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 subsequent 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.
Thomas continued, “This symposium at Wilhelmshaven may not be quite what you imagined, and I can only report fully on what Kramer said. Both he and Brandt were questioned late on Saturday, but 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 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 recommendati
ons 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?”
“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 pointedly ignored Anderson’s parting comment as to his loyalties and moved as if to walk away, then abruptly he changed his mind. “McDowell stayed two nights at the Hotel Regent in Hamburg, under the 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.
Anderson waited a full five minutes before heading off to find a taxi. So far the trip to Germany had been useful if not earth-shattering, the Wilhelmshaven Five looking to be innocent participants in McDowell’s plans. He decided it was too late to head back the UK, and opted instead to find a suitable hotel. Not Berlin; instead he fancied somewhere a bit nearer the coast – and he’d never been to Hamburg.
Greenville, U.S.A. – 12:04 Local Time; 16:04 UTC
McDowell sat in the passenger seat of the Chevy Camaro, stifling a yawn, jet lag and the many hours chasing from one continent to another finally catching up with him. Once the Hanson problem had been resolved, he had chosen to move forward with a previously rejected option, the potential benefits well worth the extra risks; hence the detour to Greenville, Mississippi.
Beside him sat Lee Preston, ex-highway patrol, a good man to have in a crisis but with a tendency to dismiss the dangers. McDowell felt he had put together a capable team, although today was their first real chance to work together as a single unit. Other concerns had meant they’d only done a serious dry run the once, it going as smoothly as McDowell could have wished, and so convincing him Preston’s plan would work for real.
Preston checked his watch for what seemed the tenth time, McDowell also conscious that they were running far later than anticipated.
“Zulu-one and Zulu-two leaving now,” announced a voice in McDowell’s ear, the French accent slightly slurring the words together. Martin Lavergne was ex-Special Forces and – as Paige Hanson had found – totally reliable, Lavergne and Preston dealing with her without fuss or complaint.
Lavergne’s message seemed to ease the tension even though it meant the difficult part was about to begin. Now all they needed to know was which one of the two possible routes back to Brandon the Congressmen would actually take.
“Confirm Zulu-one and two traveling together in the Merc,” Lavergne reported. “One minute to interchange.”
Preston started the Chevy’s engine, pulling out onto Cannon Street to head north towards Highway 82. Behind them a Toyota SUV followed suit; the final member of the four-man team was also ex-Special Forces, Gary Steele the youngest of the four at just thirty-one.
“Going south on Mississippi Highway 1,” announced Lavergne. “Confirm no security; traffic good.”
“Copy that, Alpha-three; south on MS-1”
Alpha-one was McDowell; Alpha-two Steele in the Toyota; Alpha-three Lavergne’s lead car, a Nissan sedan.
The Chevy took the interchange onto MS-1, the highway roughly following the line of the Mississippi as it snaked south. It would be well over two hours before they reached Brandon, this first stretch some thirty-five miles of single carriageway, presently five lanes. It was a pleasant enough journey through countryside, houses few and far between, high levees blocking the view of the Mississippi to the right.
It was another five minutes before Preston eased up some hundred and fifty yards from the lead car, Steele keeping station immediately behind the Chevy; a quarter mile ahead and travelling at a steady 55 was the Congressmen’s Mercedes.
McDowell spoke into the radio mike, “Alpha-one and Alpha-two in position.” Traffic was surprisingly light and there was little else to do for the moment except sit back and enjoy the ride, McDowell’s hand-written notes from an earlier tour of the area resting on his lap.
The meeting in Greenville had been an attempt by the Republican Party to sway a few more of Mississippi’s voters, the optimists amongst them hoping to ensure a clean sweep in the Midterms. Now, two of the incumbents were heading home for a well-earned rest, the Congressmen following good practice by sharing a car. Two for the price of one – Dan Quinn was the key target, his younger colleague merely a bonus. And no security: Quinn’s position as the Republican Party’s Chief Deputy Whip didn’t quite merit a personal security detail and he only had a driver/bodyguard whilst in D.C; in his home state, Quinn obviously felt he had nothing to fear even when visiting a Democratic stronghold.
A mile short of the Arcola turn-off, McDowell ordered Lavergne to overtake, the Nissan matching the Mercedes’ speed to stay roughly a hundred yards ahead. The four cars cruised past the turn-off, the lanes merging down to just two. It was now a relatively straight stretch, the lead car able to see well into the distance.
