The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Anderson sat gasping for breath and trying not to throw up, eyes fixed on McDowell as he pulled up a chair to sit down opposite, gun held casually in his right hand. Two more men appeared from outside, one starting a search of the kitchen, the other checking Anderson’s pockets, his phone and keys duly joining the laptop on the kitchen table. The rest of the cottage was next on the men’s list, McDowell seemingly content to keep a wary eye on Anderson while idly reading through his handwritten notes.

  “Make yourself at home,” said Anderson, still struggling not to be sick.

  “You just couldn’t let it lie,” McDowell said, with the trace of a smile, “and look where it’s got you. As soon as you sent Devereau to Uxbridge, you left us with little choice.” He glanced down at Anderson’s notes, “Martin Rebane, Klaudia Woroniecki, Aldis Eglitis and someone called Yuri – you’ve been busy.”

  Anderson stayed silent, watching as McDowell’s men returned, one placing a suitcase beside McDowell, the second adding the ubiquitous Red Terror to the select pile resting on the kitchen table.

  With a wry smile McDowell opened the book to a random page before abruptly snapping it shut, his tone instantly becoming more hostile, “Who else knows about Erdenheim?”

  Anderson ignored the question. “Am I going somewhere?” he asked, looking down at his suitcase.

  McDowell took his time answering, his voice returning to its previous more casual inflection. “Just for a couple of days. As I said, you have an invitation from Marty – not one you can easily refuse, unfortunately. And if anyone gets curious, we’ve left enough clothes to suggest you’re coming back.”

  Anderson had to ask, “Is that likely?”

  “Anything’s possible,” McDowell replied, with a cold smile. “I’ll ask again, who else knows the truth about Erdenheim?”

  “The truth?” repeated Anderson, desperately trying to think of something that would save him. “I don’t even know what the truth is.”

  “Not sure I believe you, Mike. Lie again and I’ll break your fucking arm.” The words were spoken with barely a change in tone, yet McDowell left little doubt he would be more than happy to carry out his threat.

  “Check my notes,” Anderson said nervously. “Devereau got nothing useful from Uxbridge. I might not have taken Rebane at his word but that doesn’t mean I know what’s really happening at Erdenheim; I had a couple of ideas but nothing definite.” It was near enough the truth and it might just be enough to protect Charlotte and Devereau.

  “And what ideas might they be?”

  Anderson knew McDowell wouldn’t believe him if he came up with something trivial and he just had to try and muddy the waters a little. “It was a toss-up between Erdenheim helping the FSB against August 14 and somehow trying to take advantage of the terrorists’ success; either way it seemed to explain why you were so sensitive about unwanted publicity.”

  “But now you believe something different?”

  “People threatening you with a gun can do that,” said Anderson softly. “I’m guessing Erdenheim is closer to August 14 than I imagined.”

  McDowell stared at Anderson thoughtfully, “I’m almost convinced you’re telling the truth, Mike; for your girlfriend’s sake, you’d better hope that Rebane thinks so too...”

  Five minutes later, a morose Anderson was in the back of his car on the way to Graythorp, McDowell seated beside him, the SUV following on close behind. The car stopped outside the Management Centre’s front entrance, McDowell and one of his men hustling Anderson through the door and into the small office.

  There was a wait of several minutes before Rebane finally appeared, the questions of earlier repeated. Anderson stuck with his story, doing his best to emphasise that Devereau had little clue as to Erdenheim’s actual role, Charlotte knowing even less.

  It was a good twenty minutes before Rebane seemed satisfied; a brief consultation with McDowell then he slid across an iPhone, the display already showing a picture.

  “You recognise the image?” Rebane asked quietly.

  Anderson looked, then nodded. The ‘Welch and Saunders’ sign left no room for doubt, while the timestamp showed the image had been taken earlier that morning.

  “We have someone outside the estate agent’s and another watching Charlotte Saunders’ house. Co-operate, and no harm will come to her, or you. All we need is for you to convince Miss Saunders that you’ve disappeared off somewhere for a while. Now, surely that shouldn’t be too hard.”

