Anderson thought he knew the basics, but Sheridan’s scorched earth policy against the Shenandoah Valley, known as ‘The Burning’, was unexpected. The Battle of McDowell was two years earlier, Stonewall Jackson defeating the Union Forces simply by managing to stay where he was and so forcing the enemy to retreat. Not a big battle, less than 800 killed in total, but a strategic victory nevertheless.
From Harrisonburg it was south-west on Route 42, the road passing through pleasant rolling countryside with a sparse covering of trees, eventually reducing down to a single carriageway and two lanes. Apart from the fact they were traveling on the wrong side of the road, they could easily have been somewhere in England. Charlotte drove, Anderson happy to sit and generally be annoying, eventually turning on the radio to listen to the latest on the Vice-President.
The political chaos could certainly have been borrowed from the UK, the number of embarrassing gaffes and scandals no more than that for a typical month in Westminster. The Vice-President’s extra-marital affair remained the main news story and he had apparently resigned immediately after returning from Hanoi; whether he had been pushed or had gone voluntarily was unclear. His letter of resignation to the President had been brief and apologetic, and damage limitation was proving difficult, the broadsheets virtually unanimous in their condemnation of Irwin. Not that the President seemed to fair much better, various political analysts citing the fiasco as merely the latest example of Cavanagh’s bad judgement.
Eventually, Anderson had heard enough, realising that such details were simply feeding Charlotte’s conspiracy theories, and he ignored the radio to focus on the Virginia countryside. After some twenty-five miles, they turned right onto Route 250 towards Monterey. Now it was a steady climb, past hedgerows and a thicker covering of trees, gradually becoming more like Scotland than England, with just the nature of the houses suggesting it might not actually be the UK. The Hankey Mountain Highway led them deeper into the National Forest and its beautiful covering of Autumnal shades.
Anderson took the occasional photo, trying not to let his cynicism spoil what was becoming a very enjoyable drive. The trees were far taller now, the sunlight almost an annoyance as it flickered and danced through the tree tops. The road twisted and turned, the view opening out to reveal yet more rolling tree-covered hills in the distance, before the car was heading out of the forest and along the Highland Turnpike.
To Anderson, it wasn’t quite the Scottish Highlands, but he could certainly see why it had been named Highland County. The trees slowly thinned out, the landscape becoming more rugged as they moved downhill. The ‘Welcome to Historic McDowell’ sign was a reminder of why they were there, the fifty mile trip from Harrisonburg taking – with a couple of brief photo stops – an hour and a half.
The speed limit lowered to 35; a right-hand bend and they were in McDowell proper: church to the left and another further on to the right, then several smart-looking houses well separated from each other – it all looked very pleasant.
They drove a mile past the gas station at the western edge then turned around, heading back. According to earlier research, McDowell was too small for a diner or restaurant, and the Highland County Museum looked the best bet to make relevant enquiries.
Except it was shut for the winter. Option two was the Country Store, option three the battlefield itself. Charlotte seemed determined to speak to anyone that ventured within close proximity, willing to go knocking on doors with photographs of McDowell in hand – not just the grainy ones from Germany, but one taken the previous year showing the more familiar ponytail.
In the end, they stayed almost two hours, Charlotte’s manner and their English accents helping ease the introductions; they were even given a coffee and a bite to eat, plus an individual guided tour of the museum.
Anderson generally preferred a subtle approach to asking questions, whereas Charlotte’s philosophy was a little more direct. Did anyone recognise this man? Anyone?
In any event, they didn’t, and it definitely seemed a genuine negative. Not that Charlotte’s enthusiasm for her task seemed diminished. To Anderson’s obvious confusion, next on her list was the county town of Monterey, ten miles further west.
“Okay,” Anderson finally asked as they left McDowell, “Why Monterey?”
Charlotte gave a superior smile, “Virginia State Law requires contractors who install radon reduction systems to be listed with either the National Radon Proficiency Program or the National Radon Safety Board. The closest authorised companies are based in Monterey and Churchville.”