McDowell carefully checked his notes, three short sections of the road ahead highlighted in red. The highway was a popular location for a police speed-trap but McDowell had been promised a clear road, routine police patrols directed elsewhere.
It was another ten minutes before the Mercedes closed in on the first highlighted section, McDowell keying the radio to ask the lead car for a sitrep.
“Farm tractor ahead,” Lavergne responded. “One car heading north; possibly clear after that.”
“Copy that; give an update in tw
o. Alpha-two, check the rear.”
“Nothing in sight,” advised Steele with barely a pause.
“Copy that.”
McDowell watched as Lavergne’s Nissan overtook the slow-moving tractor, followed by the Congressmen’s Mercedes. The other two vehicles had to wait whilst the northern lane cleared before accelerating past, ignoring the speed limit to close up steadily behind the Mercedes.
It was a good minute before Lavergne gave a second update. “Road clear ahead; ready on your mark.”
To either side of the highway was a clear run-off into grassland, not even a ditch or a fence. Ahead, no more than a quarter-mile away, was one of relatively few sections where trees stood guard to both left and right.
McDowell saw no reason to wait. “Begin squeeze in three.”
Moments later the lead car started to slow whilst the Chevy and Toyota accelerated. Fifty yards short of the Mercedes, Preston pulled out to overtake, letting the Chevy draw just ahead of the Mercedes before immediately slowing to match the other car’s speed. The Toyota had rapidly closed up from behind, with the Nissan boxing the Mercedes in at the front.
The Mercedes’ driver had a few seconds in which he could have evaded being blocked-in on three sides, but by the time he reacted it was too late. The Toyota was barely a yard from the Mercedes, the Chevy stopping it from pulling out, the Nissan completing the squeeze. There was still one chance for the Mercedes, its muscle power more than enough to force its way out of the trap, the lead Nissan the lightest of the four vehicles.
“PIT In three,” McDowell ordered.
On the count of zero, Preston led the Mercedes slip ahead, aligning the Chevy’s front wheels with the Mercedes’ rear wheels – difficult enough for Preston without McDowell’s bulk partly blocking his view. The Nissan pulled out slightly into the left-hand lane, trying to make sure the Mercedes couldn’t squeeze past. The Toyota slowed, increasing the distance between it and the target vehicle.
A flick of the steering wheel and the Chevy clipped the side of the Mercedes in a variation of the police PIT manoeuvre. First adopted by Virginia’s Norfolk County Police, the Precision Immobilization Technique was designed to send a vehicle sliding out of control in front of the pursing police car. Preston’s modification was to significantly increase the force of the shove and to slightly change its direction, the slide now becoming something more extreme but still relatively predictable.
That at least had been the plan, the one that had worked so well in practice.
The Mercedes tried to flip then righted itself, the car slewing violently left and catching the side of the Chevy. Both cars momentarily became locked together, before they split apart, the Mercedes continuing its turn. The Toyota was travelling too fast and too close to avoid hitting the Mercedes side-on, spectacularly cartwheeling over it before crashing back down onto the highway. The Mercedes was no more fortunate, sliding along on its passenger side in a shower of sparks to smash into a large tree.
The Chevy shuddered to a halt. McDowell had been jerked back against the head-rest but none of the air bags had inflated. Preston looked to be okay and McDowell’s training helped him to keep a clear head, instantly able to adjust their plan to cope with the sudden change in circumstances. He even remembered to keep to the agreed radio protocol.
“Alpha-three: no-one within a hundred yards – check the north side as well. One minute max, then we’re all out of here; no arguments!”
McDowell knew that if he didn’t work quickly it was going to be a complete fuck-up. The Toyota was starting to smoke, a bloodied arm hanging from the smashed driver’s window.
Steele became his new priority, McDowell’s fear of leaving a potential loose end temporarily greater than his concern as to the Congressmen’s fate. Steele was unconscious, his face and head covered in blood, barely breathing. McDowell ignored the smoke rising from under the bonnet and wrenched the driver’s door open, unbuckling the seat belt to drag him clear. He sensed Preston beside him and together they carried Steele to the Chevy, unceremoniously dumping him across the rear seats.
A single gunshot jerked McDowell’s thoughts back to other dangers and he glanced around, fearing what he might see. To the south the highway was still empty of traffic; to the north sat a white sedan, its driver warned off by Lavergne and his assault rifle.
