Eighteen months they had worked together, Adam Devereau doing his best to ensure Anderson’s transition to enterprise journalism wasn’t a disaster, Anderson grateful enough to try and make it work. Persistence seemed to be the key, that and Devereau’s many contacts, Anderson now with a decent, if unpredictable income. Commercial pilot to freelance journalist – the adjustment had proved easier than Anderson had anticipated, the career change one enforced upon him by the return of blurred vision and the suspension of his pilot’s licence for the second time. Central Serous Retinopathy was the medical term, the consultant blaming it on stress with the threat of permanent eye damage only one of many unpalatable outcomes.
As the friend of a friend, Devereau had helped far more than Anderson had any right to expect and being asked to attend the funeral of a complete stranger seemed little enough in return, even if it did entail a five-hour round-trip. With Devereau still in New York, Anderson was the preferred substitute, a private word to the widow felt to be more respectful than the standard of flowers and a card. Not that Devereau had been particularly forthcoming about the late George Saunders, Anderson’s curiosity only growing once he’d read some of the online obituaries, the funeral service adding a more intimate perspective to the multitude of facts.
Known affectionately as ‘the Commander’ to friends and acquaintances, the church had been full to bursting, and it was the first time Anderson had experienced a retired Admiral deliver a eulogy. Lincolnshire born and bred, Saunders had joined the Royal Navy straight from university, eventually finding his niche in Naval Intelligence before retiring back to village life and the challenge of being a parish councillor. A frequent visitor to Spain, he had been reported as missing by his wife whilst walking alone in the hills east of Malaga, it two more days before his body had been found at the base of a deep ravine; with no suspicious circumstances, it had all the elements of a tragic accident. Despite the combination of Naval Intelligence and an unusual death, Saunders had been retired far too long for the national press to see it as a story worth pursuing. The journalist in Anderson was tempted but reluctant, curious now as to whether Devereau actually wanted him to become involved – in which case why hadn’t he just said as much?
Anderson musings were cut short as a distant roll of thunder sounded out its warning and already there was a cold wet trickle nuzzling its way down the back of his neck. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the ache in his back, and by chance his gaze settled on a tall, burly figure away to his left. Like Anderson, the man stood apart from the rest of the mourners: late-thirties; six-foot four; black hair tied in a ponytail; alert, restless eyes – Anderson had walked past a score of such men every flight, most in uniform, some not. Using the Commander’s history with Naval Intelligence as his cue, Anderson’s imagination worked overtime to wonder whether Ponytail was MI5, or should it be MI6? There was almost the look of a Hells Angel... CIA, he decided finally, the man doubtless enjoying a brief respite from a heady life of espionage and intrigue. More likely though, he was the gravedigger silently urging the vicar to hurry up before the storm got worse.
If so the man would be disappointed, both wind and rain choosing to redouble their efforts; with the funeral finally over, the vicar immediately encouraged everyone to join the family at the Saunders’ home, Anderson happy to tag along and express his condolences in a rather drier environment. The village itself was a loose connection of a few hundred homes, a farming community midway between Boston and the coast. Anderson had no need for his car, the short walk from the church taking him past Marshwick’s single shop and lone pub, then along a narrow country lane to a detached picture-postcard cottage, with leaded windows and ivy-covered walls.
By the time Anderson arrived the two main rooms were already crowded, mourners spilling out into the kitchen and even up the stairs, raincoats and umbrellas drying out where they could. Anderson picked up a drink and a plate of food, before looking around for someone who might be willing to give him some more background on the Commander. The atmosphere was restrained but not especially sombre and no-one seemed concerned that Anderson was a complete stranger. To his disappointment, there was no sign of the man with the ponytail – no doubt he was already hard at work with wheelbarrow and shovel.
