The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (28 page)

Charlotte
didn’t have such doubts. “Who do I call?”

“Forget 999;
we need the number for the anti-terrorist hotline.”

Charlotte
cleaned her hands as best she could before fumbling around in her
back-pack; water first, then battery and phone. Her hands were
shaking again but this time it was definitely down to the cold.

“No signal.”
she announced after a few seconds. With a sigh of regret she
removed the battery, replacing it and the phone carefully into her
back-pack.

Anderson
struggled to his feet, peering through the darkness at the
surrounding mudflats. “Where’s your car?” he asked eventually.

“South at
Freiston Shore,” Charlotte replied. She looked pointedly at
Anderson, “North?”

“North,”
Anderson confirmed. “We can try the phone again in fifteen
minutes.”

“And exactly
which way is north?”

“The one
opposite to south, Charlie; it’s obvious.”

Charlotte gave
a despairing shake of her head and they began to trudge in a
direction which their combined intuition assumed was north.
Anderson again led the way, trying to keep the expanse of mud to
his right, gullies to his left. It was now almost one-thirty, and
he was conscious that they needed to be somewhere less open by the
time it became light. There was also the concern that the tide
might suddenly decide to assist McDowell and start chasing them as
well.

Abruptly
Anderson froze. A whispered warning to Charlotte, then he turned
towards where he sensed the sea wall should be, listening intently,
foolishly imagining for a moment that he had heard the sound of a
car door slamming shut.

Moments later
a searchlight blazed through the darkness away to his left. The
source looked to be some sort of multi-beam spotlight, seemingly
mounted on a vehicle sitting atop the outer sea wall to the south.
For once Anderson’s sense of direction had been pretty good, and
they had in fact been travelling roughly parallel to the
embankment, now perhaps some three hundred yards distant.

The
searchlight beam slowly travelled eastwards, sweeping across the
mudflats, before starting a parallel traverse a few yards further
to the north but still several hundred yards south of Anderson and
Charlotte.

They quickened
their pace, then a second searchlight illuminated the night, this
time ahead of them to the north, the beam playing back and forth,
highlighting an area no more than eighty yards away.

With casual
ease, the second beam waltzed ever closer; Anderson grabbed
Charlotte and pulled her to the ground, right arm pressing her down
into the mire. The searchlight beam swept towards them, slid past,
stopped, moved on again, then suddenly reversed, gliding back
towards them.

It crossed
directly over Anderson’s body, the light reflecting for an instant
from his watch. The beam continued to creep slowly along the
mudflat, until abruptly it pulled away, sweeping round to the south
as something else attracted its attention.

Charlotte
twisted around to lie on her back, hands furiously wiping the muck
away from her face. She tried glaring at Anderson but could barely
see, her second option of roundly questioning his parentage also
difficult with a mouthful of sludge. In the end she merely spat out
a glob of mud and a single well-chosen expletive, knowing that
Anderson had had little choice.

Anderson was
keen not to wait around for the searchlight’s return. With
Charlotte in tow, he headed north and roughly parallel to the sea
wall, the two of them scrambling their way from one disgusting mud
hole to the next. The two searchlights stayed to the south, gliding
back and forth in a fruitless search for their quarry.

After another
twenty minutes, Anderson called a halt. They sat side by side on
one of the more solid clumps of mud, sharing the rest of the
bottled water whilst planning out their next move. The phone option
again proved futile, it choosing to display ‘SIM Blocked’ in
protest at its treatment.

They left it
until two-thirty before moving inland, the searchlights having
abandoned their quest a good fifteen minutes earlier. Both
Charlotte and Anderson were suffering badly from the cold, their
best insulation a thick layer of sludge.

Yet it was far
easier than the outward journey. Now the gullies could be waded
across rather than being needed for protection. Eventually the
sea-wall appeared through the darkness, and as an extra reward the
rain stopped. Anderson was feeling relatively optimistic,
rethinking who best to contact and how exactly to play it. The
stinking mud was starting to dry, forming a crazy-paving like crust
over most of Anderson’s body.

