The Trust Of The People

by Christopher Read

  Chapter 13 – Wednesday, November 2nd

  Port Barton, The Philippines – 10:10 Local Time; 02:10 UTC

  In terms of actual numbers Louisa certainly considered it a setback, with just under a hundred boats of various sizes gathering together in the bay. Mischief Reef was four hundred kilometres to the west and in reality many types of vessel were simply unsuitable, either because of the distance to be travelled or the available depth of water.

  It was still an impressive sight: beautiful motor yachts fighting for space with a chunky trawler or a cargo vessel. The pride of the fleet had to be a forty metre super-yacht, its celebrity owner a famous Filipino actor. Apart from the media, not all of those taking part were native to the Philippines, with ten or more from America, a handful Australian.

  Louisa showed none her disappointment, outwardly thankful for each and every gesture of support. The latest reports confirmed that another eighteen vessels had already left Vietnam and two more were coming from Brunei. In Malaysia, the government had bowed to external pressure and three vessels had been prevented from leaving port; that in itself had been helpful to Louisa, the adverse publicity hardening attitudes elsewhere.

  In total, including those from outside the Philippines, Louisa could end up with well over a hundred craft under her command – maybe just about an armada but only if spelt with a small ‘a’.

  On the positive side, the media were ensuring the protest stayed in the public eye, with a good quarter of the boats acting as TV units, reporters from across the world learning at first hand the beauty of Port Barton and the surrounding islands. Yet there were no paved roads here and electricity was effectively rationed, the influx of visitors potentially more of a problem than any real benefit. Facilities in the small village were also at a premium, with trucks bringing in additional supplies from Palawan’s capital, Puerto Princesa. All such necessary expenditure had been paid for through Louisa’s online appeal, the total contributed now well in excess of $3 million.

  There had been one unfortunate incident, two men accused of being Chinese spies harangued then beaten up. Louisa had physically stepped in to stop the assault, dismayed at any adverse publicity. Personally, she suspected the two had indeed been sent by Beijing, China needing to know exactly what it was up against.

  Louisa now stood on the beach, the white sand glinting in the early morning sun. The first boats were getting ready to set off, the timings staggered so that all vessels could travel at their optimum speed. Consequently, it was more a series of small convoys, each one voyaging out into the unknown, unsure quite how China intended to react.

  In slightly more than twenty-four hours they would all meet up close to Mischief Reef – then the world would see the true strength of Filipino resolve.

  Saint Petersburg, Russia – 12:38 Local Time; 09:38 UTC

  Markova sat on a wooden bench beside the River Neva feeling more relaxed than at any time since Grebeshkov’s murder: she had clothes that fitted, money, a phone that was her own, and even a new ID as a freelance journalist. Nikolai had once again proved to be an excellent emissary, arranging everything without unnecessary questions or fuss.

  Although the FSB in Saint Petersburg had yet to suffer under Golubeva’s purge, Markova had avoided direct contact, restricting herself to a handful of discreet phone calls to Nikolai and two close friends of General Grebeshkov. There were certain aspects of the past week that still worried her, Markova needing to seek advice and work out exactly where everyone’s loyalty lay.

  Saint Petersburg itself seemed immune to the upheaval affecting Moscow, people apparently more concerned as to Russia’s long-term stability. Strange then that the city’s past was rather more political, Saint Petersburg the birthplace of both Vladimir Putin and Irina Golubeva, as well as the terrorist group Narodnaya Volya, the latter’s main claim to fame the assassination of Tsar Alexander II in 1881.

  Narodnaya Volya: the Will of the People. The people of Moscow had certainly been influential in bringing about last year’s coup d’état, although it had needed Morozov’s 20th Guards Army to ensure victory. Golubeva had now had over a year to form new allegiances, and Markova assumed that the President had only acted against General Morozov once she had brokered enough military clout. The TV news seemed to have little detail on what had actually transpired, Morozov not even mentioned.