It was a good fifteen minutes before Anderson chose to work his way round to the Commander’s widow. Jessica Saunders stood beside the living-room fireplace, deep in conversation with the Admiral. Anderson politely hovered in the background, uncomfortably rehearsing his opening line, while waiting for a convenient moment to interrupt. His attention quickly began to wander elsewhere and he found himself looking at a young woman conversing at the far end of the room: tall, thirtyish, shoulder-length brunette hair, attractive and with a ready smile – Anderson couldn’t stop himself from staring, even going so far as to search out the potential annoyance of a wedding or engagement ring.
An elderly couple generously took pity on his lonely vigil, it several minutes before they moved on. Anderson’s gaze immediately resumed its previous traverse but the young woman in question was already moving purposefully towards him. Their eyes met and Anderson instantly glanced away, feeling as if he’d been caught peeping through someone’s window.
“I’m sorry; I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Charlotte Saunders.” Her voice was cool, polite, the deep-brown eyes almost accusing.
“Michael Anderson.” They shook hands, Anderson’s brain working overtime to find something relevant to say.
“I seem to have been the focus of much of your interest, Mr Anderson. I’m not quite sure why I deserve such attention, but it can be rather unnerving.”
Anderson struggled to change the subject, “You’re Commander Saunders’ daughter?”
“That’s very perceptive of you, Mr Anderson. Did you know my father well?”
The hint of sarcasm wasn’t an encouraging start and Anderson’s role as stand-in for Devereau was proving more awkward than he’d anticipated. “I never actually met the Commander,” he replied, trusting in honesty to dig him out of a very deep hole. “I was asked to express my condolences on behalf of a friend, Adam Devereau.”
Charlotte frowned, “I’m afraid I don’t recognise the name. In which case, did Mr Devereau know my father well? If they were in the Navy together, I’m sure there are others here who would be interested to talk to you.”
“I’m pretty sure Adam was never in the Navy; I got the impression that he knew your parents from when they lived in London. Unfortunately he’s in New York at the moment – hence me.” Anderson realised he was close to babbling and having assumed Devereau’s name would instantly strike a chord, he wasn’t sure that anything he was saying was actually correct.
Charlotte persisted, “Well, it’s kind of you to give up your time to come here. What is it you do, Mr Anderson?”
Her tone was a warning to be careful and Anderson tried to hedge, “A writer of sorts; articles and such like.”
“You mean a journalist?”
“On a good day... a hack for the most part.”
Anderson’s attempt to make it light-hearted failed miserably, the admission merely opening the floodgates of the woman’s anger: not only was Anderson rude and a chauvinist, he was quite likely an interloper as well.
“My father was a generous man, Mr Anderson,” said Charlotte, her tone ice-cold. “He would always go out of his way to make everyone welcome, even insensitive journalists who choose to invade a family’s private grief. Stay if you must, but please leave my mother alone. And to save you the need to bother anyone else, I’m thirty-three, unmarried, live in Boston and work at an estate agent’s.” Charlotte paused, brown eyes smouldering. “Was there anything else you wanted to know?”
Anderson slowly shook his head, then with nothing to lose, he pushed his luck as far as he dared. “Is that Charlie for short, or Lottie?”
Charlotte glared at him in confusion, struggling for the right response. When the reply came, it was both abrupt and dism
issive, “Goodbye, Mr Anderson.”
* * *
As well as being the village’s sole pub, The Farriers Arms also doubled up as Marshwick’s only hotel. Dating from the early-1800’s, with beamed ceilings and a wood-burning fire, it offered just three en-suite rooms for the occasional guest like Anderson; yet while his room might be small and spartan, the food more than made up for such minor grievances. The lounge and public bars had long since merged into one, with chairs and tables for some two dozen patrons, plus up to ten more on stools alongside the U-shaped counter. The atmosphere was friendly and relaxed, and without the distraction of irritating music or even a TV; two-thirds full, the bar area was still cosy rather than crowded, the two staff coping with professional ease without ever looking rushed.
