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

  “And that was what, a minute before you got there?”

  “Thirty seconds maybe.” Shaw’s gaze drifted back towards the TV, “Turn the sound up, mate,” he said loudly.

  Someone duly obliged, Anderson left with little option but to turn round to see what Shaw had found so interesting.

  The scene on the TV was one of flames bursting from a shattered apartment block. At least three of the lower floors were ablaze, the thick black smoke billowing aside to reveal part of an aircraft’s wing, edge neatly severed, lying forgotten on the ground like some giant toddler’s broken toy. A score of hoses played water on the inferno, while several helicopters hovered nearby, one trying to winch survivors from the roof. The camera panned closer to show the massive fiery gash gouged out of the tower block, tracing it up towards the roof, before refocussing on the dramatic helicopter rescue.

  The commentator’s sombre voice cut across the pictures. “...British Airways Boeing-787 Dreamliner carrying over 250 passengers and crew. Whilst hundreds of people have been successfully evacuated from the apartment block, it is feared that the total number of casualties could be as high as one thousand. Although no terrorist organisation has yet accepted responsibility, this latest attack comes–”

  “Sorry, was there anything else?” Shaw asked loudly.

  Anderson just left it at that, thankful Shaw had been so co-operative, convinced now that Darren Westrope hadn’t been murdered. That didn’t mean McDowell and Erdenheim were off the hook but it wasn’t looking promising, Anderson’s instincts well wide of the mark.

  * * *

  Anderson’s stomach was seriously starting to protest, arguing that two courses at the Farriers, followed not long afterwards by a large helping of homemade apple-pie at the Saunders’ house, was just too much. Anderson himself chose to ignore such protests, his taste-buds confirming Jessica’s culinary skills – at least with apple-pie – more than matched those of the Farriers’ chef.

  Jessica’s invite had seemed more of an instruction than a request, but Anderson had no cause for complaint, Jessica working hard to make him feel at home. Anderson sat on the sofa with Jessica on the chair opposite, a pot of freshly-brewed coffee between them. Their conversation mainly consisted of reminiscences related to the Commander, or occasionally Charlotte, with Anderson happy to sit and listen. Jessica kept apologising for boring her guest, but whenever she tried to move the topic of conversation round to Anderson, he merely deflected it back again to ask something new about the Commander or Jessica. Eventually, after almost an hour, it was Jessica who brought up a more contentious subject.

  “I was a little taken aback yesterday and I wondered later whether I should have been outraged by what you were implying; but then you were really only voicing my own fears... Have you got any further with your theory that George’s death might not have been an accident?”

  “I didn’t quite go that far,” Anderson said hastily. “There were just certain aspects I needed to check out.”

  “Aspects? Such as Darren Westrope? And the man from Erdenheim?”

  “Darren’s crash was definitely an accident. As for the rest, it seems likely that I’ve just got a very vivid imagination. There’s certainly nothing to suggest otherwise.”

  “And you’d tell me if there were?”

  “Of course,” Anderson replied, instantly regretting his promise.

  Jessica still wouldn’t let it lie, “What about George’s book? Has that been of any help?”

  “To be honest I’ve not read much of it; but again, it looks like a dead-end.”

  “A poor choice of words, Michael,” Jessica said solemnly, but with a twinkle in her eye. “I, however, do have a lot to report; although it’s more negative than positive, I’m afraid. It’s surprising what you can achieve once you put your mind to something, and I’d far rather try and be useful than sit on my hands and do nothing. I’m not saying I agree with your concerns but I am curious as to why George bought those damn books.”

  She paused momentarily, getting her thoughts in order. “First, the laptop: nothing exciting in the search history and, despite it feeling like I was prying, there were no relevant files or emails. George’s close friends were next; I tried my best to be subtle and none of them can recall a recent mention of Erdenheim or Pat McDowell. Also nothing related to terrorism or why George would want to buy Zhilin’s books.”

