The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) Page 7

  “Intriguing isn’t perhaps the word I would have used; random seems nearer the mark.”

  Anderson’s retort was stilled as they passed through Graythorp. Two hundred yards beyond Erdenheim, Charlotte turned west onto a narrow back lane, pulling into a driveway partly-hidden behind a line of stumpy trees to park beside a mud-spattered Range Rover.

  It was in fact part of a farm complex, Charlotte taking a moment to work out where to go before leading the way to the farmhouse’s side door. Even as she went to press the bell, the door opened wide to reveal a woman in her fifties, her smile of welcome tinged also with a hint of sadness.

  “Miss Saunders and Mr Anderson is it?”

  “That’s right; Charlotte and Michael, please.”

  They shook hands, Anne Teacher ushering them through into the large kitchen, readying mugs as she continued to talk.

  “I was so sorry to hear about the Commander; as you know I spoke to Jessica and things just won’t be the same without him. Always helpful, always polite; the commander was a true gentleman. What with young Darren as well; it was all so sad… Now, can I get you some tea?”

  Charlotte smoothly took control, Anderson’s article on Darren now transformed into a feature on Erdenheim. He nodded and agreed where it seemed appropriate, happy to wait and see what Charlotte had in mind. It quickly became clear that the meeting had been arranged through Jessica, the Commander’s diary pored over to try and work out why he had visited the Management Centre.

  “As I said to the Commander at the time,” continued Anne, quickly becoming more animated. “I have nothing against Erdenheim itself or it being where it is, and everything was fine until early March. It’s not as if we have many animals, so an occasional helicopter isn’t a problem. But then all of a sudden lots of brash Americans turned up with their loud voices and louder cars, none with the patience to have to crawl for a mile behind a tractor. Every night it was a noisy barbeque and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t cigarettes they were smoking. I was just hoping the Commander could persuade them to tone everything down a bit.”

  Anderson finally found his voice, “Is it still as bad as when you spoke to Commander Saunders?”

  Anne pursed her lips, “It improved as soon as he had a word with them and I did thank the Commander. At the moment, it’s much better and there’s just the one sports car; even so, I can’t help but think about poor Darren and worry as to whether my John might be next.”

  Charlotte nodded in understanding, the arrival soon after of Anne’s husband taken as their cue to leave. The sequence of events involving the Commander might be somewhat clearer now but not the precise reason for his subsequent actions. Charlotte’s doubts were pushing Anderson into a potentially risky strategy, both hoping that his visit to Erdenheim would help supply some answers.

  “We have lots but we have nothing,” said Charlotte, as they headed back to Marshwick. “And no motive. Perhaps Pat McDowell isn’t quite the ogre you seem keen to portray.”

  “That’s always been likely,” admitted Anderson. “I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”

  Charlotte glanced quickly across at Anderson, “There is one more thing. Did you know my father had a heart condition?”

  Chapter 6 – Wednesday, May 12th

  Lincolnshire, England

  Anderson sat in his small room at the Farriers, flicking through the TV news channels for the very latest on events in Russia. Domodedovo was still making the headlines, the total of confirmed dead fast approaching six hundred. The missile attack had re-ignited the Russian public’s concern that far too little was being done to stop the terrorists, and Wednesday morning had seen Moscow’s police having to contend with several large demonstrations, the biggest targeting the Government building known as the Russian White House – due purely to its colour and not because it had anything to do with Russia’s President, so the BBC somewhat patronisingly explained.

  With still an hour to waste before his 11 a.m. appointment at Erdenheim, Anderson chose to give Red Terror one last go – he could then return it to Jessica with a clear conscience. Dinner with Charlotte had been less than he had hoped for, although the gentle smile and single chaste kiss as they had said goodbye had offered the promise of something more. Sadly, the assignment in Bristol would soon be the priority, Anderson just not sure whether to delay his pursuit of McDowell or simply abandon it altogether. Although he wasn’t convinced the Commander’s heart problems were entirely relevant, it was one more complication to what was already a convoluted tale and it was simply Anderson’s contrary nature that made him persevere with the frustration of Charles Zhilin’s long-winded book.