  Nikolai had a more substantive tale, his sources vastly more knowledgeable. In a well-choreographed operation spread across some ten separate locations, several of Morozov’s fellow officers had been arrested, hundreds of troops disarmed, with the General himself barely escaping after a vicious fire-fight west of Moscow. The GRU’s Headquarters at Khodynka had also been forcibly taken over, with some twenty dead and a good part of the top floor gutted by fire. The dacha outside Tutaev had similarly been set alight, no survivors reported.

  Morozov was still at large, a focus for the disaffected and the fearful, gathering support where he could, presently rebuilding his forces from a base outside Volgograd, a thousand kilometres south of Moscow. Purely out of personal necessity, many in the Lubyanka continued to ally themselves with Morozov, and the FSB’s Headquarters had by default become a powerful fifth column. Markova had assumed that her own involvement with Morozov had ended once she had reached Saint Petersburg, but the General apparently had other ideas. Impressed by her earlier successes, he was keen for her to pursue the investigation into Khabarovsk and Vladivostok – and much to Nikolai’s disgust, she hadn’t actually said no.

  Markova’s musings were interrupted by Nikolai struggling into the seat opposite, two mugs of tea and a large helping of baked Pirozhki dumped onto the table between them.

  Markova warmed her hands on the nearest mug and then looked quizzically at Nikolai. “What did you do with the evidence against Sukhov?”

  Nikolai froze in mid-bite, pastry crumbs tumbling to the table. “Sukhov?” he replied, momentarily confused. “I did what you said: papers put somewhere safe, your letter and the rest of the photos to Anderson – took me hours to find a copy of that fucking book.”

  “And where exactly did you decide was safe?”

  Nikolai shrugged, “It was a toss-up between my cousin and under the floorboards; for some reason he seemed the safer bet.”

  “And he’s still got them?”

  Nikolai realised that Markova was implying something; he just wasn’t sure quite what. “Last time I checked, yes; he’s pretty reliable despite being a cop.”

  Markova nodded thoughtfully, as though there was still something bothering her. “Anderson miraculously turning up in Washington: I assume that was your doing?”

  Nikolai took his time replying. “You trusted Anderson enough to tell him about Hanson and Wilhelmshaven; I simply wanted to give him a helping hand. Maybe it was a bad choice but I cashed in a favour from the GRU. For some reason that led him to Washington; I’ve no idea why.”

  “And your GRU friends didn’t mention anything about McDowell?”

  “No, did yours?” Nikolai was starting to get annoyed, unsure what Markova expected him to say. “The GRU were keeping tabs on Anderson but I guess that’s all finished now. All they told me was that he’d booked a flight to Dulles with his girlfriend, so maybe he’s there on holiday.”

  Markova remained unconvinced, “There’s more to it than that. Someone wants Anderson in Washington to try and draw McDowell out.”

  “Well it’s not down to me; maybe it was Morozov. We all thought McDowell’s target was London, so I helped Anderson where I could; that was all.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence, Nikolai realising he should have explained about Anderson and Berlin earlier. Over the past weeks the line between friends and enemies had not just become blurred, it had overlapped, and the fact Markova would question his judgement was more an indication of the stress she had been under than a genuine rebuke. She seemed to blame herself for General Grebeshkov’s death and was desperate to make amends.

  “Why bo
ther with Khabarovsk?” he asked, deciding it was best to change the subject. “Sukhov’s contact could be anyone; you’ve got at least half-a-million suspects and where would you start? We’d be better off joining up with Morozov.” To Nikolai, Markova’s eagerness to leave Saint Petersburg appeared to be unnecessary and an almost foolish rush back into danger.

  “Something is obviously happening along the border,” responded Markova with emphasis. “We need to understand what Golubeva is trying to hide and whether China is to be an ally or an enemy.”

  “This contact in Khabarovsk, Major Yashkin; are you sure we can trust him?”

  “He’s ex-Lubyanka,” Markova replied, “and once worked under Grebeshkov; that’s as much as I know.”

  Nikolai frowned, still far from happy, “Give it a few more days at least.”