A well-fed Anderson sat on an end stool with drink in hand, reflecting on a very confused set of messages from the Commander’s wife and daughter. Having been roundly put in his place by Charlotte, he had struggled to know how best to satisfy his obligations to Devereau, the problem solved within minutes by Jessica herself. Whether she had noticed Charlotte’s reaction to Anderson wasn’t clear but she at least well knew Adam Devereau, or more specifically his wife, Christmas cards shared but no real contact for a good twenty years. Jessica certainly hadn’t been put out by Anderson’s admission that he was a journalist, keen in fact to promote the Commander’s story beyond just one five-minute conversation.
It had been an intriguing proposition, the worsening weather another good reason for Anderson to delay his return home. So far, the Farriers had proved a welcoming refuge, Anderson’s continuing failure with members of the fairer sex not something to brood over. Despite being close to the wrong side of forty and of unsteady income, he could still be considered a reasonable catch, the hindrance of a failed marriage a relatively minor inconvenience. Their friends had always regarded it as the ideal match, then after five years of marriage, Anderson had suddenly packed his bags and walked out; four years on and he still couldn’t explain – even to himself – exactly why he had left.
Anderson gulped down the last of his drink, thought about having an early night, then took the easy option and asked for a refill.
“You here for the Commander’s funeral?” The barman was in his forties, solidly built, always happy for a chat in his broad Lincolnshire accent, his main talent that of making people feel at ease. The Farriers seemed to be run primarily by a husband and wife team – the husband organising the bar, the wife organising the husband.
Anderson nodded, “Didn’t know him though; just doing a favour for a friend. Now wondering whether there might be a story in it somewhere.”
“Story? You work for the papers, then?”
“Freelance,” Anderson said, hoping to encourage the barman to open up and confident that he would know something of interest. Devereau preferred the term enterprise journalism over investigative, arguing that every journalist was part investigator, but whatever the name Anderson was still at the bottom of the pile, learning his trade while supplementing his income with articles of purely local interest. Of late, Anderson had been keen to prove he could cope without the need for a guiding hand and as long as Devereau was kept in the loop, he didn’t seem that bothered, the subsequent expense claims signed off with only an occasional caustic comment.
“Commander was a straight Scotch man, like yourself,” continued the barman. “Everyone round here liked him and he always had time for a chat...”
An unsolicited summary of the Commander’s naval exploits then followed, the barman’s tone softening as he detailed rumours concerning Saunders’ role in Naval Intelligence. Anderson looked suitably impressed but there seemed little of real substance, just village gossip and hearsay, nothing that would be of real use.
The barman – now known to Anderson as Rob – broke off to attend to one of his regulars, returning briefly a few minutes later with newspaper in hand.
“Boston Standard,” he explained, as he laid the paper down in front of Anderson, “They did a nice write-up about the Commander; sorry it’s bit of a mess, but it’s a couple of weeks old. Plenty of info, so it might be a help...”
Anderson didn’t have the heart to refuse and with nothing better to do, he read through the lengthy obituary, even though most of it was familiar. Idly, he continued to turn the pages, scanning the weekly paper for something else of interest. It was only when he reached the newspaper’s original front page that both headline and picture grabbed his attention.
“Death Crash Horror. Village stunned by teenager’s death.” The photograph showed the crumpled wreck of a saloon car resting against a large tree, the car front squashed and distorted, the harsh glare of arc lamps picking out every horrific detail.
The report itself was the standard mix of fact, conjecture and tributes. Nineteen year-old Darren Westrope had only passed his driving test eight months earlier and the ageing Ford Fiesta had been bought soon after, Darren using it to commute from Marshwick to his college course in Boston. Yet it was doubtful whether age or experience could have helped save Darren’s young life, the Fiesta sideswiped by a box van skidding out of control on a patch of wet mud. With no chance to do anything, the Fiesta had smashed head-on against a mature sycamore, the massive trunk an unforgiving and immovable barrier. It had taken firemen over an hour to cut Darren’s body free.
Seeing Anderson’s renewed interest in local matters, Rob chose to return. “Bad luck, I call it: there’s not that many trees round here and the road’s never busy. Nice lad, not one to cause trouble; parents are devastated.”
Anderson’s attention had been dragged away mid-sentence, “The van driver – was he hurt?”
