Chapter 2 – Saturday, October 22nd
Marshwick, England – 11:23 Local Time; 10:23 UTC
It was well after eleven before the sound of a car on the gravel drive announced SO15’s arrival. A hundred and twenty miles up the motorway and clogged A-roads in a mix of driving rain and drizzle – not the best way to put Anderson’s inquisitors in a good mood.
A three hour grilling duly followed. There were two officers, both male, neither in uniform, their initial queries focusing on Anderson’s source and why he suspected it was the FSB. Then it was on to the information itself, and a whole raft of questions…
Did he know Gastrell? What about Hanson? And the others? When did he last see McDowell? Who else had he contacted? What exactly had he told them?
Anderson had nothing to hide but he still sensed SO15 didn’t fully trust him. For some reason they seemed to believe he knew more about Judith Gastrell than he was letting on. But he was only economical with the truth the once, blithely denying that Charlotte knew anything about the box or its contents.
Laptop and phone were examined, his insurance email duly read and copied. Anderson hadn’t actually disclosed anything in the email that he shouldn’t, merely requesting information on the ‘Wilhelmshaven Five’ as he’d started to call them; then – almost as an aside – mentioning that he’d heard McDowell might still be alive. He’d left Hanson out completely, preferring to keep certain aspects to himself for the moment. At the time such a lack of detail had seemed a good compromise between protecting Anderson and his source, while widening the search for information – now it just seemed an effective means of wasting a money-making exclusive.
Finally the cottage itself was put under the microscope, supposedly to check its security. Anderson had tried his best to get something useful out of the two officers, but neither offered any clue as to what would happen next, or even whether Anderson was merely reinforcing something they already knew. Whether Markova would have been satisfied with his persuasive skills was doubtful, Anderson happy to voice his opinion that London might not actually be the target.
It was late-afternoon when SO15 finally left. As expected they took the cardboard box and its contents with them, but fortunately not Anderson’s phone or laptop. In return, he was handed a formal but utterly useless receipt; he was also instructed not to discuss the matter any further with his target list, but for once dire warnings concerning the Official Secrets Act were left unsaid.
That had seemed about it. Problem over, SO15 had it all in hand; Britain was safe and secure once more.
Or maybe not… From Anderson’s perspective, having satisfied his conscience, he now felt justified in pursuing his own more selfish agenda. He had naturally photocopied Markova’s information, although he still had no idea what else he could do with it. Britain might have its political problems but it was hardly Russia, and the logic behind a McDowell-led terrorist campaign temporarily escaped Anderson – not unless some of the various nationalist movements had become desperate enough to resort to violence.
On the face of it, everything in the UK looked pretty normal: no obvious crisis, the economy struggling along, the stock market typically twitchy. Britain’s terrorist threat level remained as it had done for the past year at ‘Substantial’, midway between the two extremes of Low and Critical, and even the Government was just about managing to stay ahead in the polls.
Like Anderson, SO15 would doubtless scoff at the possibility of the Wilhelmshaven symposium being linked to some future political agenda; however, McDowell’s involvement just made everything a little bit more complicated. Although a key member of August 14, he had worked on the fringes of the terrorist campaign, his role a combination of security chief and frontman.
Anderson decided to ignore his preconceptions to try and work out a more logical reason for the symposium. Even ignoring the fact it took place at Germany’s largest naval base, the defence connection was obvious, and Atlas Elektronik turned out to be another major defence contractor. For no particular reason, Anderson first focused on the British and American links, basic details on Gastrell and Drummond readily available on the internet.
Judith Gastrell: age 46; five years as a senior consultant with BAE Systems; specialism combat systems and sonar. Previously principal software engineer and acoustic analyst at Thales UK Naval Division, covering data processing algorithms and modelling for the Director Submarines acoustic signature database.
Walter Drummond: age 50; Professor Applied Physics, John Hopkins since 2016; area of study sonar theory and analysis. Six years at Washington’s Acoustics Intelligence Laboratory as a senior investigator, working on behalf of the Office of Naval Intelligence.
