The driver hadn’t yet moved from his seat: swearing with every breath, he was busy fumbling left-handed with his seat belt, other hand held to his ear, blood dripping down the side of his face, no sign of a gun. His colleague looked to be in shock, both hands clamped around his thigh, blood oozing darkly between his fingers. Anderson gave a final wary glance and then he leapt down onto the road, racing along the edge of the tree line, the adrenalin continuing to kick in.
The residential road was empty of traffic; the houses all looked to be in the multi-million bracket, separated from each other and the main road by a clump of trees. Anderson kept running, heading towards the traffic noise. He was desperate to get away but also desperate to warn Charlotte, terrified that McDowell would exact his revenge as soon as he could.
It took no more than a few seconds to reach the main road, Anderson arbitrarily turning right, then after fifty yards racing across the two lanes and into the trees beyond – no sign of pursuit. Another hundred yards and he started to slow, grabbing his phone to call Charlotte, urging her to answer.
She did so at only the second ring, Anderson breathlessly shouting out a single word, a pre-arranged signal to do with a lot of shit hitting a very big fan.
* * *
Despite the late hour, Jensen was still in his smart new office at the Anacostia complex, four miles south-east of the White House, grappling with the headache of McDowell and what exactly he was up to. Part of him wanted his coup theory to be proved wrong, another part argued that he should be pushing the possibility far more strongly.
Many in the Cabinet might think Jensen’s suggestion ridiculous, but the pressure on the Administration seemed unrelenting. The Ulrich bombshell was yet another nail in the coffin of U.S. democracy, the repercussions of her report far more significant than any of the other political embarrassments, even the Vice-President’s resignation. The media had leapt on her report to demand an immediate investigation, with pressure put on Ulrich to retract at least some of it. She had been steadfast in its defence, refusing point-blank to offer an apology or resign, merely adding to the controversy by stating that there was a lot more she had left out simply because the evidence was less conclusive.
For every expert who argued that she was wildly exaggerating and that the actual number of incorrect votes was insignificant, there was another who agreed with her general conclusions, confirming that the voting system was in a chaotic state with the results potentially flawed. The knock-on effects of her report were already being felt, with polling centres confirming that the turnout for early-voting was at an all-time low. Predictions as to the final result even suggested that it could be far worse than the humiliation of 2014. At just over 36%, that had been the lowest Midterm turnout since 1942; now the 25% of 1794 might just be within reach. Politicians were doing what they could to stir up interest but their attempts were often counter-productive with several jeered and barracked into silence. Incidents where something more than just abuse was thrown were now common-place, with the authorities unable to cope with the invective stirred-up via social media.
In an attempt to fight back, the morning’s newspapers would carry a joint statement from the Democratic and Republican Parties, both them agreed on a more proactive campaign to counter the recent innuendo and lies. The facts would be in print for everyone to see and argue over, the politicians recognising that the ongoing issues had become a serious threat to voter confidence. There was no attempt to suggest the distorted revelations were part of some deeper conspiracy, it implied that they were more a campaign designed to question America’s political system and embarrass Congress.
Whether such efforts would be effective in reversing the damage done by Irwin, Ulrich and others was unclear, but at least it was a start. Jensen had also received the final reports from his two teams investigating the symposium at Wilhelmshaven and the Mississippi murders. The review of Wilhelmshaven had proved to be a pointless exercise, the various experts unable to agree, their best guesses too varied to be helpful. The Mississippi report was more constructive, the death of Dan Quinn removing someone seen as the backbone of the Republican Party, a man able to unite dissenters and bring an element of common-sense to the Party’s more controversial ideas. Americans might previously have been unable to put a name to the face, but Quinn’s relatively low public profile belied his significant political influence.
Each such incident ate away at the political system, both from within and through increased public apathy. The President was seen as weak and indecisive, the mass of politicians as complacent and uncaring, with no-one willing to force through the changes essential to keep democracy relevant and effective.
To the public and the media, the escalating crisis in the South China Sea was a prime example of the President’s shortcomings. The second battle of Mischief Reef had taken another seven lives, the internet full of eyewitness and video reports. Virtually every news station seemed to have access to video clips taken from a drone, some broadcasters going so far as to show the shooting of two Vietnamese by Chinese marines and the resultant chaos around Louisa Marcelo’s catamaran. Jensen found certain parts difficult to watch without the screams and pictures sending a chill down his body, the anger and viciousness from both sides shocking in the extreme.
The response from Vietnam took just a few hours, a patrol boat firing on several Chinese fishing boats which it was claimed had been fishing illegally – four dead; one boat sunk. Overnight, angry mobs had swept through Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City attacking anything or anyone believed to be Chinese. Scores had been injured, the number killed as yet unclear. The Philippines had witnessed similar protests but fewer targeted attacks, a mass rally planned for when Marcelo arrived back in Manila.
The latest intelligence reports confirmed that it would take very little for China, the Philippines and Vietnam to engage in a shooting war – not bullets against unarmed civilians but missiles and torpedoes aimed at military targets. Vietnam certainly had the means through its modern fleet of Russian-built submarines and frigates, plus a capable air force. Their government had tended to adopt a passive stance over China’s expansionist policies, unwilling to risk such expensive resources in a war it couldn’t possibly win – but that now seemed to be changing.
