missed opportunity. All-in-all it was a complete fuck-up.

  It was the worst possible start to his morning. And no doubt someone was going to get it in the neck – most likely Flores himself.

  Marshwick, England – 14:32 Local Time; 13:32 UTC

  Breakfast had been a rushed affair, Charlotte heading off home after coffee and toast to change before opening up the agency at nine. By mutual agreement they had kept the Sunday free of anything controversial or related to mysterious packages, the two of them spending the day in Lincoln, avoiding the showers by strategic visits to the castle and shops.

  It was early afternoon before Anderson returned once more to his quest. Although mindful of Devereau’s belated warning and the potential dangers, such concerns had never stopped him before, and there seemed little risk in pursuing it for a while longer. He still had several more possible avenues for research: Brandt, Kramer, Mercier, Marcelo – it might take time but Anderson was confident there was an answer somewhere in the electronic aether of the internet. And, if he were honest, he didn’t actually have anything better to do.

  In fact it took him less than fifteen minutes to search out a brief CV on the first three, each of their individual areas of expertise an impressively close match to those of Judith Gastrell and Walter Drummond. The results doggedly continued Saturday’s sonar theme, the frequent use of it in combination with algorithm forcing Anderson to ensure he really did know what the latter word actually meant. ‘A set of rules for solving a problem’ seemed to be the simplest definition, Google itself using algorithms to come up with its search results; similarly, dating sites used them to pair couples together and even his phone’s news feed was based around an algorithm.

  Anderson obstinately delved deeper into the companies Gastrell and the others worked for, gradually becoming bewildered by the incestuous links between Atlas Elektronik, BAE and Thales. All of them seemed happy to co-operate on various defence programmes, often working on joint ventures with a diverse selection of countries, buying and selling subsidiaries along the way. Various U.S. conglomerates, such as Lockheed Martin and General Electric, also seemed keen to join the merry-go-round of joint ventures, mergers and restructuring.

  Not that any of it helped him work out the precise nature of the symposium or what McDowell was up to. A search on Marcelo came next, Anderson’s initial enthusiasm for the task slowly waning with each fruitless hour.

  When Charlotte returned just after five, Anderson was back on track with his oft-delayed dinner plan, except it was now the local pub rather than something more personal. Sadly, Charlotte seemed keen to return to the problem of McDowell.

  “If sonar and algorithms are potential links,” Charlotte suggested, “what about adding them as keywords to different combinations of the other names.”

  Anderson tried not to sound petulant, knowing that Charlotte was working hard to be helpful. “Been there, done that. Bet you didn’t know there’s a big music festival called Sonar, and Marcelo Castelli had a hit with his track of the same name. I’ve combined every keyword we have, plus a billion other permutations. Same result. I just can’t work out what the link to McDowell might be.”

  Charlotte nodded in understanding, “Perceptive deductions always take time, Mike; hopefully though, not forever.”

  It was proving to be an exasperating day, Anderson almost wishing Charlotte had left it another twenty-four hours before interfering so directly. Now they were both getting cranky, which didn’t bode well for a good end to the evening.

  For once, Anderson’s diplomatic skills proved equal to the task, Charlotte persuaded to abandon the internet for The Farriers Arms. Despite the pub suffering from its usual Monday-evening lack of atmosphere, dinner proved to be a relaxed and pleasant affair, Anderson working hard to keep the conversation away from anything too controversial.

  It was well after nine before they returned to the cottage. Charlotte led the way inside, stopping suddenly the instant she turned on the kitchen light.

  Anderson almost stumbled into her, confused eyes following her gaze to the kitchen table.

  Santa Claus had been back.

  Chapter 5 – Tuesday, October 25th

  Berlin – 14:08 Local Time; 12:08 UTC

  Anderson knew he was being led by the nose and didn’t like it, not one bit. His latest Christmas present was gratifyingly expensive, although this time it hadn’t come in a nice cardboard box and there was no helpful handwritten note – merely a pre-paid mobile phone and an open return e-ticket to Berlin.

  The first episode had seemed merely an inconvenience, an unfortunate invasion of privacy that wouldn’t be repeated, and it had seemed gracious to allow Markova’s courier a certain leeway. But now it was threatening to become more of a nuisance, even if it also offered up an intriguing challenge.

  To accept it had a possible element of risk; to reject it would be foolish, especially as the airline ticket was business class. And Anderson was basically getting nowhere investigating Markova’s list.