  “And you’ll kill us both if I don’t? Two more deaths will hardly protect Erdenheim.” Anderson had regained a little backbone.

  Rebane looked thoughtfully across at Anderson, “Your cottage is nice and isolated; it would be tragic if it caught fire with you and your girlfriend asleep inside. I imagine it should be well alight before anyone else notices....” Rebane shrugged, “A credible scenario, at least for a while. In any event, it will give us the time we need and your lack of cooperation would have achieved nothing.”

  “Charlotte might not believe me,” Anderson said desperately. “You can’t just kill her because I’m a bad actor. And if Charlotte contacts the police then what’s the point – you’ll just convince them she’s telling the truth.”

  “The point is,” Rebane said forcefully, “that Erdenheim needs to be left alone, without anyone interfering in matters that are not their concern. If you think I’m bluffing, then that would be a very serious mistake. Do you not yet understand what you’re up against? We couldn’t operate as we do without the authorities turning a blind eye. August 14 isn’t just a few terrorists; it’s a united international effort to break Russia apart. Any appeal to the police would simply be classified as a crank call, or filed and instantly forgotten. Your friend Devereau has already been successfully warned off and you’re entirely on your own, no-one of importance caring whether you live or die.”

  Anderson’s brain couldn’t function and he had no clue as to whether Rebane was telling the truth or not; anything seemed possible, and he was too confused to work out even the most obvious flaws. Anderson seemed to have little chance to save himself, but somehow he might still be able to save Charlotte. However, the way he felt at the moment, she would easily hear the stress – even fear – in his voice.

  “I can send a text...” Anderson muttered, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I’m presently up to speaking to Charlotte, she’ll know instantly something is wrong.”

  “I think the two of you have gone past the stage where a text would suffice, especially under such circumstances. If you phone her at the estate agent’s, I assume she wouldn’t expect a video call, and we can work on what you need to say... What does she know of Adam Devereau?”

  “He’s just a name,” replied Anderson, not sure what Rebane was after. “She knows he’s my boss but that’s it.”

  “Devereau knew George Saunders from when exactly?”

  “It was years ago; twenty or more. I got the impression they hadn’t been in a contact for a good few years.”

  “Yet he still sent you to pay his respects. Why was that?”

  “Guilt, I guess,” said Anderson getting exasperated. “He certainly couldn’t be bothered to go himself and I owed him a favour; it wasn’t anything complicated.”

  Rebane seemed pleased for some reason, perhaps worried that the link between Saunders and Devereau might have been closer. “Relax, Mr Anderson; one brief call to Charlotte Saunders, and then it’s a nice sea voyage to Poland and accommodation better suited than Erdenheim to cope with unwelcome guests.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t inspire me with confidence. Is to be an accidental drowning this time, or will you just wait until I get to Poland?”

  “You are not the enemy here, Mr Anderson. All I need is a week, two at the most; then you will be released. If you’re lucky you might even get a few people to believe your story, just not anyone who really matters.”

  Anderson remained silent, totally unconvinced, fearful of what the next few hours would brin
g.

  * * *

  Charlotte was feeling rather happy but at the same time ashamed – happy with how well everything was going with Anderson, yet ashamed because her father had died only a short time ago. Not that he would ever have begrudged her such feelings, but somehow it just didn’t feel quite right and it hadn’t helped that Jessica seemed to be doing all she could to encourage Anderson. Erdenheim too seemed to be doing its best to bring them closer together and only when that particular puzzle had been resolved would it be clear as to whether their relationship really did have a future...

  As if on cue, the insistent cry of her mobile broke into Charlotte’s thoughts, the display identifying the caller as Anderson.

  “Hi Mike, you can’t be missing me already?”

  “Sometimes, when one person is missing, the whole world seems empty...”

  “Very poetic; it doesn’t sound like Shakespeare but I bet you didn’t make it up.”

  “Sadly, I didn’t and unfortunately, I’ve forgotten where it’s from. My apologies but I’ll have to take a rain check on tonight.”