Again the similarities were unmistakable, although their joint area of expertise wasn’t exactly the norm for August 14, the terrorists preferring car bombs and cyber-attacks to blasting a target with sonar. There was also the Naval Intelligence link between Drummond and Paige Hanson, and the answers were obviously there somewhere; Anderson just needed to tease them out. He even began to wonder if the terrorism link was simply an irrelevance with McDowell moving on to something new.
Frustrated, Anderson re-read Markova’s handwritten sheet, looking for a subtle clue that would help reveal all; basically all he was left with was one name, Marcelo. Spanish?
A potential Spanish link opened up a wealth of outrageous possibilities, prime amongst them Gibraltar and Argentina. Of course, Marcelo might be American like McDowell, the duo planning to blow up one of London’s many icons. Maybe they could somehow resonate Big Ben to bits from afar – first Big Ben, then the Tower of London…
Anderson’s mental trail of destruction was interrupted by the sound of his phone. Anderson saw the name and took a deep breath, answering on the fourth ring while preparing himself for an earful.
“I can’t say I appreciate being quizzed by SO15,” said an aggrieved voice. “In future, leave me out of your insane quests, it’s much too troublesome, not to mention bloody dangerous.”
“Adam, so nice to hear from you.” Anderson was completely unconcerned as to the caller’s tone, it being the norm for his one-time boss. Never one for wasted pleasantries, Adam Devereau was both a good friend and a well-used resource, someone who would invariably complain but always come through with something worthwhile.
Devereau had been high-up on Anderson’s target list for Markova’s data, his own contacts covering everyone from the local hack to the BBC’s Director-General. Of rather more relevance was his circle of associates from the security services, the quid pro quo principle still as effective as ever. Devereau also had his own purely personal reasons to want McDowell brought to justice, the slurring of certain words evidence that he still wasn’t quite back to his old self.
“Had to vouch for you again,” Devereau continued. “You need to let SO15 do their job and not go poking your nose in where it’s not wanted.”
“That’s not what you taught me, Adam; upsetting people was always supposed to be a good sign.”
“That was before someone bounced me off their moving car. Seriously Mike, leave it to the experts.”
“You know I can’t do that; it’s not in my nature.”
There was a long pause at the other end of the line before Devereau responded. “Very well; be it on your own head. In any event SO15’s pursuit of Judith Gastrell will take a little while. She’s apparently on holiday: South Africa, so I’m told. I know nothing about the others. If I can get anything on McDowell you’ll be the first to know… This has a slightly ominous sense of familiarity about it, Mike; it might be wise to watch your back.”
With that the line went dead. Anderson’s brain activity temporarily did the same – back just over a day and, with little more than a few dodgy photographs and a poison pen letter, he’d already managed to upset just about everybody.
Washington, D.C. – 16:50 Local Time; 20:50 UTC
Paul Jensen knew that the President was wavering; although of t
he five men and one woman seated in the Oval Office, he was the only one who seemed to believe there was a second option, something which would cleverly assuage North Korea’s concerns without upsetting Japan or the U.S. losing face. With the Midterm elections just two weeks away the President would need to act decisively, if only to prove to the doubters that he really did have that killer instinct; either that or America would have its second one-term president in a row, the instant turnaround set to be repeated once more.
In truth, apart from one serious foreign entanglement, President Will Cavanagh had had a relatively easy two years: no recession, no major scandal, and no serious domestic crisis. The war against terrorism still stumbled from one entanglement to another, but the decisions had come easily and the President had been able to keep his pre-election pledge of no boots on the ground. The situation in the Middle East was no worse than under Cavanagh’s predecessor, and until now even North Korea had kept its belligerence to a minimum, provoking new hopes of a more stable relationship between North and South.
The only real crisis had been of Russia’s making, the turmoil in the Baltic bringing NATO into direct conflict with Russia. It had been three days before common sense had finally prevailed – thanks in part to the willingness of Russia’s new president to actively search out a suitable compromise. Cavanagh had done what had been deemed necessary to support Poland and the Baltic States, and although later criticised for being indecisive, his approval rating had barely changed.