  He ignored the main body, scouring through the two pages of acknowledgements, then the notes and index, hoping that something might stir some deep-seated memory. Twenty minutes of searching was enough to prove he was still wasting his time, Red Terror’s secret as elusive as ever. Name, photo, event, date – the key element could have easily been staring up at Anderson and he wouldn’t even know.

  * * *

  Erdenheim’s car park was relatively full, Anderson finding a space between two smart BMWs and disappointed not to see any sign of a sports car. A large sign politely reminded visitors and guests that all public areas were protected by CCTV, with entry to the site and buildings between 8 p.m. and 8 a.m. by card only. Anderson duly made a mental note, although unsure quite why he needed to.

  The main door slid open to reveal a large reception area, two curved wooden staircases to left and right, office directly ahead. Good lighting made the area bright and cheerful, despite the rather bland colour scheme of white and beige. Even as Anderson announced himself to the young lady receptionist, a smiling McDowell clattered down the left-hand stairs, Anderson feeling rather more apprehensive than common-sense dictated.

  “Mr Anderson; welcome to Erdenheim’s Management Development Centre. I’m Pat McDowell, one of the directors here.” They shook hands, Anderson passing across his business card – it would have seemed odd not to. McDowell’s American accent was barely noticeable, cultured rather than broad, his tone friendly; yet there was just something about his demeanour that made Anderson wary, and it wasn’t simply down to his preconceptions.

  “Is it okay to take photos?” Anderson asked. “I’ll send copies of the best ones and you’re free to use them in any future publicity.”

  “Yes, of course, take whatever you want; I checked earlier and none of our guests are camera-shy… Your assistant said you’re looking to do a feature on Erdenheim?”

  “Probably not just Erdenheim; I’m hoping to put something together emphasising the success of several new out-of-town ventures, such as the Golf Centre at Fishtoft. In part it’s also a follow-up to the article the Standard did when you first opened.” Anderson had his story well-prepared and he had even gone so far as to make contact with the golf course, anything to give his story added credibility.

  “Well, we’re always glad of good publicity, Mr Anderson. Forgive me, but have we met before?”

  “Commander Saunders’ funeral,” Anderson explained, half-expecting the question. “That’s why I came up from London, and this feature sort of developed from there.”

  “Yes, of course, the Commander’s funeral,” said McDowell with a sad smile. “I felt it best Erdenheim be represented; part of our ethos is strong links with the community and Councillor Saunders was very supportive with the initial planning application.”

  Very magnanimous, thought Anderson, and possibly even true. In any case this was all part of a game; one where neither trusted the other but both had to play just in case one of them was actually telling the truth. Anderson wasn’t even sure now why he was there, his suspicions more to do with McDowell himself than Erdenheim.

  “Some in the community,” said Anderson glibly, “might argue that the links aren’t quite as strong as they used to be.”

  There was a brief pause before McDowell responded. “I assume you’re referring to young Darren Westrope. A
very unfortunate accident which has clearly harmed our standing in the community; I have spoken to the Westrope family and Erdenheim is keen to do what it can but I believe all the evidence shows our driver to be completely blameless. He’s still off sick and I imagine won’t be back for some time.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence, broken eventually by McDowell. “If it’s okay, I’ll give you the usual tour. The brochure can be a bit vague but that’s because a lot of what we do is customised to our clients’ needs.” He gestured at the entrance area, “This central space, for example, can be partitioned off for use as a small conference room, or we can add tables and chairs for a planning exercise.”