Anderson decided it was best not to say anything too contentious. Charlotte seemed to have everything well in hand, although – bearing mind she’d made a good few assumptions – he wasn’t that optimistic about their chance of success.
The Monterey firm turned out to be a husband and wife team, but for once Charlotte’s charm had met its match. Whether or not it was the fact she obviously wasn’t a potential customer, her supposedly subtle mention of Pat McDowell met with undisguised hostility, the wife refusing point blank to answer any questions, the husband never actually appearing but still used as some sort of threat.
The drive to the second of Charlotte’s options was back the way they had come, Churchville just a few hundred yards from where they’d joined Route 250. There wasn’t much in terms of conversation, Charlotte still fuming and Anderson trying not to gloat. This time, it was down to Anderson to prove he could do better, his journalist credentials finally brought into play, it assumed they might help tease out any relevant information.
The company looked to be far larger than Monterey’s handful of employees, Anderson eventually working his way through to what seemed to be the boss: male, fiftyish, referred to simply as Riley. Once again, just the mention of McDowell’s name was sufficient to get a hostile response.
“Pat McDowell,” Riley repeated, giving Anderson a hard stare. “What about him?”
“I just wondered if you had done some work for him once?”
“And what if we had?”
This wasn’t quite going as well as Anderson had hoped. Riley seemed to know of McDowell and at least he hadn’t actually told him to bugger off.
“Sorry,” said Anderson apologetically. “I certainly didn’t mean to imply anything. I was just trying to find out if he used to live round here.”
“And why do the Brits care where he might have lived?”
“I’m working on something for The Washington Post,” Anderson lied. “I can’t really go into details and at the moment I’m just trying to get a bit of background on McDowell.”
Riley’s suspicious frown eased slightly, “The FBI have been asking questions as well; not to me, but people hereabouts. What did McDowell do to get everybody so all fired up?”
“As I said, I can’t go into details; but Mississippi’s next on my travels.”
Riley’s eyes widened, “You don’t say… We did do some work for McDowell ‘bout four years back. He bought a lodge near Stuarts Draft, twenty miles south-east of here: pool, shooting range, plenty of land, perfect for hunting. Moved in with his girlfriend but I guess they got bored with it; moved out after maybe a year. And before you ask, I’ve no idea where.”
“The girlfriend – do you remember her name?”
“No, sorry; I think they broke up anyway. The FBI certainly seemed more interested in just McDowell.”
“When exactly were they snooping around?”
“The FBI?” Riley thought for a moment, “Maybe the day after the two Congressmen were killed. I could check if you want?”
Anderson shook his head – he was just curious, and it was nice to know that Charlotte and the FBI were obviously thinking along the same lines. His comment to Riley about Mississippi had simply been a guess, but under the circumstances it had seemed a fairly safe bet.
Charlotte’s mood brightened significantly once Anderson reported back, delighted to have been proved correct on so many levels. Quite where her search for McD
owell would go from here wasn’t obvious, but Anderson didn’t doubt she would have some convoluted idea to pursue – he would eat humble pie and enquire further over dinner.
With the morning long gone and the afternoon also threatening to be wasted, the next venue was a toss-up between the equidistant attractions of Lexington or Charlottesville – not that it was ever really in doubt which of the two they would actually visit…
* * *
The conference table in the White House Situation Room was less than half-occupied, the members of the President’s inner circle meeting to plan out the Administration’s response to the ongoing problems – and there were so many of them.
The political fallout from the Vice-President’s affair and hurried resignation was as yet unclear, Cavanagh able to cope with the contempt of the media, knowing that they would soon find someone else to chastise. Of more concern were public perceptions and the misgivings of his own Party, the likelihood of the Democrats being decimated in the Midterms seemingly increasing by the hour.