  Jessica stopped and took a deep breath, “It’s quite exciting all of this detective work; sorry I’m dragging it out. George’s mobile was another casualty of Spain, I’m afraid, and it seems even a widow isn’t allowed access to her late husband’s call records. I was able to check the landline calls; we both mainly use our mobiles, so it wasn’t too hard and I looked at everything in the last two months – no calls to Darren or Erdenheim.”

  Again Jessica paused for a moment, as though building up to something more exciting than a long list of negatives. “There were just two landline calls that stood out, both USA country code; George phoned them four days after he visited Erdenheim; one call finished the other started ten minutes later, each a good forty minutes.”

  Jessica smile was getting wider, a measure of how pleased she was for winning the battle against modern technology. “Feeling brave, I phoned them both: the first went to straight to the Office of Naval Intelligence; the second was diverted and I ended up speaking to someone at the Pentagon. I’m afraid I just stuttered ‘wrong number’ and put the phone down.”

  “Pat McDowell was 82nd Airborne,” confirmed Anderson. “The Commander must have been checking up on him; hence the Pentagon.”

  “I thought as much. I imagine George would still know a few people in the ONI and they obviously put him on the right track.”

  It was intriguing without being particularly helpful, Anderson pleased that he seemed to have an ally, worried in case he was selfishly leading Jessica on.

  Jessica had no such concerns, keen to drag out every relevant fact, “What do we know about McDowell’s fellow director, Jon Carter?”

  “Not much: degree in Computer Science, founded his own games company before selling it on to work as a game-play programmer; Erdenheim seems to be seems to be his first venture with McDowell.”

  “So not quite in the same category as Mr McDowell,” said Jessica thinking aloud. “George and I both use the same Amazon account and I checked the order for Zhilin’s books; he bought them on the Tuesday and it was next-day delivery. That would be four days after he spoke to someone at the Pentagon, so either the Americans weren’t that helpful or he was trying something different. Visit, phone calls, books – George was clearly following-up on something.”

  Jessica leaned forward, eyes holding Anderson. “I’m not very good with all these secrets and I’m not sure what I really want to believe. Is it better to live with the thought that your husband has been murdered, or that he simply slipped and fell to his death? George was always a careful man but deep down I know his death has to be accidental...”

  She paused, shaking her head as if afraid to voice what she wanted to say, “But then, sometimes what you believe to be true turns out to be just a naïve hope. If I can help, Michael, in any way, please just ask.”

  Chapter 5 – Tuesday, May 11th

  Lincolnshire, England

  The flat landscape of open fields and few hedges made it easy for Anderson to see far into the distance, encouraging him to drive at speed along the narrow country lane. It was fast becoming a glorious spring morning and two cars plus one van had been the sum total of Anderson’s fellow travellers. Eventually a combination of sharp bends and bumpy ride forced him to slow down, his eyes drawn to a beautiful tall tree standing like a lone sentry beside the road, the base of the sycamore hidden by a covering of floral tributes. For some reason the scene brought home the immediacy of Darren Westrope’s death, more so than reading about it or even talking to his parents.

  A pensive Anderson kept his speed below forty, the lane now paralleling a high grass
y bank some fifty yards to his right and so blocking his view to the east. If there was a sign announcing Graythorp, then Anderson was distracted enough to miss it, and he had driven well past before the car’s map display revealed his mistake. Ahead was finally a sign, not Graythorp but Erdenheim, indicating the right turn into the Management Development Centre.

  Anderson slowed to a halt a few yards past the Erdenheim turn-off, before reversing into the access road, his gaze following the road back as it sliced through the bank. The latter was well above his head and proved a very effective barrier: all he could see was a pair of metal gates and a brick building beyond, maybe a hundred yards distant.

  Keen not to seem too inquisitive, Anderson paused only briefly before driving slowly back the six hundred yards into Graythorp proper. The hamlet was even smaller than Anderson had expected, and he counted just seven houses, plus a stone farmhouse standing by itself at the southern edge. To the west it was all farmland, while the high bank blocked his view to the east – a view which, according to Anderson’s reading of the map, should be of a muddy wilderness leading to the foam-speckled waves of a blue-grey sea.

