With the help of the GRU, the FSB was also keeping tabs on Anderson, just in case he might somehow get lucky. The FSB could do with some luck for itself: the President’s purge of the agency might be encouraging dissent, but one edgy day at a time, the Lubyanka was slowly being beaten into submission.
Marshwick, England – 09:47 Local Time; 08:47 UTC
Anderson was feeling a little guilty, the good news of having an article published in The Washington Post somewhat tarnished by his genuine concern as to London’s possible fate. He still couldn’t decide whether to tell SO15 about Hamburg, hoping that his knowledge wasn’t actually that crucial.
He sat at the kitchen table, laptop in front to him, determined to make the most of his success by swapping topic from August 14 to the more complex Russia-Poland-U.S. relations. The Post had even been in touch, Anderson invited to Washington to discuss a series of related articles, with the possibility of there being something more permanent – bearing in mind Anderson had been back in Marshwick for less than a week, Charlotte’s hug of congratulations had been particularly gracious.
For the moment, the delicate nature of Poland’s relationship with Russia was his first priority, neither country willing to trust the other, with both economies suffering as a result. Anderson was also half-listening to Sky News, his brain programmed to react to the three keywords of London, Attack, and Marcelo, while cleverly filtering out everything else.
By late morning there was nothing that relevant: FTSE down fifty points; fears of a new recession; various banks in trouble for something; NHS in crisis – it was all fairly normal. The terrorist threat level remained unchanged, and the main news story couldn’t work out whether it should focus on the NHS or move on to rumours of a cabinet reshuffle. In Moscow, there was yet another demonstration outside of the Kremlin walls, the numbers surging despite the chaos of the previous day, with well over a hundred thousand standing in silent protest.
It was only when the New York Stock Exchange opened that the news edged away from the ordinary. The Dow began to fall steadily, losing over three hundred points in the first hour. Analysts muttered about nervousness fuelling rumours or vice-versa, and then it became more to do with realignments and profit taking. Some experts even blamed it on the day’s date, it being the 25th anniversary of a memorable mini-crash. That had been caused by an economic crisis in Asia, and the New York Stock Exchange had eventually been forced to close early, the Dow Jones Industrial Average having plummeted by over 7%.
It wasn’t quite what Anderson had in mind: August 14 had shut down the Moscow Exchange twice the previous year due to cyber-attacks, but this was more an attack of jitters. Within a couple of hours, the Dow slowly started to settle, with some stocks clawing their way back. The FTSE belatedly fell further then rallied, eventually closing 110 points down.
With nothing else happening in London, Anderson resorted to a news search on Marcelo. It took less than minute before two of his brain’s keywords slotted neatly into place beside each other.
It was indeed an attack, and it was by someone named Marcelo – but not against London. By Anderson’s reckoning Marcelo was presently located about six and a half thousand miles away from the UK, her ‘attack’ purely a verbal one.
A middle-aged Senator from the Philippines wasn’t quite Anderson’s ideal for a terrorist, but he still he ended up listening to a good portion of Louisa Marcelo’s speech, or at least those parts that were in English. Even to someone as cynical as Anderson, it was an impressive and skilful play on people’s emotions, Marcelo coming across as ebullient and self-deprecating, someone able to hold an audience in the palm of her hand while directing her eloquence against some unfortunate victim. The latter seemed to include a good few nations and their leaders, her cutting remarks aimed mainly at the Chinese Government and her own President.
The senator had spoken out at a rally in Manila, decrying the expansionist policies of China in the South China Sea and the feeble response of its neighbours. In an impassioned plea, she had called upon the nations of South-East Asia to put aside their differences and stand up against China, Marcelo encouraging her audience to show their support for a more assertive policy, and even to ‘push back the Chinese invaders from blood-soaked Filipino soil’. To demonstrate her own personal commitment to such a challenge, she was proposing to lead a seaborne protest against the illegal Chinese occupation of the Spratly Islands. Almost in tears, she pleaded for everyone who could to join her in a ‘peace armada’ – a show of unity and a signal to other nations that the people of the Philippines were determined to protect what was rightfully theirs.