The President started the discussion with the South China Sea, hoping that Thorn could somehow negate the embarrassment of Irwin’s trip to Hanoi. Louisa Marcelo was fast becoming a worldwide celebrity, her face on every news broadcast, her campaign against the Chinese militarisation of little-known reefs a hundred miles from nowhere catching the American public’s imagination. The United Nations Security Council had duly discussed and prevaricated with nothing agreed – certainly not the condemnation of China that the Philippines and Vietnam had demanded. Where the South China Sea was concerned, China was always likely to veto any significant or meaningful resolution, its own selfish interests paramount – but then the same could be said for any of the five permanent members.
“No-one’s interested in compromise,” Thorn announced bluntly. “China believes right is on their side, and the rest want to see how events unfold over the next few days. It all comes down to Louisa Marcelo, and who will back down first. Personally, I can’t see it being China; they’ve possibly got far more to lose.”
“Just to be clear,” Cavanagh queried, “are we sure there’s no possibility of a military confrontation?” He looked to Thorn, but it was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff (CJCS), Admiral Wade Adams who answered.
“We can’t completely rule it out, Sir; but it seems highly unlikely. At worst, we’d be looking at a couple of patrol boats facing off against each other. Taiwan and Vietnam are the most military-minded, but I doubt either will risk a shooting match with China. More of a problem is China itself: one day soon they may become arrogant enough to disrupt the shipping lanes around the Paracel or Spratly Islands. Then their willingness to go to war will need to be tested.”
That would the job of the Seventh Fleet, thought Cavanagh to himself. Tensions between China and the United Sates over the region had been high for well over a decade and it had been accepted for some time that a battle for supremacy was inevitable. Just not on my watch, prayed Cavanagh silently.
“Under the circumstances,” Thorn interjected, “the decision to transfer the USS Milius was sensible – personally, I’m more concerned with what China is up to than North Korea.”
Adams nodded his agreement, as did Amy Pittman, Cavanagh pleased that at least one of his decisions had proved judicious.
“And what of North Korea?” the President muttered with a sigh. “We’re two days into Dragon Shield – can I relax or are they still going to obliterate Japan?” It was said with a hint of a smile, but there was also a certain edge to his tone. Problems were mounting rapidly and he could well do without North Korea’s regular belligerence.
“They’ve been relatively quiet, Mr President,” confirmed the Secretary of Defence seated to Cavanagh’s left. “They’ve threatened; we’ve ignored it – everyone’s played by the rules and we can sit back and wait for the next pointless exchange.” Bob Deangelo was a long-time associate of Cavanagh’s and more of a friend than just a colleague, yet closer to the Secretary of State in terms of being a hawk.
So far, the update was going as well as Cavanagh could have hoped and the only other external concern was Russia. President Golubeva now seemed fully in control of Moscow, with no reports of further military deployments, one unanswered question being the precise status of General Morozov. Domestic issues remained complex, Cavanagh somehow needing to restore public faith in his Administration: if he could do that before Election Day on the 8th, then it would clearly be a miracle.
“Paul, I know you have a lot to discuss,” said Cavanagh, turning to Jensen. “Just a rough summary will be fine for now.”
Jensen checked the notes in front of him: summary or not, it was difficult to know quite where to start. Facts first…
“The WikiLeaks report into Congress is basically a very clever reinterpretation of the actual data, with each allegation needing to be checked against the original invoice or expense claim. That is taking time as several of the original computer files seem to have become corrupted – we’re still investigating as to exactly how and who had access. I understand that it will be another forty-eight hours before a definitive list of disbursements is available, but it’s looking as if most of the accusations are either exaggerated or simply false. Unfortunately, as with the other political embarrassments that have suddenly surfaced over the past few weeks, the damage has already been done.”
The deliberate revelations – true and untrue – as to political misdeeds were a trend it was now impossible to ignore; yet if Jensen was to convince the others as to the why, he needed to prepare the groundwork carefully first.
