McDowell swapped channels, pleased to note that the comments were fairly consistent with those from CNN. One online survey suggested that public support for military action against China was split along national lines, with two thirds willing to act in support of the Philippines, less than half in Vietnam’s defence.
McDowell studied the news feeds and reports for another hour and then reached for his phone – time now for the closing sequence to play out and finally put an end Cavanagh’s ailing administration.
* * *
Raymond Flores watched Charlotte Saunders being interviewed from the comfort of the observation room, mildly curious as to why she felt the need to lie.
Once Anderson had showed no sign of returning to Leesburg, Saunders had been ‘invited’ to discuss the FBI’s various concerns. The murder of Enrique Garcia was overshadowed by events in the South China Sea, but the joint FBI-police hunt for his murderer was gathering pace. Having obtained Anderson’s fingerprints and DNA from the Jackson Inn, it hadn’t taken long to confirm his presence at Garcia’s house. The security system timed his arrival at the house just before Garcia’s estimated time of death, but forensic evidence contrarily only placed him downstairs. CCTV from adjacent properties had revealed nothing helpful, and certainly no indication as to how Anderson had arrived or whether anyone else might be involved.
Then there was the white van. It still wasn’t certain whether the vehicle was relevant or not; more witnesses had come forward, one giving a detailed description of a man seen climbing into the driver’s seat – he could have been Pat McDowell, but again it wasn’t definite, with the resultant artist’s impression nearer Flores than McDowell.
A hospital check had revealed two men shot in what was reportedly a robbery; one having lost most of his right ear, the other wounded in the thigh. They had been picked up four miles from Garcia’s house, and Flores’ interest had increased markedly once he discovered both men were ex-military, although neither was a close match to any of the Mississippi suspects.
Flores was minded to wonder whether Anderson was being set-up, but the Englishman’s subsequent actions were hardly helping his cause. Charlotte Saunders was doing her best to protect her boyfriend: she’d never heard of Enrique Garcia, didn’t know where Anderson was, hadn’t seen or spoken to McDowell for over a year…
Flores wanted to believe her; yet despite Charlotte Saunders’ denials, they had security camera footage of her meeting Anderson in Chantilly – not that she knew that. Each lie just made the truth more difficult to believe, and although she was a potential security risk Flores was prepared to keep her on a relatively loose leash in the hope she might lead them to Anderson. Her passport was still being held by the FBI and Flores was confident that she wouldn’t simply run off or try anything too extreme.
With resources tight, Flores put a team of just twelve onto Charlotte: he would give it two more days; after that, he’d work out whether to send her back home or threaten to charge her with something – accessory to murder could be pushing it, but it might just get her to open up.
* * *
Anderson was still on edge, not yet treating the everyday sounds from his close neighbours as inconsequential. The complex fifteen miles west of Baltimore consisted of around fifty mobile homes and the rental was perfect for his needs, relatively smart with all of the usual facilities, including a large-screen TV. The car was rather more run-down, a battered Toyota which seemed willing to try and get him wherever he wanted to go.
Quite what Devereau had needed to barter in order to get Anderson a suitable base and a car was impossible to guess. And he’d done it all in less than a day. Anderson knew Devereau had powerful friends, but he’d never before realised quite how powerful, and it was obvious he would be paying Devereau back for some time to come. Everything had been set up by phone, Anderson picking up the car from outside Dulles Airport. Details of his new residence, plus smartphone and two thousand dollars, were in the glove-box; food and other emergency supplies in the trunk, Devereau not one to skimp when needs must.
Devereau had also become Anderson’s sole point of contact, passing on the worrying news that Charlotte was still in Leesburg and that the FBI were linking Anderson to the murder of an Enrique Garcia. There was nothing new on Pat McDowell, no sign that the FBI had even acted on Anderson’s information, and it slowly dawned on him that it had always been McDowell’s intention to frame him for murder.
It was late afternoon by the time Anderson had settled himself in to his temporary home, able finally to scour the media for more on Garcia. The Associate Justice’s large house was instantly recognisable, CNN not the only ones to wonder whether there might be some connection between Garcia’s murder and events in Mississippi. The FBI certainly seemed to be playing it close to their chest – various leads being actively pursued, no suggestion yet that they had worked out a definite motive for the murder. While the word ‘suspect’ was missing from the various reports, the FBI seemed keen to discover the whereabouts of a certain Michael Anderson…
With his photo splashed across every news report, Anderson’s hopes of avoiding the FBI seemed overly optimistic. He was still unsure what to do for the best, unwilling to put his future in the FBI’s hands – especially after McDowell’s warning. And unless Charlotte could extract herself from Leesburg then she too was still in danger.
Anderson was far too involved to give up just yet, and McDowell seemed to have assumed that Anderson knew far more than the reality, his concern as to Anderson’s presence at Leesburg perhaps offering a hint as to McDowell’s own whereabouts. Anderson had seen at first hand the way August 14 worked, McDowell intimately involved in the planning and construction of the terrorists’ command-and-control centre. Put everything together and for the first time since receiving Markova’s package, Anderson could actually see a way ahead, a specific target that might just be achievable.