  It had been a pain having to drive first to Heathrow, but the early-morning flight itself had been uneventful – a final two hours for Anderson to worry and fidget while trusting he’d made the right decision.

  Not that his benefactor was being particularly helpful, Anderson’s newly-acquired phone remaining silent until he’d landed at Berlin-Tegel. The subseque
nt text message continued the brusque theme, merely instructing him to deposit backpack and personal phone in the airport’s left luggage.

  Anderson did as he was told, assuming that someone was watching everything he did. He didn’t even have time to put the receipt in his pocket before his new phone chimed again.

  Message duly read, he took a taxi into Berlin proper, Anderson now more annoyed than apprehensive, impatient to learn the purpose of his travels. He assumed it was something to do with the two German experts; maybe he was even meeting one of them – if indeed they were still alive.

  At least it wasn’t a secluded back street or some isolated Berlin outpost. Friedrichshain Park was peaceful yet busy, and Anderson sat on a wooden bench close to a long line of boulders. Covered with graffiti, the rock wall had two teenage climbers honing their skills against it; further on were several family groups – it all helped to put Anderson slightly more at ease. As instructed, his new phone rested on the bench beside him, fate as yet unknown.

  After some five minutes, an elderly man approached along the path, warmly dressed in coat and hat. With a stifled grunt of discomfort, he sat down heavily next to Anderson, gaze studying the view straight ahead.

  “Old age is a terrible thing, Mr Anderson; each new pain has a certain sense of permanency about it, a warning as to what is to come.” The German accent was almost non-existent, the man’s tone friendly.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Anderson said. “You obviously know my name; I also find it useful to know who I’m talking to.”

  “I always liked the name Thomas; that’ll do nicely. I hope you appreciate I’ve gone to a lot of trouble on your behalf, up most of the night. It’s not true what they say about needing less sleep as you get older; I always prefer a good eight hours.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get a suitable reward; maybe in the next life.” Anderson’s irritability was returning, frustrated by Thomas’ delay in getting to the point. “Shouldn’t you be checking me for a wire, or something?”

  “Just so, Mr Anderson; except it’s already been done. This new technology always amazes me – I can still remember when computers used punch cards.”

  Thomas was obviously not someone to be hurried and Anderson leant back in exasperation, patiently awaiting the next piece of the drama to unfold. It was hardly surprising they didn’t trust him, and nowadays such concerns seemed part and parcel of being a journalist, Anderson assuming politicians felt pretty much the same.

  “I can only,” Thomas continued, “report fully on Kramer. Both he and Brandt were questioned late on Saturday, and I understand Brandt’s version is very similar. Unfortunately, Kramer’s account was interspersed with complex terminology and I wasted half my time having to replay the recording while trying to make sense of it. I trust you’ll forgive the inevitable inaccuracies; it’s hard to remember everything and as I said, the technological terms were often well over my head. I felt obliged to do a fair bit of background research but there’s a limit to how much Wikipedia can help.”

  “Is that genuine inaccuracies or deliberate distortions?”

  Thomas gave a broad smile, “In our world, what’s the difference. I would have given you a written copy of Kramer’s full interview but we both know that’s not possible.”

  He paused, as though getting his facts in order. “The symposium at Wilhelmshaven was purely routine: two full days, Wednesday and Thursday, 12th and 13th of October. Similar meetings are held once or twice a year in order to keep up-to-date with submarine upgrades, specifically those made by non-NATO countries. The venue rotates; Germany this time; the U.S. and France before that. All the participants are acknowledged experts in their field, with the individuals involved varying depending on who is available and where the symposium is being held; only Drummond, Gastrell and Kramer had been at the Washington meeting in May.”

  There was a second drawn-out pause, Thomas seemingly determined to ensure he got everything just right. “Upgrading a submarine is a cheap way of modernising a country’s deterrent, but any such improvements affect NATO’s ability to detect and identify a potential threat. Hence the need for regular appraisals. The group would assess a submarine’s upgrades and try to work out how such modifications would affect its acoustic signal; not just one basic scenario, but under various conditions such as at different speeds and sea temperatures.”

  Thomas gave a self-satisfied smile, “Kramer himself couldn’t have explained it any better. He seemed genuinely shocked when the police turned up on his doorstep and there was no indication he was trying to hide anything. Apparently, the only unusual aspect over those two days was the presence of Hanson; she was a late addition to the group and acted merely as an official observer. Kramer has been to five of these meetings, two in the U.S., and this was the first time anyone from the Intelligence Community had shown an interest.”