  Anderson took a couple of photographs, preferring pad and pen for brief notes rather than using his phone as an audio recorder. McDowell moved on to the northern single-storey block, its sole purpose that of providing single en-suite accommodation for up to twenty people, the rooms small but well-furnished. McDowell opened up an unoccupied room for Anderson to take the required photos, letting his guest dictate the pace of the tour. After the slightly awkward beginning, McDowell had settled into a more relaxed mode, happy to answer Anderson’s many questions, proud to emphasise that a good proportion of new business came from client-referrals.

  “So business is pretty good?” asked Anderson between photos.

  “Steady growth; at the moment we’re running at about two-thirds capacity, and just about heading for a profit.”

  “And how many staff?”

  “Seven full plus five part-time; we also bring in various experts and guest speakers when necessary.”

  “Erdenheim’s American, is that right?”

  “Yes, and no,” McDowell replied. “The original Erdenheim is in Philadelphia; the rest of us are totally separate companies operating under a franchise, paying a yearly fee to use the Erdenheim name and borrow some of their ideas. The Graythorp Centre is actually owned by a company called Erdenheim UK with Jonathan Carter and myself as directors.”

  McDowell had a sensible and full answer for all of Anderson’s questions, certainly nothing to suggest he was lying. Even though Anderson was getting impatient, he didn’t want to act out of character by asking anything too unexpected, holding fire on any mention of Anne Teacher’s complaints or George Saunders’ visit.

  Next on the guided tour came the southern block, the double doors opening onto a large seminar area. Some team activity was in full swing, four to a team, touch-screens replacing anything as basic as pen and paper. Everyone was casually dressed, all under forty and judging by the heated discussions fully involved in trying to win.

  “It’s a form of Monopoly,” McDowell explained, gently guiding Anderson to the opposite door. “There’s also a bit of stock-market trading thrown in; limited budget with various high risk options – team building through problem solving. We use Psychometric Profiling to work out how each person will react in different situations, and a good team leader can then apply that data to get the very best out of his team.”

  McDowell seemed in no hurry to move on, waiting until Anderson was ready before leading him through into a small dining room and bar area, the kitchen beyond; then it was back to reception and on up the wide stairs.

  The landing opened out onto a computer Utopia with a bank of screens curving along the front wall and a massive wall-mounted monitor along the back; some twelve feet wide, the monitor was divided up into multiple segments, four presently rotating through the various CCTV images. In the centre of the room was a large circular table, its silver sheen matching the rest of the ultra-modern decor; convex in shape, the table’s outer edge was about two feet lower than its centre, the domed surface one continuous touch-screen.

  “Impressive,” Anderson said, unsure how the nature of the training exercise downstairs fitted in with what he was now seeing.

  “A resource second to none,” McDowell said, the pride obvious in his voice. “And it gives us an edge over most of our competitors. We can offer a unique set of management simulations and problems, either for individuals or for a specialist team, and the computer can often prove a more skilful adversary than that found in the real world. Our emergency response simulation based around a train crashing into a tanker is worth a week’s fees by itself.”

  McDowell continued to enthuse while Anderson took plenty of pictures. It had been obvious for the last hour that this wasn’t some sort of outrageous charade but that didn’t mean there were no secrets here. He might have been mistaken about Darren Westrope but it would take something more to convince him that he was also wrong about Pat McDowell.

  “82nd Airborne to Graythorp?” Anderson asked curiously, “The attraction of opposites?”

  For a brief instant the mask of amiability slipped before McDowell regained his composure. “We all have to embrace new challenges, Mr Anderson ... I look forward to reading your feature; by all means give me a call if you have any more questions.”

  Anderson drove slowly back to the Farriers, mind busy with what he had seen and heard. ‘We all have to embrace new challenges’ – was that a hint McDowell knew of Anderson’s own career change? And if he had indeed checked up on Anderson, was that necessarily a good sign?

  Moscow

  The Mercedes’ driver gave a loud sigh of frustration as the traffic slowed to a stop-start crawl, something all-too-common of late. It wasn’t just a consequence of the security checks – every day saw some new street protest against the Government’s impotence and its inability to deal with the terrorist threat. Moscow’s citizens had been patient long enough and it was time to force the Government into adopting more effective measures. Even the revelation that the security forces had arrested the terrorists responsible for Domodedovo had barely stilled the demand for heads to roll, Russia’s Prime Minister the main recipient of the protestors’ anger.