His leap of faith was the belief that McDowell was based not too far from Leesburg. If so, then he would surely want facilities that were at least the equal of those he’d had in the UK. It was a starting point if nothing else, and with no other ideas to fall back on, Anderson worked his way through Virginia’s online public records, specifically Clarke and Loudon counties; then, just to be sure, he added in Frederick and Montgomery counties in Maryland. That seemed to cover everywhere within 25 miles of Leesburg, and if his theory was right, there should be something with McDowell’s imprint stamped all over it.
Basic company records and details of building permits were readily accessible, Anderson looking for new companies and/or commercial premises where substantial building improvements had taken place sometime in the last ten months. The numbers involved were larger than he’d anticipated, but made easier by the way in which the data was displayed. Anderson searched purely by date and eventually abandoned his company filter as being too restrictive. Some counties proved to be particularly helpful, generally providing a wealth of online detail: date of application, address and type of work to be done, sometimes even the estimated cost. Frederick County was more of a struggle, Anderson having to be somewhat creative with his research.
In total, there looked to be several thousand permits, Anderson able to speed through the vast majority simply by picking out the relatively rare options that came close to his UK criteria, twenty discarded at a time in just a few seconds. Some permits were obviously for something relatively minor, or at the other extreme part of major building works; Anderson was more interested in the mid-range, either a new build or a substantial refurbishment, preferably involving a significant electrical component.
It was close to midnight when he finally gave up for the night, the initial filtering complete, with the number of possibilities now reduced to just sixty-one. With a bit more research into each specific permit and the relevant address, Anderson was confident he could cut it down to a more manageable number, maybe a half-dozen at most.
Quite what he did then was as yet undecided, McDowell
unlikely to appreciate Anderson barging in through the front door.
Chapter 16 – Saturday, November 5th
Khabarovsk – 07:50 Local Time; Friday 21:50 UTC
The morning wasn’t quite going as Markova had anticipated: woken before dawn with a rough shake of her shoulder, she had been bemused to find herself wheeled to a waiting ambulance. The presence of two armed men – no uniforms – ensured she did little more than offer a verbal protest, her questions ignored, her angry look merely provoking mild amusement.
The drive lasted some twenty minutes, Markova taken to what looked to be another hospital, a little smaller but far smarter than the one in Khabarovsk. The main entrance was certainly impressive and arranged like a hotel foyer, with even a porter available to help people with their luggage.
Markova was anticipating a painful walk, but to her surprise a wheelchair and young nurse suddenly appeared, Markova pushed towards a line of elevators. Then it was up to the third floor and a single room, all white and clean. The nurse fussed around, checking everything, doing her best to protect Markova’s modesty from the idle gaze of the two guards.
Satisfied that everything was as it should be, the nurse left, a questioning gesture at the two guards implying that they should do the same. To Markova’s surprise, they did as the nurse wanted, one making it obvious he was seating himself outside.
Overall, despite the unknowns, Markova felt the transfer to be an improvement, with the noisy night-time routine of the hospital ward replaced by a slightly disconcerting silence. She was now dressed in the standard hospital gown, the left side of her body badly bruised. No drips or tubes, just a sensor on her fingertip; physically, she didn’t feel that bad, just a raging headache and a twinge every time she breathed.
Markova forced herself to a sitting position, wanting to get her brain into gear before someone started asking difficult questions. Twenty minutes after the nurse left, a light breakfast turned up; then a doctor arrived to give her a more thorough check.
X-rays and a brain scan were back on the morning’s agenda, the doctor fairly confident that all she had was a minor concussion and some fractured ribs. Markova tried to get some more information on the attacks but the doctor simply shook her head, nodding towards the closed door and the guard beyond.
It was another hour before someone more talkative chose to visit, the man’s FSB uniform a match to the one Markova had discarded in Saint Petersburg, even down to the two thin stripes and single large star of a major.
“Good morning Major Markova; my name is Yashkin, Investigation Directorate. I am sorry that we have to finally meet under such circumstances.” The tone was polite, almost cautious; Yashkin as wary of Markova as she was of him.
“It’s hardly your fault, Major” replied Markova, forcing a smile. “What exactly happened yesterday?”
“Chinese artillery; twenty-three killed at the last count. Perhaps you should have stayed in Moscow; it might have been safer.”
“Saint Petersburg,” Markova corrected. “I outstayed my welcome in Moscow a while ago.”
“And now you’re wanted as an accessory to General Grebeshkov’s murder: we are all taking risks here.”
Markova didn’t quite know what to say; Major Yashkin was supposed to be an ally, a Lubyanka graduate and no friend to Golubeva.
“I understand,” continued Yashkin, “that you are concerned as to the health of Sergeant Nechayev. Fortunately, you Alpha Group are not that easy to kill and he suffered nothing more than a few bruises. If you had contacted me when you had arrived in Khabarovsk rather than when you needed my help, we might all have saved ourselves a sleepless night.”
“For that I apologise,” Markova said, trying to be gracious. She all-too obviously needed Yashkin’s goodwill and at the moment they weren’t getting on that well. “Where are we exactly?”