  He parked the Renault on the grass verge opposite the farmhouse, then with trusty camera in hand, followed on foot a narrow track as it climbed gently up onto the grassy bank. It was only when he reached the top that Anderson realised he was actually standing on what must have once been the sea wall, the seaward side angling its way leisurely down until it met the ground some twelve feet below Anderson. Four yards wide at its apex, clothed in coarse grass and stumpy bushes, it snaked north-south as far as the eye could see, the occasional grey shape of a concrete pillbox lining its lonely route. At right-angles to the old sea-wall was a narrower embankment; this one ran straight and true, heading east for some four hundred yards before merging with a second north-south sea wall.

  To the south, sandwiched between the two sea walls, the reclaimed land was bursting with crops; to the north lay more farmland, broken only by the brown brick and black tarmac that was Erdenheim.

  Despite the polite notice formally warning of the dangers of proceeding further while advising that due reference be made to the tide tables, Anderson chose to follow the narrow embankment east and out towards the sea. It took him barely five minutes to reach the end of the linking embankment to where it joined the outer sea wall. Beyond were small ditches and wider gullies, meandering out to become an endless expanse of dark-grey with a rare splash of muddy-green. The air still lacked the characteristic salty taste, but the sea had to be out there somewhere, and in the far distance was the unmistakable outline of a ship moving ever so slowly south.

  Anderson slid down the opposite side of the bank and tested out the ground. Firm to begin with, after some fifty yards water began to appear in his footprints. An ominous squelch now sounded at each new step, black evil-smelling mud sticking to his shoes like blackcurrant chewing gum. He stopped beside one of the gullies: some three yards wide, the sides oozed sharply down for several feet to meet a surface of glossy-black liquid mud.

  Curiosity satisfied, Anderson retraced his steps before following the seaward base of the outer wall as it headed north. Unable to get a reliable signal for his mobile, he had to abandon the convenience of a map, instead using guesswork to gauge the correct distance to bring him level with Erdenheim. Feeling confident, he clambered his way back up to the top of the sea wall. Erdenheim’s buildings sat away to his right, roughly a hundred yards distant. Just below Anderson was a wide ditch which virtually acted as a moat, various offshoots helping protect Erdenheim on three sides; a second line of security was provided by a six-foot high chain-link fence.

  The centre’s three buildings were roughly midway between the two sea walls, forming a line some seventy to eighty yards long running north-south. They weren’t in fact separate buildings at all, more a single structure but with three distinct components, the two outer ones single-storey twins of each other whilst the central structure was shorter and two storeys high. With their brown brick and darker-brown tiled roofs, the buildings seemed unlikely to win any prizes for inspirational design, but they did appear to blend in well with their surroundings.

  Anderson sat down on the edge of the sea wall, trying to get a feel for the overall layout. South of the entrance road lay the tarmac car park, half-full with some twenty vehicles including two small vans; to the north was the large white H of the helipad. At the rear, between the buildings and the fence, was a wide belt of grass, interspersed with newly-planted trees and bushes.

  For some reason Anderson felt a little cheated: no guards, no frenzied activity, nothing to make him overly suspicious. And the fence was one an enthusiastic ten year-old could easily scale. There was some attempt to deter intruders, primarily an alarm system, plus several security lights and cameras; but then such precautions were hardly out of the ordinary.

  By the time he returned to the Farriers, Anderson was almost too late for lunch, having followed the sea bank south to the RSPB Reserve at Freiston Shore. He had stayed there for a good hour, finally able to make better use of Pentax camera and zoom. He might not have had a clue what type of bird he was photographing but Anderson could definitely see a future for himself as a photo-twitcher, or whatever the phrase might be, and it was infinitely more rewarding than a one-man witch-hunt against Erdenheim.