  Rinat Nabiyev sat in the back seat of the Mercedes, listening to the radio news as it detailed the latest of August 14’s attacks, a bomb blast near the Kashirskaya metro station seriously injuring three commuters. According to the news report, two bombs had been placed in litter bins and timed to explode during the early-evening rush hour; luckily only one had actually exploded, the other being successfully defused by the police.

  It bewildered Nabiyev how anyone could believe August 14 responsible for such an amateurish prank. He had seen at first-hand Eglitis’ work, discussed with him potential targets, and worked through the specific role of each terrorist cell, and in everything Eglitis was always the consummate professional. The police should have quickly recognised that such an attack bore none of Eglitis’ hallmarks, and even August 14’s younger conscripts had learnt enough in their months of training to ensure something significantly more impressive.

  To Nabiyev’s knowledge, this was the third time August 14 had been falsely blamed for attacks by dissidents and copycats, all of them wishing to exploit the crisis to their own advantage. Nabiyev cared little as long as the pressure on the authorities was maintained, and without the support of Russia’s ethnic minorities and the various separatist groups, August 14 had no chance of achieving its stated aims, the crisis in Russia’s fragile government not yet irreversible.

  The capture of Baranovskiy and Nazarenko had been August 14’s first serious setback but it would have been foolish not to anticipate that someone would eventually be encouraged to talk. Hence, a high degree of paranoia and none of August 14’s agents knew the location of any other cell or their likely targets. Cell phones remained the only means of communication, a coded text all that was generally needed, a phone used just twice before being discarded.

  Of the original four cells Eglitis had helped secrete in Russia, three were still active; morale was excellent, belief undiminished, the terrorists’ desire for vengeance unfulfilled. The fragmentation of the Russian Federation might be an impossible dream but August 14 would do it’s very best to precipitate such a momentous event, it the one chance in Nabiyev’s lifetime for his home nation of Tatarst
an to become a truly independent country. Few could have forecast the dramatic collapse of the Soviet Union, and was it so difficult to believe the same could happen to a brittle and diverse Russian Federation of some two hundred ethnic groups.

  Eglitis was a man who understood such dreams and despite his concerns as to whether Nabiyev could be trusted, he had no reason to regret their alliance, the terrorists the stronger because of it. And August 14 was so much more than just a lethal group of bombers and assassins. A more subtle form of attack was ever present, ranging from a dramatic rise in power outages across Moscow to media articles either criticising the Government or carrying compromising photographs of its representatives. Backed up by rumour and downright lies, the steady drip of distrust was relentless. The number of strikes – mostly independent of the unions and so unofficial – was also increasing week on week, with major truck and car factories in Moscow, Saint Petersburg, and Tatarstan amongst the latest to be targeted.

  Elsewhere, Poland led the way in cleverly managing to condemn August 14 while also censuring Russia for its policy on Eastern Europe. New restrictions had come into force specifically targeting workers from Poland, Ukraine and the Baltic States, the changes matching a surge in assaults against foreigners in Moscow. Russian ambassadors had in turn been summoned and argued with, and in a dozen European cities security around Russian embassies and consulates had been tightened; Latvia had even seen two Russian businesses fire-bombed, a tour bus stoned.

  The United States was slightly less ambivalent than its East European allies, denouncing August 14 and stating that there could be no justification for the lives lost at Domodedovo. The U.S. Secretary of State had offered America’s full support in the hunt for the terrorists, in the same breath encouraging the Russian President not to act without due consideration of the consequences – a possible hint of the dangers implicit in extending the conflict beyond Russia’s borders. Not that Nabiyev would be too concerned by such an event, the risks to Russia far greater than for August 14 and its allies.