China and Vietnam had last gone to war in 1979, with between thirty and fifty thousand killed in a vicious conflict that hadn’t even lasted a month. Despite China’s overwhelming superiority, Vietnam would again prove to be a tenacious enemy, the consequences for both countries likely to be significant.
One danger was that other nations would invariably be dragged in – the Philippines certainly, possibly even Taiwan. North Korea would doubtless look on, working out how best to take advantage, perhaps even assuming America would be too distracted to react to an attack. The U.S Seventh Fleet was doing its best to show the flag, and once the joint naval exercise with Japan ended then additional vessels would be sent south to join the USS Milius.
With pressure mounting from all sides on Cavanagh, the possibility of a coup d’état – however unlikely – was Jensen’s prime concern. He certainly didn’t need the President’s permission to pursue an investigation into the military and had gone ahead regardless, although it had seemed prudent to tread carefully. When a hurried review had revealed nothing of interest, Jensen had stuck to his principles and established a specialist group to consider how a military coup might be staged – if the six members wondered why Jensen had set them such a task, or why he’d demanded their initial findings within seventy-two hours, then they had wisely kept their concerns to themselves.
Jensen just hoped they did actually get their full seventy-two hours: Election Day was on the 8th and it seemed as if events were inexorably heading towards an uncertain climax.
* * *
Raymond Flores ducked under the police tape and strode towards the house, impressed by its elegance and jealous that Garcia’s home was well outside of his price range. He had used his car but he could ha
ve just as easily walked there, the exclusive estate between Centreville and Chantilly less than a mile from his own home. Noticing Flores, another agent moved to head him off, ready with the initial report.
“Garcia was found in the master bedroom,” said the agent, checking his notes. “Shot twice in the chest; been dead about an hour. Police responded to a ‘shots fired’ call at 21:24: witnesses reported seeing a stationary white van and an armed man running up Pleasant Valley Road towards Chantilly – too dark to get a good description. That’s about four hundred yards from here but the van had disappeared by the time the police turned up. There was also an anonymous call to the hotline at 21:50: male, British accent; he described the Garcia house and claimed Pat McDowell could be found here.”
“Described it? The caller didn’t give an actual address?”
“No address; just a detailed description. It wasn’t hard to work out which house. We’re looking at two separate incidents here, but it’s difficult not to believe they’re somehow connected.”
Flores checked his watch: 22:47. The area around Centreville was being saturated with police and agents, but it was probably already too late, the perpetrators doubtless long gone.
“Where’s Garcia’s wife?” Flores asked.
“The neighbours think she’s in Los Angeles visiting her sister.”
“No sign of McDowell?”
The agent shook his head, “Front door was unlocked, lights on; we’re knocking on doors but so far no-one saw or heard anything unusual. Forensic are checking the house – no sign of a struggle. The perimeter has four cameras covering the grounds, but for some reason only one picked up anything relevant: no van or any other vehicles, just a white male walking up to the front door; timestamp puts his arrival at just after nine. They’re working to enhance the image now.”
“Garcia didn’t have a protection detail?”
“He wasn’t interested,” replied the agent. “Said he was too old and set in his ways to cope with a bodyguard.”
Flores nodded in understanding. At the age of 78 he too might have refused the offer of 24/7 protection, and Garcia would have well known the risks, relying more on his perceived anonymity. He certainly wouldn’t have been the only one of his colleagues to regret such a decision, although the first to have suffered more than just a routine robbery.
The FBI hotline had received a steady trickle of reports as to Pat McDowell’s whereabouts but none quite as specific as this evening. Despite the setback with Paige Hanson, no blame had been attached to Flores, and his specialist unit had been co-opted as part of a joint agency task force. The hunt for McDowell still covered a massive area, including all of Maryland and Virginia, the focus now instantly switching to west of D.C.
“Check the other houses for CCTV,” Flores instructed. “Maybe they picked up something.”
It was a vain hope, but Flores wasn’t prepared to let a chance to catch McDowell – or whoever was responsible – slip by. His first thoughts focused on the anonymous call made by a man with an English accent: Flores was aware Anderson was staying in Leesburg and gut instinct made him order a unit to check it out.
McDowell, Anderson and Garcia: the first two knew each other, but it seemed unlikely that either man moved in Garcia’s exclusive circle. For the last twenty-five years Enrique Garcia had served as an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, one of the nine men and women who together made up the Supreme Court. In terms of seniority, Garcia was the longest-serving Associate Justice; although, at his age, he would have been unlikely to make the step up to Chief Justice of the United States.
Whilst on official business, the Supreme Court’s own police provided suitable protection for the nine justices; otherwise the U.S. Marshals Service and local police took over. Garcia’s home was in a low crime area, and he had obviously put his faith in the deterrence of the alarm and CCTV, a police patrol car carrying out a visual check every now and again.