As to whether Russia or NATO had actually won was unclear: over thirty killed on both sides, including a dozen U.S. naval personnel. The NATO alliance had held firm, despite some disagreements, and the region was slowly returning to normal. Poland, Ukraine and the Baltic States had been publicly censured for their apparent willingness to harbour anti-Russian terrorists, but Moscow no longer had cause to consider August 14 a threat. The blame game was still ongoing, although most of the combatants seemed content to move on, Russia especially keen to rebuild its tattered relationship with its NATO neighbours.
“Very well,” said the President, mind finally made up. “To accede to any of North Korea’s outrageous demands is unacceptable and the joint naval exercise with Japan will go ahead as planned; any less would surely only increase Japan’s anxiety. I cannot believe North Korea has any intention of carrying out its threat of a military strike; in a week or so we’ll be back to the standard level of intimidation. Heaven forbid I’m proved wrong and if necessary we will action the Joint Chefs’ recommendations… Dick, I still need you back in Tokyo – Japan’s own attitude is hardly conducive to easing tensions.”
Secretary of State, Dick Thorn merely nodded, mentally readying himself for his third transpacific flight in as many weeks.
A deep sign of resignation, then the President glanced across at Jensen, “I believe you have something else, Paul? Not Korea but August 14?”
“Yes, Mr President.” Jensen twisted in his chair slightly so that he could turn easily from the President to face any of the other inner cabinet members. This was Jensen’s first real test in five months as Secretary of Homeland Security and he was conscious of the need to make his mark. His predecessor had been a victim of the fallout from the Baltic conflict, treating the terrorist threat as nothing more than a Russian problem and Jensen was determined not to make the same mistake. He could have temporarily buried the bad news, at least while he made additional checks, but he sensed there was little point.
“MI5 have passed across an intercept from Russia’s FSB,” continued Jensen. “The British are being coy at revealing how they got hold of it and some of the information has obviously been redacted; whether that’s the FSB or MI5 isn’t clear. What is clear is that the Russians have continued their search for the remnants of August 14 with a key target tracked to Germany; subsequently another six individuals were identified as being worthy of interest. The intercept includes details of all seven but photographs of only two; both American. A couple of the shots show them together, but it’s too early to confirm exactly when or where they were taken.”
Jensen knew he was being slow to get to the point, but facts without a suitable context were pointless. “Despite the disappointing quality of the photos, the two Americans have been relatively easy to identify; for very different reasons, both are well known to the Intelligence Community.”
A pause for effect, then Jensen pressed on, “One is Patrick McDowell, who the British reported as being killed when August 14’s base there was destroyed. We must assume he is still operating on behalf of the terrorists. The second is a Paige Hanson, Lieutenant-Commander Naval Intelligence, stationed here in D.C.”
The furore which greeted Jensen’s disclosure was no more than he had expected. Russia’s war against August 14 was still claiming the occasional U.S. victim, with at least a dozen pillars of the community – computer experts, university professors and the like – confirmed as providing logistical support for the terrorists. Such details were theoretically well outside of the public domain, although a combination of Russian accusations and home-grown leaks had eroded the various denials and outright lies.
The White House had skilfully managed to maintain a dignified silence over the complications posed by August 14’s British base, but in reality it had caused significant internal dissent. The Secretary of State had been especially critical of Britain’s security services, and despite most of the base’s operatives being American, he had argued that British laxity had in turn created problems for the U.S. and indeed the whole of NATO. Now it seemed the Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI) might be similarly at fault.
The U.S. Intelligence Community was an unwieldy beast of seventeen diverse agencies, often with overlapping interests. Theoretically, the Director of National Intelligence was responsible for ensuring they worked effectively together; hard enough under normal circumstances, let alone with a potential traitor in their midst. In practice, on home soil, the President looked to Jensen to take the lead, his Cabinet post giving him a certain implied authority over the FBI and CIA, and even the ONI. If Jensen was successful in getting them to co-operate fully, it would be no more than the President expected; if he failed, Jensen’s tenure in office would be embarrassingly brief.
Thorn was the first to seek clarification. “This is not some clever invention by the Russians?” His tone was curt, his eyes angry.
“It’s not clear either way,” Jensen replied quickly. “The FBI now has Hanson under surveillance while we check the veracity of the intercept. It’s certainly true that she was in Germany on the dates indicated; we just need to confirm who she met and why. At the moment the evidence linking her to McDowell is at best inconclusive; we can’t even be certain that McDowell is actually alive.