  Stomach satisfied, Anderson sat in the lounge bar, coffee at hand, reading through the Daily Telegraph’s report on Monday’s outrage at Domodedovo. August 14 had quickly accepted responsibility, their hypocrisy all-too clearly revealed as they expressed regret for the British and American lives lost in the fight against Russian imperialism. The total number of victims was still rising, with 262 killed aboard the Boeing Dreamliner, almost half of them British, some forty American. For Russia the total loss was far greater, the list of missing and dead now well over two hundred. The Russian authorities had also confirmed reports that a policeman had been critically injured in a shoot-out west of the airport, one terrorist killed, two more arrested.

  Russian terrorism seemed to be a common theme of late and Anderson returned to the enigma of Charles Zhilin’s book, needing to understand why the Commander had thought Red Terror a worthwhile next step. Terrorism – Russia – August 14 – Erdenheim: Anderson thrust the thought aside, his Walter Mitty daydreams were just getting a bit too outrageous.

  Zhilin himself had been Head of the FBI’s Counter-Terrorism Section and a member of the United Nations Counter-Terrorism Implementation Task Force, just the three books to his name. The Tactics of Terror and The Failures of Counter-Terrorism had been followed in 2016 by Red Terror, Truth and Fiction, it supposedly the first of two books on Soviet-sponsored terrorism, the second one contrarily due to cover the period 1918 to 1945.

  Sadly, Red Terror’s contents weren’t quite as exciting as the garish cover had suggested, each chapter focussing on a particular incident or country, from sabotaging power supplies in the United Sates to the kidnapping and murder of Russia’s own citizens. Too dry and factual for Anderson’s taste, he forced himself to keep reading – and more importantly, keep learning.

  After an hour, and just fifty-two pages, he finally gave up. Hope and the odd prayer seemed to be getting Anderson absolutely nowhere.

  Moscow

  The small conference room always seemed particularly bland to Grebeshkov, especially when compared with the rest of Government House, there not even a single picture to break up the monotony of its steel-blue painted walls. The furniture was minimal, with just one long table and eight high-backed chairs on either side. No wall-mounted displays with sophisticated computer graphics, no complex map overlays, no touch screen data updates – such technological aids were just not the Prime Minister’s way. Hence, a sombre setting for a sombre meeting of Russia’s Counter-Terrorist Security Committee.

  Including Grebeshkov there were seven generals seated around the table, none of them presently in uniform. The other two committee members were both politician
s, namely the Prime Minister and the National Security Advisor. Chaired by the Prime Minister, it was a group with much influence but no real power, as any major decisions had first to be ratified by the President. That said, it still meant responsibility for all subsequent actions – or more accurately, those actions that either failed or were deemed to have been a mistake – would lie entirely at the door of the Prime Minister and his eight colleagues. And, to ensure there would be no dispute as to who said exactly what and when, their every word was recorded both digitally and by hand via an aide.

  The Prime Minister sat directly opposite Grebeshkov: not yet fifty, he was another of the relatively young breed of Russian politicians, it taking him just ten years to progress from his first political appointment as Presidential adviser to then become PM. To his left sat the only woman on the Committee, Irina Golubeva, Russia’s newly-promoted National Security Advisor. Tall and thin, with short grey hair, Golubeva’s appearance belied a sharp and intelligent mind, someone whom it would be wise to take very seriously, her long fingers seemingly reaching out into every dark corner of government. Entirely the President’s appointment, she reputedly was no friend of the Prime Minister, her presence on the Committee seen by many as the President’s way of appraising the chairman rather than supporting him. The President and Prime Minister had once been close, perhaps even good friends, but political necessity had loosened that relationship, and now the Prime Minister’s future was irrevocably tied to that of the Committee and its ability to defeat the terrorists.

  Grebeshkov had spoken little, silently urging the Prime Minister to speed the meeting forward. The PM was fastidious to a fault and every new scheme or suggestion had to be thought through and discussed in boring detail. A thick file rested on the table in front of each committee member, its contents a compilation of reports prepared by individual members in consultation with other relevant section chiefs, and as usual the PM seemed determined to check every single page. The only agenda was the one chosen by the Prime Minister as he went along, and already over half an hour had been spent reviewing the effectiveness of police road blocks; twenty-five minutes wasted to Grebeshkov’s way of thinking.