  “No problem,” Charlotte said, her voice successfully hiding her disappointment. “I trust you’re doing something or going somewhere very important?”

  “Afraid so; I can’t go into details but external pressure is being applied with veiled threats related to National Security and suchlike. Basically I’ve been told to lay off Erdenheim and in exchange I’ve been promised an exclusive. I just need to pick up some fresh clothes from home and then I’m off to Warsaw. Sorry...”

  Charlotte didn’t know quite what to say, more upset than she would have imagined, but at the same time annoyed with herself for being pathetic. “So, where are you now? Still at the cottage?”

  “No, Peterborough; I’ve just pulled over for a quick break. I’m really sorry; it all happened in a bit of a rush.”

  “You said Warsaw?” Charlotte asked, checking that she’d heard correctly. “I take it this has something to do with August 14?”

  “It might do,” Anderson replied mysteriously, “but I couldn’t possibly comment.”

  “Warsaw… Sounds nice,” Charlotte said wistfully, regaining some of her composure. “Lots of palaces, castles, and Chopin – someone with an ounce of romance might think of inviting a friend along...”

  There was an overlong delay before Anderson responded, Charlotte sensing a subtle change in his voice. “I can do romance, Lottie; I should have thought of it earlier. A nice five-star hotel for two. Once I get home, I’ll organise everything.”

  Charlotte froze, instantly annoyed at Anderson’s use of the hated diminutive, and she had to bite off a sharp response. “How long exactly would it be for?” she asked, trying to give herself time to think.

  “A few days, Lottie, it’ll be fun...”

  Again that name: Anderson knew how much she hated it, and even in jest he surely wouldn’t be so insensitive as to use it. And by doing so, he was convincing her that Warsaw was basically a bad idea. “Thanks, Mike, but I was only joking; there’s no way I could get time off anyway.”

  “Oh, well, another time. I should be back probably at the weekend; I’ll give you a call when I get to Warsaw...”

  Charlotte slowly put the phone down, her mind in turmoil. Anderson couldn’t even be bothered to pop in and see her before he rushed off south, and he would have come through Boston to get to the A16. Had she misjudged him so badly? And why did everything have to be done in such a hurry? She shook such thoughts aside, looking up as a young man entered the office. Charlotte gave him her best smile but when he seemed happy to browse, she turned back to busy herself at her desk.

  Exasperated, she searched a random selection of files for something to do, anything to take her mind off Anderson; that was the problem with touch screens, there was nothing you could easily batter like a mouse or a keyboard.

  * * *

  “Not bad,” Rebane said. “But you should have pushed her more with Poland.”

  “She just wasn’t keen; in any case that wasn’t what we agreed to.” Anderson had done his best to keep Charlotte safe, his only hope now was that Rebane would believe she represented no threat and leave her alone.

  “What we agreed to?” Rebane repeated with a trace of annoyance. “I’m not sure you quite understand your situation. I tell you what to do and you do it. Poland was a good option and it’s a shame I didn’t consider the possibility she might want to tag along.”

  “A good option? Not for Lottie.”

  “I sense she knows more than you have implied; she’s a smart girl and I’m not sure I can protect her if she continues to be a nuisance. She might actually be safer kicking her heels in Poland, and – believe it or not – I regret her father’s death. To me it was unnecessary; unfortunately, some of my associates aren’t quite so moderate and felt that pre-emptive action was required.”

  “Blowing up half of Moscow doesn’t seem particularly moderate. And how can I trust your promises when you’re obviously not the one in charge.”

  “Russia is hardly an innocent party and the usual maxim of casualties of war still holds good. As to whether you can trust my promises...” Rebane gave a thin smile, “Concern has been expressed as to your welfare here at Erdenheim, with the fear that Pat might overstep his authority. Poland is the safe choice for you as well as Miss Saunders.” He lapsed into silence, iPhone restlessly twirled between his fingers. Abruptly it sounded and he stepped outside to take the call, returning within a minute.

  “Charlotte Saunders,” Rebane reported, “seems pretty pissed off but not suspicious. I guess she believed you.”

