Chapter 4 – Monday, October 24th
Washington, D.C. – 08:31 Local Time; 12:31 UTC
Raymond Flores sat in the FBI’s mobile command centre and watched the central display as it tracked Hanson’s car turning right onto Swann Road, heading south towards the ONI’s Technical Analysis Centre. Paige Hanson’s security clearance was TS/SCI – Top Secret, Sensitive Compartmented Information. That was the same as Flores, neither of them quite making it up to the top level and so requiring a polygraph test.
Special Agent Flores hadn’t been kept completely in the dark as to why Hanson merited a twenty-two strong FBI surveillance team, but he sincerely doubted he’d been told everything. Twenty years in the FBI, the last four as part of the National Security Branch, Flores exuded an air of quiet confidence, rarely if ever rattled and never yet heard to swear. If someone needed a rebuke, then a simple cold stare and a quiet word were generally enough.
Paige Hanson’s personal profile certainly looked fairly routine: married, now divorced; no steady boyfriend; social drinker; finances secure; fitness fanatic. There really was nothing unusual, no extremist political leanings or any obvious reason as to why she would betray her country.
Thus far it had been forty hours of boredom: Hanson out for a run on the Sunday morning, then at her sister’s for the afternoon; the rest of the weekend had been spent at home, no visitors. Her phone calls and emails were equally uninteresting, just family and a couple of friends. The FBI had hacked into her computer, an agent with the appropriate security clearance following her every tap on the keyboard. Hanson’s profile hadn’t labelled her as a workaholic, but a good proportion of her free time had been spent on work-related aspects – nothing though that seemed to threaten National Security.
Overall, it was difficult not to believe Hanson’s job was done, the chances of her leading them to Pat McDowell already looking remote. But that’s what made Flores’ job so intriguing, the target lulling everyone into a false sense of security and then suddenly doing the unexpected.
Once Hanson walked through the doors of the ONI building, she would be outside of the FBI’s view and their authority, others no doubt taking on that particular responsibility. If nothing else, such investigations taught the art of patience, Flores certain that Hanson would eventually make a mistake – he just hoped she did it sooner rather than later.
Hanson parked in the main car park, walking quickly across the tarmac towards her office in the Farragut Building, her breath showing clearly in the cold morning air. There were still two cameras on her and six agents; another thirty seconds and they could all relax, Hanson likely to be out of their jurisdiction for at least three hours.
Abruptly Hanson seemed to stumble; her body lurched a second time then she crashed face down to the ground. Flores saw it all on the central display, the camera revealing the blood-red stain spreading across the back of her jacket.
“Shooter! From the north-west!” Other voices now added to the clamour from the loudspeaker to Flores right. Instinctively, he knew where the sniper was, seeing in his mind the layout north-west towards Washington National Cemetery.
“The water tower!” he ordered. “All units – the shooter’s atop the water tower at Swann and Suitland.”
It was all too easy. The tan-coloured water tower was a prominent landmark, the recreation centre at its base even available for hire. It was maybe four hundred yards from where Hanson’s body lay – too far for a rank amateur, but still a relatively easy shot for a trained sniper. That meant someone either from the military or the police, and with very steady nerves.
It took just seconds to confirm Hanson was dead, the two hollow point bullets less than two inches apart a lesson in overkill. It was another full minute before the first report came through from the Suitland Water Tower: one community worked murdered; no sign of the shooter; one possible suspect – a white male, traveling in a black sedan heading north-west.
Flores made the appropriate calls, the suspect’s details so vague as to be completely useless. Only now did he realise that the sniper most likely had an accomplice tailing Hanson, someone to warn that the target was approaching the ONI. The FBI team hadn’t noticed anything, but then they hadn’t been looking.
Flores belatedly ordered a review of the video records. Not that he expected to discover anything worthwhile, resigned now as to it being just another missed opportunity. It was the worst possible start to his morning. And no doubt someone was going to get it in the neck – most likely Flores himself.
Marshwick, England – 14:32 Local Time; 13:32 UTC
Breakfast had been a rushed affair, Charlotte heading off home after coffee and toast to change before opening up the agency at nine. By mutual agreement they had kept the Sunday free of anything controversial or related to mysterious packages, the two of them spending the day in Lincoln, avoiding the showers by strategic visits to the castle and shops.
It was early afternoon before Anderson returned once more to his quest. Although mindful of Devereau’s belated warning and the potential dangers, such concerns had never stopped him before, and there seemed little risk in pursuing it for a while longer. He still had several more possible avenues for research: Brandt, Kramer, Mercier, Marcelo – it might take time but Anderson was confident there was an answer somewhere in the electronic aether of the internet. And, if he were honest, he didn’t actually have anything better to do.
In fact it took him less than fifteen minutes to search out a brief CV on the first three, each of their individual areas of expertise an impressively close match to those of Judith Gastrell and Walter Drummond. The results doggedly continued Saturday’s sonar theme, the frequent use of it in combination with algorithm forcing Anderson to ensure he really did know what the latter word actually meant. ‘A set of rules for solving a problem’ seemed to be the simplest definition, Google itself using algorithms to come up with its search results; similarly, dating sites used them to pair couples together and even his phone’s news feed was based around an algorithm.
Anderson obstinately delved deeper into the companies Gastrell and the others worked for, gradually becoming bewildered by the incestuous links between Atlas Elektronik, BAE and Thales. All of them seemed happy to co-operate on various defence programmes, often working on joint ventures with a diverse selection of countries, buying and selling subsidiaries along the way. Various U.S. conglomerates, such as Lockheed Martin and General Electric, also seemed keen to join the merry-go-round of joint ventures, mergers and restructuring.
Not that any of it helped him work out the precise nature of the symposium or what McDowell was up to. A search on Marcelo came next, Anderson’s initial enthusiasm for the task slowly waning with each fruitless hour.
When Charlotte returned just after five, Anderson was back on track with his oft-delayed dinner plan, except it was now the local pub rather than something more personal. Sadly, Charlotte seemed keen to return to the problem of McDowell.
“If sonar and algorithms are potential links,” Charlotte suggested, “what about adding them as keywords to different combinations of the other names.”
Anderson tried not to sound petulant, knowing that Charlotte was working hard to be helpful. “Been there, done that. Bet you didn’t know there’s a big music festival called Sonar, and Marcelo Castelli had a hit with his track of the same name. I’ve combined every keyword we have, plus a billion other permutations. Same result. I just can’t work out what the link to McDowell might be.”
Charlotte nodded in understanding, “Perceptive deductions always take time, Mike; hopefully though, not forever.”
It was proving to be an exasperating day, Anderson almost wishing Charlotte had left it another twenty-four hours before interfering so directly. Now they were both getting cranky, which didn’t bode well for a good end to the evening.
For once, Anderson’s diplomatic skills proved equal to the task, Charlotte persuaded to abandon the internet for The Farriers Arms. Despite
the pub suffering from its usual Monday-evening lack of atmosphere, dinner proved to be a relaxed and pleasant affair, Anderson working hard to keep the conversation away from anything too controversial.
It was well after nine before they returned to the cottage. Charlotte led the way inside, stopping suddenly the instant she turned on the kitchen light.
Anderson almost stumbled into her, confused eyes following her gaze to the kitchen table.
Santa Claus had been back.