Satisfied that Lavergne had it all under control, McDowell focused once more on the Mercedes, the car resting on its side some twenty yards away. Gun held two-handed out in front of him, he moved warily towards the front. The Congressmen might not have a security detail but that there could well be a gun in the car’s glove compartment. It was perhaps a foolish risk but with Steele now safe, McDowell couldn’t just leave the rest to chance.
Both men were badly injured, Quinn unconscious. McDowell stuck with the original plan, no reason for second thoughts, and he shot them both, each a double-tap to the head.
A gesture to Lavergne and then he raced back to the Chevy, Preston immediately slamming his foot down, heading south.
“Ranger, this is Alpha-one; pick-up is option Romeo; repeat Romeo; one injured.”
There were again no concerns as to the speed limit, the two vehicles traveling closer to eighty. Only now did McDowell curse his stupidity at not making sure the Toyota was well alight: it was likely that any evidence would be unhelpful, but that was still a poor consolation.
Even as they turned left onto the single-lane track that was Riverside Road, McDowell heard the welcome sound of the helicopter coming in from the east. Although more visible than simply swapping to another car, the helicopter could get them to safety far quicker than Mississippi’s roads – something which might just save Steele’s life.
Less than five minutes later the helicopter was heading south-east towards safety. Below them, flames started to envelop the Chevy and Nissan, matching a second pyre some three miles to the north. It wasn’t yet the 27th, but as far as McDowell was concerned, his campaign had already begun.
Hamburg, Germany – 20:41 Local Time; 18:41 UTC
The five-star Hotel Regent was significantly more salubrious than Anderson was used to, his room impressive, the service excellent, the staff invariably polite, some more friendly than others.
Although a language barrier was never helpful, three years as a journalist had taught Anderson that friendly persistence was his best weapon when it came to dragging information out of people, with bribery a close second. The majority of the hotel staff were in their early-twenties and from Eastern Europe; a good few spoke excellent English, Anderson’s own schoolboy German helping overcome any serious difficulties. The biggest problems were the sheer number of staff and their unwillingness to say anything out of turn. Whether the latter was due to fear of being sacked or good training wasn’t clear, but for whatever reason Anderson had so far struggled to learn anything at all about McDowell, not even if he had arrived alone or whether he had met someone there.
The hotel bar was normally the most productive source, although the Regent’s sole barman was proving equally immune to Anderson’s attempts at small-talk. By mid-evening, the bar was busy enough to require an additional helper, a younger man barely out of his teens, more Spanish than East European, although once again Anderson got absolutely nowhere.
Anderson gave it until well after ten, the bar now almost empty after the earlier rush. Feeling a little drunk and slightly depressed, he downed his drink with a flourish; his room was just one along from where McDowell had stayed and Anderson’s remaining hopes rested on either a bored room-service waiter or a chatty maid.
Noticing Anderson was about to leave, the younger of the two barmen moved swiftly to clear the table.
”You’re English?” he asked, his tone more of a challenge then one of curiosity.
“That’s right; returning home tomorrow.” Anderson wasn’t too sure where the conversation was going, but he was happy to play along. The man’s English was impressive and his name badge identified him simp
ly as Gabriel, which could only be a good omen.
“You’re not police?” Gabriel demanded.
“Journalist,” Anderson explained. “A freelance journalist based in England; definitely not the police.” He was feeling a little on the defensive, more used to being the one asking the questions.
Gabriel nodded slowly to himself, Anderson’s admission seemingly confirmation of something. “I remember Wheeler,” the barman continued, speaking softly. “Two nights, beer with a whisky chaser, and a good tip when he left. The second night he sat with another man: I didn’t get his name.”
“Another American?” Anderson asked, before deciding he should shut up and listen.
“No, he spoke with an American accent but he wasn’t American. He left just after ten, and Wheeler and I got talking about America and the best places to visit; I’ve only been to New York.”
Anderson smiled encouragingly, unsure whether Gabriel’s comment about Wheeler being a good tipper was a hint or not. Payment by results was always his motto, but the barman looked like he might just need a financial inducement.
In the end it wasn’t necessary, Gabriel telling what he knew without the promise of any reward. Even though he couldn’t quite work out how Gabriel’s information would help, Anderson felt obliged to leave a suitable tip. After all, adding another fifty euros to what McDowell already owed him wouldn’t make a great deal of difference.
The Trust Of The People Page 9