Flores now had a high-profile case on his hands, one likely to gain the full attention of the White House. He badly needed a success to make up for Paige Hanson and he was determined not to fail a second time. If he had to spend a couple of sleepless nights chasing after every elusive lead, then that was a small price to pay.
* * *
Charlotte drove as fast as she dared, still bewildered as to whether she was doing the right thing. Anderson had basically told her to pack up and leave straightaway, but she had insisted on coming to his aid, not prepared to just abandon him. It didn’t help that Anderson had no clear idea of where he was, and his best guess of ‘somewhere south of Washington’ had forced Charlotte to pick a random route while awaiting more detailed instructions.
The next hour was sixty minutes of high stress, her mood alternating between despair and anger; the fact that she had been right all along and McDowell was indeed close at hand, was of no consolation whatsoever. Anderson hadn’t gone into much detail except to warn her that she was in danger, but that all-too obviously went for him as well.
By the time she reached Centreville, she had finally managed to calm down; she didn’t think she had been followed and a second call from Anderson had finally given her a more specific destination to aim for. Of concern was the number of police that were out and about, Charlotte eventually waved to a halt because of a police road-block.
One officer moved from car to car, another watching everything, hand never far from his gun. Charlotte wound down her window and smiled sweetly at the officer – at least that was how she hoped it came across and not as a scowl.
“Sorry for the delay, Miss,” said the officer. “If you could please pop the trunk.”
Charlotte did as she was bid, wanting to ask who they were searching for but not daring just in case it wasn’t actually McDowell. The officer took a casual glance inside the car and boot, before giving Charlotte a smile and waving her through.
Five minutes later she turned into the Chantilly Golf Club entrance, parking well away from the clubhouse. She then just waited, engine turned off, searching the shadows for some sign of Anderson.
The passenger door was pulled open and Anderson slid onto the seat. Charlotte almost threw herself at him, relieved but for some reason wanting to shout at him as well.
Welcome over, Anderson quickly recounted more on his meeting with McDowell, Charlotte listening in shocked silence as he glossed over his escape.
“The police are everywhere,” she said, when he had finished. “Are they looking for you or Pat McDowell?”
“Both of us, I guess,” Anderson replied, sounding exhausted. “People might not have heard the shots, but at least one saw me running away with a gun in my hand. McDowell implied he had the FBI in his pocket, and it’s just too risky to give myself up.”
Charlotte could well understand Anderson’s concerns – what she didn’t appreciate was him trying so hard to convince her to return immediately to the UK, when he was all-too obviously staying. And it just seemed foolish not to at least talk to the FBI: Anderson had only fired the gun in self-defence and the longer he left it the guiltier he would look.
It was a lonely trip back to Leesburg, Charlotte once again worried by the decisions they had both made. Anderson was now slightly better equipped than earlier, with Charlotte having supplied various basic essentials such as cash and clothes, as well as passing across her phone. Trading phones had been her idea – pointless probably, but it seemed safer than Anderson using his own or having to risk a payphone. Transport was proving trickier, the hire car too dangerous a proposition. Anderson’s one ace was Adam Devereau, Anderson confident that his former boss and his many contacts would be able to work some magic.
Charlotte was still undecided as to what she should do – if McDowell’s threat was to be believed then returning to the Jackson Inn could be a serious mistake. She had her passport, and money, but not a lot else, and despite Anderson’s warning, she was reluctant to leave everything behind. She had had to pander to McDowell once
before and that was once too many – with the police hot on his tail, surely he would have far better things to worry about than her.
Charlotte focused on that thought, offering up a prayer to whoever might be listening that she was actually right – so far, luck had been on their side, and maybe to expect anything more might be pushing it.
Chapter 15 – Friday, November 4th
Eastern United States – 00:40 Local Time; 04:40 UTC
Charlotte parked in an empty bay and walked slowly towards the Jackson Inn entrance. It was well after midnight and she was beginning to question the wisdom of ignoring Anderson’s concerns, the parking area not as well lit as she would have liked.
The night porter was at his desk busy on the phone, barely glancing at Charlotte as she passed. She took the stairs up to the second floor, stopping just short of her room once she realised the door was ajar.
“Miss Saunders?” The man was dressed in dark suit and tie, the proffered ID confirming he was FBI. Charlotte studied it carefully, not having a clue whether it was genuine or not, but needing time to gather her thoughts.
“Yes, I’m Charlotte Saunders. Why were you in my room?” Charlotte didn’t need to act surprised – she had been mentally prepared for the possibility of being accosted, just not by the FBI.
“If we could talk inside.”
It seemed more of an instruction than a question, Charlotte wondering whether she was going to survive the embarrassment of seeing her more intimate items strewn around the bedroom.
In fact, apart from a second agent standing by the window, the room was as she’d left it. Charlotte sat on the bed, struggling to come up with a cover story that wouldn’t just simply be a pack of lies.
“Mr Anderson’s not with you?”
“No, sorry.” Charlotte was trying hard not to sound nervous, still working out how exactly to play it – frightened, tearful, concerned, outraged, or maybe all four. “He went out at about eight, and I thought he might be back by now.”
The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2) Page 20