Some forty
yards short of the sea-wall, he felt a gentle tug at his arm, and
he turned to see Charlotte gazing at something over his shoulder.
Even as Anderson turned back, he heard the slap of boots on the
sodden ground. Instinctively, he reached to his jeans pocket for
the gun, then common-sense prevailed, and with exaggerated care he
moved both hands away from his body.

Torchlight
played across Anderson, a second beam illuminating Charlotte.
Seconds later, McDowell emerged from the gloom, gun in hand, his
smile a reflection both of triumph, and anticipation.

Some ten
minutes after their enforced return to Erdenheim, Charlotte stood
silent, arm held tightly by a surly-looking woman, watching through
tear-filled eyes as McDowell taught Anderson a lesson in manners,
or perhaps it was a reward for his own treatment of Laurel.

It was brief
but very unpleasant. Letting Charlotte see for herself Anderson’s
punishment was McDowell’s way of permanently ending false hope. And
with Charlotte’s capture, Anderson’s value as a hostage seemed to
have depreciated significantly.

It was then
Charlotte’s turn, but there no physical violence, just a barrage of
questions. Charlotte wisely stuck to the truth, responding with a
mix of hostile restraint and bitterness. However, the anger was
still there, Charlotte having to vehemently deny her mother knew
anything of her plans; then it was back to a sullen tone to explain
why she wouldn’t be missed at work.

Left alone at
last, Charlotte helped a half-conscious and still-dressed Anderson
into the shower, washing away mud, muck and blood. Nothing seemed
broken, but just about everywhere was tender to her touch. McDowell
had been keen to emphasise that Warsaw was still the plan: whether
they were sticking with the promised sea trip or it was now to be
by air, he hadn’t said. Either way, it didn’t seem a journey to
look forward to.

* * *

Rebane sat at
Erdenheim’s bar toying with an early breakfast of eggs and bacon,
eyes heavy with lack of sleep. McDowell pulled up a stool to sit
beside him, a steaming mug of black coffee in hand, happier now the
loose ends were finally being tidied away.

“Helene,”
McDowell reported, “has picked up Saunders’ car from Freiston
Shore; she should be back from East Midlands in a few hours.
Carter’s already working on the flight adjustments.”

“And
Anderson,” Rebane asked, “I trust he’s still alive?”

“I was
careful. A few bruises is barely enough for what he did to Morton;
the poor bastard’s got a fractured jaw and broken nose – I should
have done the same to Anderson.”

When Rebane
merely gave a tired nod of understanding, McDowell continued, “Why
not just save all this effort and kill them both now? You can still
dump them in the North Sea.”

Giving
Anderson free reign in the hope he would get bored had proved to be
foolish and Rebane would have been happy enough to follow
McDowell’s advice if it hadn’t been for the problem of Jessica
Saunders; he certainly had no wish to wipe out the entire Saunders’
clan unless it became absolutely necessary.

“We need
Charlotte to keep up the pretence with her mother,” explained
Rebane with a hint of annoyance.” If Jessica Saunders becomes
suspicious – what then? Kill her as well? The police can hardly
ignore two deaths and a missing daughter. We’ll simply be focusing
everyone’s attention back on Marshwick and then Erdenheim. Is that
what you want?”

“Just
checking,” McDowell said, not bothered by Rebane’s sarcasm.

“Jessica
Saunders is in Dublin for a while longer,” Rebane said wearily,
hand rubbing his brow in an attempt to focus his thoughts, “then on
to her brother’s in the south. Whether we like it or not, we need
to leave her alone. Charlotte will co-operate, if only to protect
her mother.”

“Whatever you
say,” McDowell said unhelpfully. “If she’s anything like the other
two, then I just hope you’ve got a back-up plan.”

“I always have
a back-up plan,” Rebane replied, with a half-smile. “Sometimes even
a second reserve...”

