The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (23 page)

Some fifty yards behind Devereau, on the opposite side of the
road, a stolen BMW crawled slowly along. The driver kept the BMW in
second gear, making regular checks on rear-view and wing mirrors
for signs of other traffic. Despite the hour, the suburban road was
relatively quiet, and
August
14’
s second target of the day never once
looked back, Devereau striding along at a surprisingly brisk
pace.

The BMW’s
driver let the car glide to a halt while he carefully checked the
mirrors once more. Still undecided as to his next move, he wavered
between a simple hit-and-run or waiting for an opportunity with a
more predictable outcome. It needed to be clear-cut, and concussion
or even several broken bones would simply not suffice.

Devereau gave a
quick glance behind, then started to angle his way across the road.
The driver made an instant decision. Seizing his chance he pressed
down hard on the accelerator and the BMW surged forward.

Devereau was
only a yard past the central white line when he looked to his left.
For a brief second he froze, then instinctively he threw himself
backwards.

The driver
snatched the steering wheel to the right and there was a dull thump
as metal and plastic met flesh and bone, Devereau’s body half
twisting as his head smashed down onto the bonnet. An instant later
his broken body was cast aside, a squeal of protest dragged from
the tyres as they skidded across the tarmac. The driver immediately
released the brake, before thrusting his foot back down on the
accelerator.

The adrenalin
was still doing its work as the driver swung the car through two
right turns and out onto the main road. Now he began to wonder if
he had been too clever, the shriek of the tyres must have attracted
attention and already someone might be on the phone, giving details
of the colour and make of the car. Yet an innocent driver would
surely have slammed on the brakes, even if he later drove away in
panic.

The driver
forced his breathing to slow: no need to worry, it was a job well
done.

Breakfast
became a rushed affair and it was well after eight by the time
Charlotte left, Anderson wasting another hour before choosing to
get with grips with writing his second article on Erdenheim; this
one not just for local consumption but a money-making exclusive
unmasking all of Erdenheim’s many secrets. Sadly, he wasn’t quite
certain as yet what exactly they were.

Anderson sat in the kitchen, paper notes resting on the table
beside him, and stared at the laptop hoping for inspiration.
Devereau was the expert on high-powered scandals and exposés,
Anderson the apprentice with his first big case and depending upon
how well their assumptions panned out, either Erdenheim was part of
a covert scheme to counter
August
14
or it was
August 14
. Ideally, Anderson wanted
an opening statement that was suitably dramatic and could cleverly
cover all possibilities, but with facts presently a little thin on
the ground, that was proving difficult.

Anderson’s
deliberations were interrupted by the crunch of a car on the gravel
drive. He glanced through the window to see McDowell emerge from a
black SUV; no sign of anyone else. Anderson mulled over his options
then dismissed the cowardly ones – even so, he only half-opened the
front door.

“Mr Anderson,
I hope I haven’t interrupted anything important. I’ve come with an
invitation from Martin Rebane...”

McDowell’s
demeanour was relaxed, his smile seemingly genuine. Anderson
breathed out in relief, his grip on the door loosening. It was the
only invitation McDowell needed, and in one fluid motion the door
was barged open, Anderson thumped in the pit of his stomach.

Doubled over,
he took a step back, unable to do anything but watch as McDowell
strode across the threshold, grabbing Anderson by the shoulders and
dragging him into the kitchen and up onto a chair.

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 bring.

* * *

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...”