  “So now what?” Anderson asked softly.

  Rebane took his time replying. “Maybe Miss Saunders will change her mind about Warsaw; we’ll give her a few hours, and then try something different.”

  * * *

  Jessica doubtless would have proved sympathetic and offered a virtual shoulder to cry on, but Charlotte was in no mood to share her woes. She’d only known Anderson just over a week, and was still confused as to why she felt so let down. Lottie was after all just a word but to Charlotte it meant far more, primarily an unpleasant reminder of childhood taunts. Under normal circumstances, a good book with a side order of chocolate was the best antidote to turn her mood around, but the distraction of work would have to make do. It wasn’t just Lottie; it was almost as if Anderson had deliberately tried to put her off Warsaw. If so, she wanted to know why.

  A chirrup from her mobile broke into her thoughts, her mood darkening as she saw it was a text from Anderson. Charlotte forced herself to wait for a full minute before reading it, brow furrowing as she scanned across the lines. Again there was the annoying Lottie, this time with the arrogant assumption she was some contrary female who would change her mind on a whim, someone who could be bought by the purchase of a plane ticket and the promise of a posh hotel.

  Charlotte left it for another half hour then sent a curt rejection in reply, stopping short of telling Anderson to get lost. Perhaps, when she cooled down, everything might look a little different and she was wise enough not to completely burn her bridges. But, for the moment, Anderson was a selfish and insensitive bastard who deserved to rot in hell.

  By the time she arrived home, Charlotte was calm enough to look afresh at phone call and text. For a week she had investigated and questioned, and had learnt to follow a lead or work through a problem. Now she put her detective hat on again and tried to leave emotions aside. What if ‘Lottie’ was deliberate? Anderson was well aware of how she would respond. Why bother asking her to go to Warsaw if he wanted her to refuse? Perhaps he felt obliged to ask, but for some reason believed going to Warsaw was unwise, even dangerous. But still safe enough for Anderson?

  Charlotte quickly became fed up going round in circles; she wanted answers and had a good idea who might help supply some of them. In the end it took a trip to Marshwick, plus a slightly disconcerting search of her parents’ house, before she finally managed to acqui
re Devereau’s contact details.

  Back home once more, she sat brooding over a cold cup of coffee, if not frightened then at the very least worried. Once Devereau’s mobile had repeatedly gone to answer phone, Charlotte had moved on to the landline, ready with her opening line of thanking Devereau for his commiserations regarding her father’s death. The call had only lasted a few seconds, the sad voice of Devereau’s daughter a warning to tread carefully and all Charlotte had been able to extract was that Devereau was very poorly in hospital, having been hit by a car while out for his morning walk.

  Charlotte made herself a fresh coffee, then chose to persist with the theme of Devereau. Even though it wasn’t worthy enough for the national news, the internet carried the story of a hit-and-run in Bushey: local man, age fifty-six, in critical condition, police appeal for witnesses, occurred around 9.20 a.m.

  There was no doubt in Charlotte’s mind the victim was Adam Devereau. So what the hell was Anderson up to? He wouldn’t have done anything without consulting with Devereau first and how could he have done that with him in intensive care? Struggling to understand, Charlotte finally managed to convince herself that Anderson had obviously spoken to Devereau before the accident, and had thus been unaware of what had happened. Consequently, she was probably worrying over nothing.

  There seemed only one way to be certain. However, Charlotte was becoming fearful of every new disclosure, and she took her time working out exactly how to play it. Sticking with her preference for lists, she carefully prepared two versions of things to say: version one to be used if Anderson really was a chauvinist pig, the other if he was in trouble. If the latter, she also needed some way of getting him to tell her where he was and whether she needed to go to the police. And how on earth could she do all that without making Rebane or McDowell or whoever it was, suspicious? Was Anderson in immediate danger, and was she too at risk? And what about her mother?

  It seemed impossible to get answers to everything, so she forced herself to prioritise. As long as Anderson’s brain was switched on and he remembered a friendly argument from Saturday, it might just work – not that she really believed she would need the back-up option.