Marcelo’s words had been greeted with boisterous acclaim, the local media generally positive as to her aims despite her criticism of the President. The soil in question seemed to be a few thousand small islands and reefs, China laying claim to a massive area of the South China Sea. Sandwiched between the coastlines of half-a-dozen countries, the real prize appeared to be the natural resources thought to exist offshore, an economic gamble where the dice were heavily loaded in China’s favour.
According to the news report, several other Philippine Senators had already publicly backed Marcelo’s campaign and the principle of the armada, social media sites acting as her mouthpiece to the wider world. Similar anti-Chinese rallies were already being planned for Malaysia and Vietnam.
Anderson didn’t know whether to feel relieved or foolish, half expecting a phone call from SO15 to give him a bollocking for wasting police time. Everyone made mistakes, and if he’d got carried away with thoughts of terrorist attacks on London, then he wasn’t the only one.
And, whatever else, someone still needed to get to grips with McDowell – having him stirring things up in South-East Asia just couldn’t be healthy, for anyone.
* * *
It was almost six before Charlotte swept in, definitely looking pleased about something but determined to keep Anderson guessing, insisting he explain abut Louisa Marcelo first.
“And definitely no terrorist attacks?” she asked, once Anderson had finished.
“Not yet; I guess MI6 will be in touch with Manila about McDowell, but it’s still not obvious what he’s up to.”
“Talking of McDowell,” Charlotte said with a superior smile. “I had some success with his comment about Virginia.”
Anderson had guessed as much, annoyed with himself for not persevering. “I would have solved it; I just had more important things to do.”
Charlotte shook her head in exasperation, checking her phone to ensure the relevant facts were correct. “Of course you did, Mike… McDowell’s remark about not breathing indoors is to do with Radon gas. There’s hotspots in most states with buildings needing to add extra ventilation; worst for Virginia is Highland County. The state’s black bear population is mainly concentrated around the Blue Ridge and Alleghany Mountains, plus the unfortunately named Great Dismal Swamp. Intriguingly, it turns out that the Alleghenies form Highland County’s western border.”
Anderson tried hard to sound impressed but failed miserably, “So you think McDowell was referring to one particular area of Virginia, specifically Highland County. How can you be sure he wasn’t just repeating something he’d heard; a piece of Virginian folklore to keep Gabriel happy?”
Charlotte chose to ignore Anderson’s sarcasm and his obvious lack of enthusiasm, “It gets better. The capital of Highland County is Monterey – a bit smaller than it’s more famous Californian namesake. There was a Civil War battle just a few miles to the east, known as the Battle of McDowell.”
Anderson just stared at her, mind numb. Eventually he found his voice, “McDowell: and it’s spelt the same way?”
“Yup; it’s named after a James McDowell, Governor of Virginia 1843 to 46.”
Anderson didn’t know quite what to say – after all it was just a name; the fact it was the same just coincidence. “Let’s just take a step back here, Charlie. What exactly are you suggesting?”
Charlotte bit he
r lip, trying to put in words what didn’t really make a lot of sense, “McDowell’s comments about Virginia are too personal for him not to have lived there, at least for a while. I know he could be anywhere; I just thought it was somewhere to start...”
The sentence trailed away as Charlotte saw the look on Anderson’s face. “Well let’s not argue over it,” she said huffily. “It’s obviously a stupid idea. On a totally unrelated matter, I thought it would be a good plan to extend your Washington trip into more of a joint holiday. Since you always leave everything up to me, I used my initiative and booked a ten-day break starting Monday; I’ve even sorted out the plane tickets.”