  Markova shook her head, unwilling just to sit back and let events pass her by. “I don’t need a babysitter, Nikolai; go join your family. I’ll get in touch if I need anything.”

  Nikolai’s eyes widened in mock shock, as though Markova had suggested the unthinkable, “I think I’ll tag along, just in case. Ten hours, stuck in one of Aeroflot’s finest with my knees thrust up under my chin – I’m looking forward to it already.”

  Eastern United States – 09:42 Local Time; 13:42 UTC

  Anderson was feeling pleased with himself, his early-morning breakfast negotiations having been successful in adjusting the day’s agenda: if the two of them were going to visit the site of the Battle of McDowell, they should at least learn up on its context first, especially since their route took them right past the Civil War Orientation Centre at Harrisonburg.

  Anderson thought he knew the basics, but Sheridan’s scorched earth policy against the Shenandoah Valley, known as ‘The Burning’, was unexpected. The Battle of McDowell was two years earlier, Stonewall Jackson defeating the Union Forces by managing to stay where he was and so forcing the enemy to retreat. Not a big battle, less than 800 killed in total, but a strategic victory nevertheless.

  From Harrisonburg it was south-west on Route 42, the road passing through pleasant rolling countryside with a sparse covering of trees, eventually reducing down to a single carriageway and two lanes. Apart from the fact they were traveling on the wrong side of the road, they could easily have been somewhere in England. Charlotte drove, Anderson happy to sit and generally be annoying, eventually turning on the radio to listen to the latest on the Vice-President.

  The political chaos could certainly have been borrowed from the UK, the number of embarrassing gaffes and scandals no more than that for a typical month in Westminster. The Vice-President’s extra-marital affair remained the main news story and he had apparently resigned immediately after returning from Hanoi; whether he had been pushed or had gone voluntarily was unclear. His letter of resignation to the President had been brief and apologetic, and damage limitation was proving difficult, the broadsheets virtually unanimous in their condemnation of Irwin. Not that the President seemed to fair much better, various political analysts citing the fiasco as merely the latest example of Cavanagh’s bad judgement.

  Eventually, Anderson had heard enough, realising that such details were simply feeding Charlotte’s conspiracy theories, and he ignored the radio to focus on the Virginia countryside. After some twenty-five miles, they turned right onto Route 250 towards Monterey. Now it was a steady climb, past hedgerows and a thicker covering of trees, gradually becoming more like Scotland than England, with just the nature of the houses suggesting it might not actually be the UK. The Hankey Mountain Highway led them deeper into the National Forest and its beautiful covering of Autumnal shades.

  Anderson took the occasional photo, trying not to let his cynicism spoil what was becoming a very enjoyable drive. The trees were far taller now, the sunlight almost an annoyance as it flickered and danced through the tree tops. The road twisted and turned, the view opening out to reveal yet more rolling tree-covered hills in the distance, before the car was heading out of the forest and along the Highland Turnpike.

  To Anderson, it wasn’t quite the Scottish Highlands, but he could see why it had been named Highland County. The trees slowly thinned out, the landscape becoming more rugged as they moved downhill. The ‘Welcome to Historic McDowell’ sign was a reminder of why they were there, the fifty mile trip from Harrisonburg taking – with a couple of brief photo stops – an hour and a half.

  The speed limit lowered to 35; a right-hand bend and they were in McDowell proper: church to the left and another further on to the right, then several smart-looking houses well separated from each other – it all looked very pleasant.

  They drove a mile past the gas station at the western edge then turned around, heading back. According to earlier research, McDowell was too small for a diner or restaurant, and the Highland County Museum looked the best bet to make relevant enquiries.

  Except it was shut for the winter. Option two was the Country Store, option three the battlefield itself. Charlotte seemed determined to speak to anyone that ventured within close proximity, willing to go knocking on doors with photographs of McDowell in hand – not just the grainy ones from Germany, but one taken the previous year showing the more familiar ponytail.

  In the end, they stayed almost two hours, Charlotte’s manner and their English accents helping ease the introductions; they were even given a coffee and a bite to eat, plus an individual guided tour of the museum.