“It’s a small clinic to the north-east of Khabarovsk. Under the circumstances it seemed wise to move you to a more secure environment.”
“It’s definitely secure,” said Markova, nodding towards the guard outside to make the point.
“For your protection, as well as mine; it would be foolish not to take certain precautions… What exactly do you expect to find in Khabarovsk, Major?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. Roads closed without warning, phones not working. Now the Chinese shell the city. I assume none of that’s normal?”
Yashkin actually managed a smile. “Perhaps things have changed since you lived here but Khabarovsk is an army city. The FSB can’t operate here without the army’s support and so we stay out of their business. Self-preservation becomes a powerful incentive: they close a road and we follow the diversions like everyone else, no questions asked. It’s the same in Vladivostok, more so over the last month.”
“But why shell Khabarovsk? The Chinese must know we’ll simply respond in kind.”
“I guess it’s a warning,” Yashkin said with a shrug. “Our generals have been playing at war games for weeks and Beijing’s obviously got nervous as to what we might do next.”
“A warning which is totally counter-productive; all it does is give Golubeva the excuse she needs to join America in a war against China.”
Yashkin frowned, unconvinced, “You really believe that’s what she wants? We’d be better off letting the two of them slug it out first.”
“Russia and America would both have to fight China eventually; Golubeva’s just making sure it’s together and on her terms. Throw in Vietnam, the Philippines, and maybe Taiwan as well, and China will soon have to back down. Either that or it escalates into nuclear annihilation.”
“Cavanagh will never ally the United States with Russia,” argued Yashkin. “It’s barely a year since we were at each other’s throats in the Baltic.”
“Circumstances change. And the way things are in Washington, she could soon be dealing with someone other than Cavanagh. If so, then war with China is inevitable.”
Yashkin rubbed his chin thoughtfully: simply by discussing such matters with Markova, he was already close to the crime of sedition.
“You may well be right, Major,” he said finally. “In which case, we need to work out how to help stop this madness.”
Eastern United States – 09:50 Local Time; 13:50 UTC
Virginia’s War Memorial stood proudly high up on the hill behind the assembled media, the hauntingly beautiful statue Memory looking out over the James River and the Richmond skyline, the early-morning sun hidden by dirty-grey clouds. Dick Thorn waited patiently for the retired General to finish his introduction, gaze wandering idly amongst the assembled guests and on to the essential TV cameras. The media hoped the Secretary of State’s speech to the American Legion would give some additional insight into the Administration’s response to China, the Richmond venue a reminder of the potential risks.
In front of Thorn were veterans from almost a dozen conflicts, and no matter what medals they wore, to him they were all heroes. Thorn had served as a Captain in the First Gulf War and sensed something of their sacrifice, downplaying his own contribution to the Coalition victory as minimal. A burst of applause, genuine rather than just polite, and Thorn moved to stand at the podium, warmly shaking the General’s hand in appreciation of the generous introduction.
Thorn followed protocol by thanking those that needed to be thanked, singling out the veterans for special praise. It was then the turn of the American Legion and the thousands from Virginia who had given their lives in defence of their country. A gesture upwards and Thorn gave a heartfelt accolade to all those helping maintain such a wonderful memorial.
Thanks completed, it was now time for the real message, typically a history lesson on the external problems facing America and how the President was working hard to deal with them. Thorn was happy to stick with the expected format, although his history lesson might not be quite what his audience anticipated, and even his credentials were rather more questionable than the official program implied.
A de
ep breath and Thorn pressed on with his speech, it far too late for second-thoughts. “I must apologise to everyone here as you expected an address from the United States Secretary of State, a position it was my honour to hold until I formally resigned some two hours ago. I speak to you now simply as a native of Virginia, someone who is truly proud to be American, yet deeply concerned as to our place on the world stage and the ability of the present Administration to live up to its duty to the American people.”
There was utter silence in the audience, Thorn’s resignation from the Cabinet a shock, with even the media’s experts taken by surprise. Dick Thorn was known for his strong views and no-nonsense attitude, but there had been no hint of internal divisions or disagreements over foreign policy.
Thorn continued, “The global war on terror will soon be taken up by a second generation of Americans, the high hopes of those first years frustrated by the unjust hatred of our enemies and the naiveté of their followers. The United States is not perfect, we all know that; however, we respect the rights of the individual and are prepared to fight for the civil liberties that we all hold so dear.
“We might not always like our Presidents; we might even be ashamed of their moral hypocrisy; but we trust that in the few key moments of real crisis that they will make the right decisions. Some of these decisions will be difficult, requiring courage and fortitude, and the responsibility of being leader of the most powerful nation in the world can be a heavy burden. However, when a president makes even a single decision based on fear or a reluctance to take risks, then we can no longer be considered a superpower; we are merely a second-rate nation hiding in the background, letting others control events and – ultimately – how we live our lives.”
Thorn paused, gaze sweeping across the front rows of his select audience. “If a president lies or abuses his power, the House of Representatives has the authority – no, it has a duty – to start the impeachment process. Where a president is incompetent, indecisive or gutless, then there is only the ballot box to call him to account.”
The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2) Page 23