  Thomas seemed to have reached the end of his account, content to await Anderson’s obligatory round of questions.

  Anderson assumed Thomas was either in the counter-terrorist section of Germany’s Federal Police, the BKA, or had access to someone who was. What wasn’t clear was how much Thomas knew about Markova’s note, and where exactly his loyalties lay – the FSB’s reach stopped at the Russian border unlike their Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR.

  “McDowell, Anderson asked, “what does Kramer know about him?”

  “Nothing; he claims he’s never heard of him, and he stuck to his story even when shown McDowell’s photograph. Apart from Brandt who went home on the Wednesday night, the rest – even Hanson – stayed at a local hotel. Kramer can’t remember any of the group chatting to any other Americans, but it wasn’t as if they were kept under lock and key. Hanson disappeared for most of Wednesday evening – obviously to meet McDowell – but Kramer himself had no idea where she went or why.”

  Anderson picked up on something that Thomas had said at the start, “Was the timing of this symposium moved up for some reason? You said the previous meeting was in May; that makes it barely five months between meetings.”

  The question seemed to take Thomas by surprise and he had to think hard before answering. “I’m not sure; I don’t think Kramer said either way.”

  Anderson moved quickly on, “Am I right in thinking that certain rules – algorithms – are used to match the acoustic signature picked up by sonar to a particular submarine; that way a warship would know exactly what it’s tracking?” He wasn’t sure whether the question had already been answered, but it seemed important to check.

  Thomas nodded in agreement, “That’s how I understand it. If the present algorithms aren’t valid because of an upgrade, then the group either make recommendations as to changes, or the problem is passed on for more detailed analysis.”

  “Passed on where?”

  “No idea; Kramer never said.”

  Anderson tried again, “What sort of upgrades are we talking about?”

  “New engines; different number of blades on the propeller; adding stealth technology – apparently they can even stretch the hull.”

  “And they get information on upgrades from what: satellites, spies?”

  Thomas ignored the taunt. “Throw in security breaches, phone hacks and even social media.” He gave a thin smile, “I’m just guessing as to what Kramer would have said if someone had asked him. Use your imagination, Mr Anderson.”

  “Okay, so if the group recommend changes to the algorithms – then what?”

  “The various submarine databases are updated; both the national database and the computer systems aboard NATO warships.”

  Gastrell’s profile had also mentioned a submarine database. Britain, France Germany: each country seemed to maintain a list of acoustic profiles, for surface ships as well as submarines, with the most comprehensive at the Naval Surface Warfare Centre in Maryland.

  Anderson persevered, “Which actual countries were they looking at? Surely there can’t be that many subs upgraded since May?”

&nb
sp; “It’s not just recent upgrades; it’s also where additional data has come to light, maybe from an actual sonar contact. If there’s an anomaly in what the algorithms have identified, then that might suggest some modification NATO aren’t aware of. That could have happened anytime.”

  Thomas hesitated, brow furrowing as he dragged up yet more facts. “An upgrade tends to be unique to an individual submarine rather than it being applied to every vessel in the same class. The group looked at four subs in total but Kramer refused to reveal individual pennant numbers, citing national security. Do you really need each country and class of submarine?”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  Thomas gave Anderson an annoyed look, before slowly reeling off the list. “They’re all attack subs; North Korea: Ming-class; Russia: Kilo-class; China: one Yuan and one Shang-class. Have you got all that?”

  Anderson nodded his thanks, repeating the names over in his mind, not daring to appear feeble by asking to write them down.

  “That’s about it,” Thomas announced. “I trust I’ve been of some help.”

  “I appreciate it, thank you. I guess you’ve no idea where McDowell has hidden himself?”

  “Not my department.” Thomas picked up Andersons’s new phone and struggled to his feet, before turning so as to directly face him.

  “Good luck; Mr Anderson. I believe any debt owed is now repaid in full.”

  Anderson smiled briefly in understanding, “Do svidaniya.”

  Thomas moved as if to walk away, then abruptly he changed his mind. “McDowell stayed two nights at the Hotel Regent in Hamburg, name of Mark Wheeler, suite 510. Keep the phone; you never know when it might be of some use.” Almost reluctantly, he lobbed the phone towards Anderson, before striding stiffly away.