“As well as these photographs, there is also a transcript of a brief conversation, supposedly between Hanson and McDowell. In it, McDowell hints at a new terrorist campaign, possibly starting on the 27th, possibly against London. The potential repercussions of Hanson’s involvement are still being evaluated, but if true the best we can hope for is that she leads us to McDowell. I’ve already primed a team should damage limitation be necessary.”
The final admission was virtually confirmation of Hanson’s guilt, something Jensen was willing to accept might be precipitous. However, ignoring the risks would be professional suicide, and he had to prepare for the worst-case scenario. Personally, he assumed Hanson was a lone wolf and he couldn’t believe the woman was part of some wider U.S.-based conspiracy.
The questions continued, President Cavanagh now taking the lead, Jensen unable to answer most and unwilling to jump to conclusions. With North Korea in belligerent mood, the threat of a resurgent August 14 with a U.S. Intelligence connection was the last thing the President wanted to hear.
Jensen sensed the British were holding back on what they knew, but he had no reason to doubt their sincerity. Still, it was a time to tread carefully; fortunately, with over twenty-five years spent climbing up the slipper
y Intelligence ladder, from analyst to CIA station chief to Director for Counter-Terrorism on the National Security Council, treading carefully was something Jensen excelled at.
Maryland, U.S.A. – 19:30 Local time; 23:30 UTC
Despite his title and theoretical authority, Carl Irwin was not part of the President’s close circle of advisers. A compromise choice as Vice-President, his role under Cavanagh had reverted to the ceremonial and mundane, his influence over the White House no more than minimal. One of Irwin’s equally anonymous predecessors had claimed the office was ‘not worth a bucket of warm piss’ – a sentiment Irwin could wholeheartedly agree with.
After the first year his initial frustration had turned first to resentment, then a form of resigned acceptance, Irwin well aware that he hadn’t the necessary charisma essential to be President, nor even enough charm and good looks to at least try. In truth, his role offered much to make up for the early disappointments. With his family’s wealth to fall back on, the VP’s salary was not that relevant; a pension was also unlikely unless Cavanagh gained a second term. The prime advantage was purely one of perceived status, and the trappings associated with his present role were becoming addictive. At fifty-four he gave the ceremonial aspect enough gravitas to carry it off without suffering the ridicule heaped on certain other vice-presidents; the mundane tasks of spokesperson and second-string adviser also helped reinforce his high public profile, while ensuring his peers regularly sought his counsel.
In personal terms, there were other equally selfish benefits – two of whom lay asleep on the bed beside him. Kate was twelve years his junior, recently appointed as his Director of Scheduling; Erin was even younger, a rising attorney, her short blonde hair a magical contrast to Kate’s brunette locks. When Kate had seemed receptive to Irwin’s advances, he couldn’t quite believe his luck. Erin had joined them within a few weeks, their irregular threesome now into its fourth month. After some initial qualms, Irwin now considered such sessions an acceptable perk of his job. He still loved his wife but Kate and Erin provided the sexual excitement he had feared lost forever, and for the moment that more than made up for the guilt and occasional misgiving.
Today was one of the few where a guilty conscience made a post-coital nap an impossibility and Irwin silently slipped out of bed, padding downstairs to get himself a coffee. The beautifully furnished waterfront property was far too large for their needs, but it offered seclusion and a superb dose of luxury. Set in three acres and backing onto Little Seneca Lake, it was less than an hour’s drive from Washington. Irwin had snapped it up the very day Kate had seen it on the rental market, easily persuaded that it was ideal for their needs. The lease was for a year, but so far Irwin had found little difficulty in hiding the outrageous monthly payments from his wife, and it was hardly unusual for a vice-president to work long hours.
On a practical level the two-storey property also met with Secret Service approval, being private enough to allow a good level of security without compromising the identity of those inside. The role of Irwin’s security detail was to protect him, not to act as his moral guardians, and the agents had wisely kept their opinions to themselves. With the site regularly swept for covert devices, and additional checks made each time the VP visited, Irwin’s Security Chief was as confident as he could be that the Vice-President’s dalliance remained confidential.