Jensen continued, “Carl Irwin’s house at Lake Seneca was definitely a set-up, the camera specifically designed to bypass security checks. Somehow Irwin was persuaded that the house was ideal for his needs, presumably by one of the women. They both passed the routine security assessments and the FBI is planning to interview them tomorrow. Under the circumstances, it’s likely such action will be misinterpreted as unnecessary, even malicious – to most people’s eyes, the women’s only crime is to be seduced by an older married man.”
The former Vice-President had already suffered the added ignominy of being interviewed by the FBI, his uncooperative attitude making the agency’s task all the more difficult. In a few short hours, Irwin had now lost his wife, his job, his career, as well as his two lovers, and he had needed to take it out on someone – the FBI just happened to be first in the firing line.
Jensen resumed his commentary, moving on to the Office on Naval Intelligence. “Paige Hanson certainly appears to have been a dedicated professional, someone who was immensely proud to be American. Politically knowledgeable, her views were right-wing but by no means extreme. It seems likely that she was working under orders, not from Russia or even Pat McDowell, but someone much closer to the ONI. I cannot believe it was her head of section, Captain Nolan, and we need to look higher up the chain of command.”
Jensen paused, anticipating some comment from Thorn or Pittman. When there was none, he quickly pressed on.
“We assume that Evgeny Sukhov’s involvement with McDowell is somehow also connected to recent events in Moscow. Sukhov was pictured beside Golubeva yesterday and is obviously still in favour, unlike General Morozov. The General’s whereabouts remain unclear: his family home in Moscow is off limits and several of his close associates have gone missing – possibly arrested, possibly in hiding. If Morozov is still alive there remains the potential for a renewed power struggle; there is certainly evidence to suggest that several units of the 20th Guards Army have been forcibly confined to barracks.
“Sukhov could well be working with McDowell in order to divert China’s attention away from Russia’s internal problems. Since coming to power, Golubeva has had a lukewarm relationship with Beijing; there is also concern that China might try to use Moscow’s instability to renew various territorial claims in the Far East.”
Jensen paused momentarily, his understanding of how such external events tied
in with the increasing domestic crisis, still far from perfect. “At present there is still nothing to link McDowell with the murders in Mississippi, or indeed any of the other political indiscretions. However, it seems likely that he is the one pulling the strings. The search for him is ongoing, our focus the Eastern Seaboard; but apart from one probable sighting near Arlington, there’s been nothing. In truth, he could be anywhere. Personally, I would bet he’s not that far from Washington.”
Jensen lapsed into silence, and it was left to the President to ask the obvious. “Your conclusions, Paul; although I think we all have some idea what they might be.”
Jensen glanced around the table, sensing that the President had already discussed various possibilities with Admiral Adams and Bob Deangelo.
“On the face of it,” said Jensen carefully picking his words, “we have two distinct problems: potential conflict in the South China Sea and a series of embarrassing revelations at home. If Pat McDowell is involved in both, then events here might be nothing more than a diversion, something to keep our main focus away from what is happening elsewhere. Maybe Russia hopes that we will consequently stumble into a war with China. With Sukhov acting as a go-between, Russia could easily provide McDowell with the necessary finance and essential intelligence.”
Cavanagh seemed to be nodding in agreement but Jensen hadn’t yet finished, having something rather more controversial to propose.
“Unfortunately,” continued Jensen, now talking directly to the President. “I am convinced that there is far more at stake here than the reputation of Carl Irwin and various Members of Congress. Bearing in mind Sukhov’s involvement and McDowell’s history with August 14, then another possibility exists; namely that McDowell is attempting to create the ideal conditions for a coup d’état.”
Jensen’s statement was greeted with a stunned silence, and he felt the need to offer more in the way of justification. “The drip-feeding of political scandals to an already sceptical public, combined with widespread frustration over America’s foreign policy and thus her standing in the world, reveals a concerted effort to undermine people’s faith in the President and this Administration. The Republican Party has suffered similarly, and this is not just aimed at one political group but at the very fabric of U.S. democracy.”
The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2) Page 17