  Anderson generally preferred a subtle approach to asking questions, whereas Charlotte’s philosophy was a little more direct. Did anyone recognise this man? Anyone?

  In any event, they didn’t, and it definitely seemed a genuine negative. Not that Charlotte’s enthusiasm for her task seemed diminished. To Anderson’s obvious confusion, next on her list was the county town of Monterey, ten miles further west.

  “Okay,” Anderson finally asked as they left McDowell, “Why Monterey?”

  Charlotte gave a superior smile, “Virginia State Law requires contractors who install radon reduction systems to be listed with either the National Radon Proficiency Program or the National Radon Safety Board. The closest authorised companies are based in Monterey and Churchville.”

  Anderson decided it was best not to say anything too contentious. Charlotte seemed to have everything well in hand, although – bearing mind she’d made a good few assumptions – he wasn’t that optimistic about their chance of success.

  The Monterey firm turned out to be a husband and wife team, but for once Charlotte’s charm had met its match. Whether or not it was the fact she obviously wasn’t a potential customer, her supposedly subtle mention of Pat McDowell met with undisguised hostility, the wife refusing point blank to answer any questions, the husband never actually appearing but still used as some sort of threat.

  The drive to the second of Charlotte’s options was back the way they had come, Churchville just a few hundred yards from where they’d joined Route 250. There wasn’t much in terms of conversation, Charlotte still fuming and Anderson trying not to gloat. This time, it was down to Anderson to prove he could do better, his journalist credentials finally brought into play, it assumed they might help tease out any relevant information.

  The company looked to be far larger than Monterey’s handful of employees, Anderson eventually working his way through to what seemed to be the boss: male, fiftyish, referred to only as Riley. Once again, just the mention of McDowell’s name was sufficient to get a hostile response.

  “Pat McDowell,” Riley repeated, giving Anderson a hard stare. “What about him?”

  “I just wondered if you had done some work for him once?”

  “And what if we had?”

  This wasn’t quite going as well as Anderson had hoped. Riley seemed to know of McDowell and at least he hadn’t actually told him to bugger off.

  “Sorry,” said Anderson apologetically. “I certainly didn’t mean to imply anything. I was just trying to find out if he used to live round here.”


  “And why do the Brits care where he might have lived?”

  “I’m working on something for The Washington Post,” Anderson lied. “I can’t really go into details and at the moment I’m just trying to get a bit of background on McDowell.”

  Riley’s suspicious frown eased slightly, “The FBI have been asking questions as well; not to me, but people hereabouts. What did McDowell do to get everybody so all fired up?”

  “As I said, I can’t go into details; but Mississippi’s next on my travels.”

  Riley’s eyes widened, “You don’t say… We did do some work for McDowell ‘bout four years back. He bought a lodge near Stuarts Draft, twenty miles south-east of here: pool, shooting range, plenty of land, perfect for hunting. Moved in with his girlfriend but I guess they got bored with it; moved out after maybe a year. And before you ask, I’ve no idea where.”

  “The girlfriend – do you remember her name?”

  “No, sorry; I think they broke up anyway. The FBI seemed more interested in McDowell than her.”

  “When exactly were they snooping around?”

  “The FBI?” Riley thought for a moment, “Maybe the day after the two Congressmen were killed. I could check if you want?”

  Anderson shook his head – he was just curious, and it was nice to know that Charlotte and the FBI were obviously thinking along the same lines. His comment to Riley about Mississippi had simply been a guess, but under the circumstances it had seemed a fairly safe bet.

  Charlotte’s mood brightened significantly once Anderson reported back, delighted to have been proved correct on so many levels. Quite where her search for McDowell would go from here wasn’t obvious, but Anderson didn’t doubt she would have some convoluted idea to pursue – he would eat humble pie and enquire further over dinner.

  With the morning long gone and the afternoon also threatening to be wasted, the next venue was a toss-up between the equidistant attractions of Lexington or Charlottesville – not that it was ever really in doubt which of the two they would actually visit…