Anderson struggled to reach the phone, momentarily confused by the different call tone. Fortunately, it was a number he instantly recognised, Anderson hoping that Devereau had heard something more from Charlotte.
“Hi Adam; sorry for the delay, I was half-asleep.”
“I do apologise,” responded Devereau, heavy on the sarcasm. “Every time someone calls me from that damn country they pick the middle of the bloody night, and you have the gall to whinge when it’s well after breakfast time. And you had another hour to lie in, the Americans as usual doing everything well after everyone else.”
“It’s not easy being a fugitive,” Anderson said defensively. “Your body clock tends to go haywire.”
“In which case you’ll be pleased to learn the FBI have taken you off their most wanted list. Charlotte’s been in contact; she’s on her way to Heathrow and the FBI want to talk.”
“Talk or put me in a cell and throw away the key?”
“They know you had nothing to do with Garcia. Charlotte’s given me the direct number for a Ray Flores; Charlotte seems to think he’s genuine. Apparently he’s authorised to offer you immunity from prosecution. It’s the only way out of this mess, Mike…”
Anderson was minded to agree, the stress of looking over his shoulder every few minutes starting to wear him down. He was well aware of his own physical limitations and it was obvious he would have to hand himself in sometime soon and trust that McDowell was exaggerating. Maybe the FBI might even want his help...
An hour later Anderson was back at the Aldie site, trying to keep well clear of husband and wife while explaining to Flores why it had attracted his interest. Anderson was rather proud of his newly-acquired ID tag and blue windbreaker with FBI in yellow all over it. It probably wasn’t legal for him to wear them, but Flores seemed to be more interested in searching out McDowell than correct FBI protocol. Flores had even been sympathetic to Anderson’s concerns as to a potential FBI mole, and Anderson had quickly realised that fears as to his personal safety were unfounded – at least that was his hope.
In the light of day, the inside of the barn looked far more impressive than Anderson had first thought and even an area a third the size, properly equipped, would be more than sufficient for McDowell and his team. Anderson now appreciated that he had been far too restrictive with his filtering of the building permits and he must had missed a score or more of sites that would actually be suitable.
“Any new ideas?” Flores seemed prepared to allow his new associate free reign, the FBI determined to make the most of Anderson’s supposed expertise.
“Not yet. I take it there are no reports of anything unusual happening around Washington? Presumably Dick Thorn must know the odd general or two?”
Flores shook his head, focusing on the first of Anderson’s questions, “There’s nothing out of the ordinary. Together with Homeland Security we have units watching all of the military bases around D.C., but everything seems quiet.”
“What if someone attacks the White House and the Secret Service can’t cope: what then happens?”
“They’d mobilise the Old Guard,” Flores replied positively. “More formally known as the 3rd United States Infantry Regiment; they’re based at Fort Myer just three miles from the White House.”
“And that wouldn’t create some sort of constitutional crisis?”
“The President can execute an order for them to help keep the peace and suppress a conspiracy, but their actions are limited by Posse Comitatus and the Insurrection Act. I’m not certain, but D.C.’s Mayor might also be able to federalise the National Guard.”
Anderson filed such facts away for future reference. The torpedo attacks had reignited his curiosity as to the possible relevance of Wilhelmshaven, but Flores had simply brushed off Anderson’s questions, more worried as to what was happening closer to home. Both of them remained confused as to McDowell’s next step – no idea as to the what or even the when.