“Ten days,” Anderson repeated slowly, it taking time for him to digest what Charlotte was actually telling him. “That’s great, Charlie.” The second sentence at least sounded more enthusiastic than the first. And he really was pleased that Charlotte was tagging along – a couple of wasted days spent traipsing around the wilds of Virginia while searching out irradiated bears seemed a not unreasonable trade.
Charlotte gave him a hard look, sensing his concern, her eyes brooking no argument, arms metaphorically folded. “My treat, unless The Post decides to pay; hire car already booked. I’m really looking forward to it; should be nice to see Virginia in the fall and experience a proper American Halloween.”
Washington, D.C. – 14:12 Local time; 18:12 UTC
Jensen believed that he was fairly competent when it came to technology, but he had been amazed by how much could be garnered from a few grainy photographs. The two images of the stone blocks shown behind McDowell had been enhanced and analysed, the blocks measured, their colour and texture assessed. The details had then been compared with buildings throughout Germany, the hundred most likely then receiving a visit from Germany’s Federal Police, the BKA. The Hotel Regent had been number sixty-three on the list, a second call from the BKA ensuring Homeland Security had access to the hotel’s records and security files. Having confirmed McDowell had spent two nights there, the next step had been to search out any possible associates.
Evgeny Sukhov had been the first to be identified, Jensen learning more about the Russian by the hour. For one of Golubeva’s aides to be working with McDowell had been a shock, Jensen unsure how it all fitted together, and what relevance Wilhelmshaven played. The symposium had discussed all four submarines on both days, their final recommendations left until the second afternoon. So why then had Hanson and McDowell met on the first evening and not once the decisions had been finalised? It just made no sense.
The specialist group looking into Hanson’s involvement had come up with several unlikely possibilities as to what McDowell was after. Their present favourite was a decoy programmed to match the acoustic signature of one of China’s Attack Submarines, its purpose as yet unknown. Now, with Sukhov’s involvement, the group would most likely need to think again.
Then there was Michael Anderson. To call him an associate of McDowell’s perhaps wasn’t quite correct, but they certainly knew each other. However, it could hardly be a coincidence that Anderson had turned up at the Regent just two weeks after McDowell and asked for the same suite number, even if he’d actually ended up in the room next door. Anderson had recently led a somewhat charmed existence, with a knack of being in the wrong place at the right time. Jensen assumed Anderson was also looking for McDowell, and so far he appeared to be doing rather better than America’s Intelligence Community – not an encouraging sign.
Now that the British intercept seemed to be gaining credence, there was one other aspect that concerned Jensen. The transcript of the conversation between Hanson and McDowell had begun with the words ‘told to emphasise’. That indicated Hanson was under orders from someone, quite possibly someone else in the ONI. The trouble was that didn’t appear to be her head of department, Captain Nolan incompetent and lazy but probably not a traitor.
Overall, they were making progress, just not quickly enough. If the South China Sea was to be the new focus for McDowell and his associates, then what had actually happened in London, and was the murder of two Congressmen in Mississippi part of the same campaign or not?
Jensen knew all the right questions, just none of the answers. The other three men involved in the Mississippi attack had still not been positively identified, and there was nothing definite to suggest that McDowell was anywhere other than in Europe.
Despite his unwillingness to jump to conclusions, with every day that passed Jensen was becoming more convinced McDowell was the key player in recent events, the similarities to last year’s crisis in Russia becoming difficult to ignore. There might not be terrorists planting bombs but the American people’s trust in their leaders was slowly being eaten away all the same, some new political scandal hitting the headlines seemingly every other day. Taken separately each incident was fairly insignificant; taken together they were fast becoming an unfortunate trend, the cumulative effects just starting to provoke public comment.
President Golubeva’s own rise to prominence had been due in part to the terrorist murder of a Kremlin rival – just one more parallel to what was now happening in the U.S. The political response to Mississippi had quickly moved from shock to outrage. Congressman Dan Quinn had been highly regarded, his recent election as House Majority Leader making him the Republican Party’s most influential voice behind the Speaker of the House. His younger colleague was in his first term as a Congressman, carrying forward a long-standing family tradition; yet he was still a virtual unknown and a political motive for his murder seemed unlikely.