“Badly shaken, some cuts and bruises, that’s all. Lucky not to have been killed. Van was travelling too fast, I reckon. Narrow road, normally empty, driver in a hurry – since Erdenheim came there’s been plenty of near-misses; their drivers treat the roads round here like a race-track.”
Anderson’s bewildered look brought an immediate response, “Erdenheim,” repeated Rob, as though it explained everything. “They have a place just outside Graythorp, a couple of miles east of here; it’s a Management Development Centre.”
“Which still means nothing,” said Anderson, getting frustrated.
Rob grinned at Anderson’s confusion, enjoying his superiority. “Team-building exercises,” he explained. “Not the fun stuff like a zip wire and quad bikes, Erdenheim prefers to do it all on computer.”
Anderson finally nodded in understanding, “Been there, done that; apparently, I don’t listen enough to be effective in a team situation.”
“I could have told you that,” said Rob with a grin. “Boss there’s a yank, name of Pat McDowell; ties his hair in a ponytail but don’t let that put you off – he’d be a tough bastard in a fight.”
“Big guy, ‘bout six-four?” Anderson asked curiously. “Late-thirties?”
“Yeah, that’s him.” Rob’s tone became defensive, “You know McDowell then?”
“Not personally; he was at the Commander’s funeral.”
Rob frowned, “Odd that; I didn’t think he knew the Commander that well. Maybe he was just curious as to who else might turn up.” He leaned closer to Anderson and gave a knowing wink, “Could be he was hoping to meet an old friend from the CIA...”
Chapter 2 – Saturday, May 8th
Moscow
Major-General Dmitry Grebeshkov stood in front of the wide windows and looked out across rain spattered Lubyanka Square, watching as police stopped and searched two men a few metres from the newly-restored metro entrance. Such aspects had now become a normal part of Moscow’s daily routine with the authorities struggling to make headway against August 14. Responsibility for defeating the terrorists rested primarily with the Federal Security Service – unfortunate then, that according to some, the crisis was yet another FSB-led conspiracy.
History did little to convince the doubters otherwise, the evidence of the FSB’s involvement in th
e apartment bombings of ‘99 persuasive, it seen as part of a wider plot to justify the war in Chechnya. With every new atrocity or terrorist act since, many had automatically assumed the FSB was culpable, some three hundred innocent lives unjustly laid at its door in the last decade alone. To counter such fears, the Prime Minister had insisted on a degree of additional monitoring, a pledge made more difficult when the FSB had vetoed the PM’s first two nominees due to security concerns; Grebeshkov had become the compromise choice, his reputation within the FSB’s Investigation Directorate – specifically for tackling corruption – ensuring he was acceptable to both parties, his competence and integrity never in doubt, his lack of independence considered an acceptable risk.
With his new title of Special Adviser to the Prime Minister had come a place on Russia’s Counter-Terrorist Security Committee and an enforced move across Moscow to a suite of offices on the Lubyanka’s fourth floor. Officially, Grebeshkov’s unit was part of the FSB’s anti-corruption section but in practice it was totally independent, answerable only to the Prime Minister, able to inspect, search and question as it saw fit. It was awkward at best, Grebeshkov and his small team having to cope with the dangers implicit in split loyalties, while also trying to ensure the FSB was indeed innocent of all slurs and innuendo. And in a country where trust was at a premium, Grebeshkov felt it safe to assume that someone was similarly scrutinising his every move, their link to the Russian President doubtless rather more direct than Grebeshkov’s to the Prime Minister.
Grebeshkov felt he coped well with the inevitable stress: at fifty-four he had achieved as much as he could have hoped for, and ambition had never been one of his faults. Three children, five grand-children – he loved them all but he still sometimes felt a stranger to them, his thoughts more wrapped up in work than in family. Grebeshkov’s long-suffering wife had long since learnt to live a semi-independent life, supporting her husband when she felt he needed it, and not getting under his skin when he brought home the FSB’s problems to spend long hours at his desk, surviving on a regular intake of strong tea and vodka.
The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) Page 2