* * *

The van slowed
to a halt and Charlotte heard the driver’s door open and close.
McDowell sat opposite, finger moving to his lips in a warning not
to make a sound. Although their trip from Erdenheim had been
relatively short, it hadn’t been the most comfortable of journeys,
with all three seated on the bare metal of the vehicle’s floor,
backs pushed against the sides of the van. Charlotte and Anderson
sat side-by-side, handcuffed together, warily watching as
McDowell’s gun with its silencer had swapped aim from one to the
other, fearful in case the van should hit an unusually deep
pot-hole. Now the gun was rather less mobile, resting on McDowell’s
thigh and pointed loosely at Anderson, almost as though tempting
one of them to try something stupid.

After some
five minutes the driver returned and the van cruised slowly to its
destination, reversing the last few yards. Again the driver left
them alone, and McDowell repeated his warning as to the need for
silence. From outside, Charlotte could hear people talking, the
words indistinct, also machinery and the clink of metal on
metal.

Abruptly, the
rear doors were pulled open. Only yards away towered the
blue-painted hull of a cargo ship, sunlight glinting off the pillar
box red of her hold and hatch covers. McDowell clambered out onto
the concrete dock, impatiently gesturing at Charlotte and Anderson
to do the same. Charlotte shuffled her way forward, having to work
with Anderson so they could simultaneously slide off the rear edge
of the van.

It had been
years since Charlotte had last visited Boston’s small port, but it
could be nowhere else. Not that she could see much, a grey
warehouse to her left, the river away to her right. Even before
their eyes could adjust to the early-morning sunshine, McDowell
pushed them forward, hustling them up onto the gangway. The van
driver followed close behind, a suitcase in each hand.

The
Princess Eloise
looked to be relatively modern, although there
was still plenty of chipped paint and well-worn metal. Sturdy but
somehow also elegant, her white superstructure reached up to the
radio mast and a flag of blue, yellow and green. It was a
combination Charlotte frustratingly failed to recognise: a vertical
band for each colour, with three green diamond shapes in the
centre, arranged like a V.

From the top of the gangway, Charlotte caught a glimpse of
two more ships berthed on the opposite side of the dock, cargo
vessels similar to the
Princess
Eloise
. Then the view was blocked as
McDowell shoved them through a watertight hatch.

Once the van
driver had followed them inside and pulled the hatch shut, McDowell
grabbed Charlotte’s wrist and undid the handcuffs, gesturing at her
to go up the angled ladder to their right. Once she had reached the
top, McDowell repeated the exercise with Anderson, reinforcing his
orders with an unnecessary shove towards the ladder. Charlotte
waited impotently, noting with concern Anderson’s wince of pain at
every other step, despite trying to keep his weight on his left
side. Finally, it was through into a surprisingly large and
pleasant-looking twin-bedded inside cabin.

Without
comment, the van driver barged past and half flung the two
suitcases onto one of the beds, obviously annoyed at being a porter
without even the prospect of a juicy tip. McDowell waited at the
threshold, looking relaxed now he had successfully transferred his
two charges.

“All the
comforts of home,” he said with a grin. “And far better this than a
bullet in the head.”

Charlotte
asked, “Where exactly are we headed? Or is that a state
secret?”

“You should
reach Gdansk sometime Sunday morning, Russian blockade permitting.
The Captain’s name is Koval – he’s Ukrainian but his English is
excellent. Have a nice trip...”

“We will,”
Anderson said. “I don’t suppose you know the weather forecast?”

McDowell
ignored the comment, and without a backward glance he thrust the
cabin door shut, the handle trembling slightly as something was
affixed to it.

Charlotte gave
it a few seconds before trying first to turn the handle, then the
lock; sadly, neither would budge. She turned back and gestured at
their surroundings, “It could be far worse.”

“True
enough... two single cabins would have been a complete
disaster.”

“How are you
feeling?” Charlotte enquired, still worried that Anderson was
suffering rather more than he indicated.

“Pretty sore,
but better than earlier. Give me twenty-four hours on the high seas
and I’ll be throwing up like any healthy person. There’s just one
problem...”

“Only
one?”

“I’m sure I
ordered a double not a twin room and the brochure definitely showed
a balcony.”

“Would you
like me to scream loudly for McDowell and tell him you’re not
happy? I’m sure he can have a quiet word with Captain Koval and
sort something out; perhaps a nice room in the hold or even the
bilge.”