The media were rather more muted in their reaction to the Mississippi shootings: the expected sympathy and indignation, but after the first twenty-four hours the follow-up reports began to lose prominence, none felt worthy enough to make the national headlines. Outside of Mississippi, the public had more immediate concerns, their natural cynicism towards politicians tempering their response. In terms of a possible motive, there was far more rumour than fact, social media spreading anything from a jealous lover to political divisions in the Republican Party. Pushed off the road and then shot twice in the head seemed an extreme reaction in either case. The news media had toyed with the possibility of a terrorist attack, and then quickly moved on to something else.
Jensen had grown more frustrated by the hour with the Intelligence Community’s slow progress, and he had finally opted for a change of strategy. The FBI was now the lead agency on everything related to Pat McDowell and Paige Hanson. In addition, he had set up a second specialist group to look into the political repercussions of the attack in Mississippi – who gained, and what precise implications would it have for the Republican Party and the political system as a whole.
Jensen was merely playing safe: personally he wasn’t yet convinced that McDowell had anything to do with Mississippi, but he was not prepared to ignore the possibility of some complex operation against the United States. If the world had learnt anything from last year’s terrorist campaign, it was that Russia had wasted months simply reacting to August 14, apparently unable to wrench the initiative back from the terrorists until the very end.
Or maybe Russia hadn’t even managed that, the link between the terrorists and Golubeva now revealed: August 14 – McDowell – Sukhov – Golubeva. If the Russian President’s grab for power had been deliberately driven by August 14 and its murder of hundreds of Russians, then Golubeva was no different to the worst of her Soviet predecessors. If she could do that to her own people, she would hardly care what new terror McDowell planned to unleash upon some other nation.
And might that nation actually be the United States?
It was a slightly improbable thought, but Jensen kept it handy at the back of his mind, just in case future events showed that the improbable was about to come true.
Chapter 8 – Friday, October 28th
South China Sea – 03:10 Local Time; Thursday 19:10 UTC
Buffeted by wind and rain, Allan Valdez stood on the cargo ship’s deck and gazed down at the w
aves, trying not to throw up as the vessel began its next laboured roll. For some reason it felt far less stomach-churning to be outside in the open air, the darkness broken by the shimmering glow of the moon and the lights from the ship’s bridge. It was bright enough for Valdez to see the waves directly below him, and they certainly looked far less intimidating than he’d expected, just an occasional speckle of white amongst the dark-blue of the ocean swell. He could also breathe easier standing here, the cabin a stinking prison of sweat and vomit, four of its six occupants suffering with differing degrees of sea-sickness.
No-one had expected it to be a problem: at 1600 tonnes, the Sierra Leone-registered MV Anaconda was of a similar size to the ferries they were all familiar with, and in four months of working with the Zodiac inflatable, they’d only ever had one bout of sickness between them. Yet it had taken less than twelve hours before Valdez began to feel queasy, another two until he threw up. Sea-sickness was hardly the best preparation for the task ahead and their roundabout route meant it would be two more days until landfall. A plane flight to the island group’s only airfield would have been a far quicker and less gut-wrenching option, but not ideal when your hand luggage included assault rifles and explosives.
It was a lot to ask of six men, especially with one of them half Valdez’s age and the others still in their mid-twenties. Whatever their age or experience, six was barely enough – but it would have to do. With six Valdez could send a message that would be difficult to ignore; with six he might even persuade the doubters and cowards that it was better stand up to the Chinese invaders than lie down and hide.
Valdez smiled at the thought, knowing that he was making light of the potential difficulties – but there was nothing wrong in daydreaming. What else could he do stuck on a floating metallic box just sixty metres long and ten metres wide?
The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2) Page 9
