The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2)

by Christopher Read

  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 totally reliable, Lavergne and Preston dealing with Paige Hanson 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. “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 – whilst not an unexpected bonus, it made McDowell’s decision to proceed the correct one. And no security: the Congressmen obviously felt they had nothing to fear in their home state 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 two. 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 protoco
l.

  “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 greater that 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 easily be a gun hidden 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, one unconscious. McDowell 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’s 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 simply 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.

  Chapter 6 – Wednesday, October 26th

  England – 12:50 Local Time; 11:50 UTC

  Anderson had much to think about on the way home, still unsure quite what to make of Gabriel. The man had certainly seemed genuine and his story believable. The information was also exclusively Anderson’s to do with as he saw fit, Gabriel fervently denying he had said anything to the police.

  Not that Anderson had actually learnt a great deal about McDowell’s movements, just his dining schedule: he’d arrived at the hotel on Wednesday the 12th, followed soon after by a trip out for a meal with Hanson. Thursday evening was dinner at the hotel with a middle-aged male associate, finished off by drinks at the bar.

  McDowell’s drinking companion remained something of an enigma. Wealthy enough to afford a suite on the top floor, he looked to have stayed the same two nights as McDowell. Yet none of the staff were prepared to reveal anything particularly helpful about him, Gabriel the only one to supply a vague physical description, his best guess as to the man’s nationality being Russian.

  That wasn’t quite what Anderson wanted to hear, putting him a bit of a quandary. Passing on what he had learnt to SO15 would in some senses betray what Markova and Thomas had told him. Anderson’s expulsion from Russia the previous year had also been dependent on his silence regarding the terrorists’ links with Russia’s SVR. If this man was indeed Russian would Anderson be breaking his earlier pledge? And did it really matter anyway?

  Anderson kept coming back to his original fear that he was being played. Whether it was the FSB or even McDowell, he wasn’t sure. Thanks to him SO15 and the Met were out looking for a specific threat to London, the terrorist threat level now increased to ‘Severe – an attack is highly likely’. But what else could he have done? To have ignored the package would have irresponsible, and SO15 needed to at least take some of the blame.

  The news reports had kept him updated with the latest on the shootings in Mississipp
i and Washington. Hanson’s murder had shocked then confused Anderson, and he still wondered whether Russia had decided to interfere rather more directly, their reasons unclear. Maybe Paige Hanson wasn’t even the first to die, McDowell’s Russian associate similarly paying his respects to the coroner.

  It was something else to add to his long list of unknowns, which brought Anderson back to Gabriel’s final offering. The friendly exchange between Gabriel and McDowell had moved beyond east coast cities to sights further inland, McDowell offering a flippant endorsement of one particular U.S. State. Even though Anderson knew the comment was probably meaningless, he felt he had to at least try and make sense of it – Charlotte would settle for nothing less.

  There’s nowhere better than Virginia, even though you can’t breathe indoors and the bears lie in wait outside.

  Anderson had checked twice with Gabriel that he’d got it correct: the wording might not be exact but Gabriel insisted it was close enough. Whether such trivia was actually worth fifty euros was highly debatable, yet Anderson found himself twisting the comment around in his mind, it almost sounding as if McDowell was speaking from bitter experience.

  Anderson had no idea where in the U.S. McDowell was actually from, but Devereau’s sources soon supplied the answer: born in Sacramento, brought up in Seattle, parents now living outside Portland. All three cities were near the west coast and well over two thousand miles from Virginia, which suggested that McDowell’s words of advice were unlikely to be a consequence of his upbringing. His old unit of the 82nd Airborne was based at Fort Bragg, in North Carolina; the Virginia State Line lay to the north, just a hundred miles away, so that at least offered a possible answer. Other than those few basic facts, no-one seemed to know whether McDowell had ever lived in Virginia, or even if he was married.

  McDowell’s comment kept gnawing away at Anderson. For some reason Virginia was worthy of a special mention. And what was this about not breathing indoors? He realised he was in danger of turning an offhand remark into something it wasn’t, but apart from a dubious Russian link it was the only useful thing he’d got from his visit to Hamburg.