The Trust Of The People

by Christopher Read

  * * *

  Anderson stood on the street corner and awaited the next instruction. It was just after eight and Charlotte had set him the Cinderella time limit of midnight before threatening to panic or call the police, most likely both. It was the sort of compromise offer that helped placate Charlotte’s many objections, while actually not offering any guarantees – Anderson’s new set of cement shoes could easily be in place well before then.

  Sensible precautions were a totally different matter, with various problem scenarios discussed and a suitable response decided. It was an approach most people would consider extreme, but past experience had shown the wisdom of such safeguards. If it turned out to be fifteen minutes wasted, then Anderson wasn’t bothered; if not – then at least they had something to fall back on.

  The phone chimed again. Message duly read, Anderson headed south, shoulders hunched over, feeling a little vulnerable. The Berlin meeting had been relatively simple and fairly productive, but this time it just didn’t have quite the same feel.

  Anderson sensed a vehicle behind him and a dirty white box van pulled in just ahead: no markings, rear-windows blacked-out. A man – tall, mid-forties – got out of the passenger door and non-too gently thrust Anderson against the rear of the van. A handheld body scanner and pat down were next, with Anderson’s and the Berlin phone removed from his jacket pockets.

  Satisfied, the man pulled open the rear door, gesturing at Anderson to get inside. Some saying about ‘lamb to the slaughter’ jumped into Anderson’s thoughts but having come this far it seemed pointless not to see it through. There were two pairs of seats fitted behind the cab, facing each other, and Anderson automatically picked one, his escort seating himself directly opposite.

  The seats didn’t have the high-tech of a seat belt, but nor was Anderson provided with a blindfold, which seemed a fair exchange. The driver headed towards Washington, Anderson sticking with his B-movie theme and trying to make sure he could remember their route.

  “Eyes in the van,” said his escort gruffly, reinforcing his instruction with a kick to Anderson’s shin.

  Anderson did as he was told, thinking of saying something clever then deciding it wasn’t wise. Instead he used what light there was to try and memorise his escort’s description: Hispanic; younger than he’d first thought, maybe late-thirties; longish hair and various tattoos – not someone he would want to argue with. The man spent a few seconds checking Anderson’s phone, before throwing it back at him, apparently satisfied that it wasn’t a security risk. The Berlin phone was similarly scrutinised, before finally ending up in the man’s jacket pocket.

  The journey dragged on, already a half-hour, Anderson guessing they were in Washington’s southern suburbs, although the traffic seemed lighter than he would have expected. There was nothing of interest to see in the van, the rear totally empty and relatively clean.

  After another five minutes they turned right and off the highway; then it was another mile of twists and turns before the van parked outside a secluded house: detached, three-storeys, massive porch – all very impressive.

  Both men escorted Anderson inside, a short hallway leading into a beautiful open-plan lounge. The van driver gestured at Anderson to take a seat, before moving to stand at the front window. The second man stood by the door, and it was only now that Anderson noticed the gun held casually in his right hand.

  This definitely wasn’t the relaxed atmosphere of Berlin, Anderson’s pulse and blood pressure fighting to see which could outdo the other. It all seemed to be leading up to some grand entrance.

  “Mike,” said a familiar American voice, “you really need to choose a new career: journalism just isn’t that healthy an option for you.”

  As soon as he’d seen the gun, Anderson had just known it was going to be McDowell who eventually appeared. The Berlin phone had initially proved to be a benefit but was now obviously a curse, Anderson not understanding how his luck – and his common-sense – could desert him so quickly.

  McDowell pulled up a wooden dining chair, choosing to sit it astride, the action somehow emphasising who exactly was in charge. “Kind of you to accept my invitation, but I’m afraid your Russian friends work for me now. You should have thrown the phone away after Berlin.”

  “You just can’t trust anyone,” Anderson said bitterly. “You might just need to remember that one day.”

  McDowell gave a broad smile, “You’re probably right; sadly, trust in my line of work is often equated with financial reward... It was nice of you to bring the lovely Charlotte to Virginia; if I’d known your intentions earlier I would have offered a personal tour of Highland County.”

  McDowell’s smug attitude was enough to pull Anderson out of his lethargy – his future well-being might be looking fairly tenuous, but he’d be damned if he’d give McDowell the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.

  “Next time I’ll be sure to call you first,” Anderson said, trying not to let his voice betray his fears. “It’s just a shame you didn’t stay dead.”

  “I thought about it, but the quiet life just isn’t my style. The logic of why you’re in Virginia escapes me – are we talking business or pleasure?”

  “The Washington Post wanted to have a chat; the rest is just a holiday.”

  “A chat about what?”

  For a brief instant, Anderson thought of telling McDowell to mind his own business, then common-sense prevailed. “Articles to do with Russia and Poland; nothing that need cause you concern.”

  McDowell studied him carefully, as though trying to judge whether Anderson was being economical with the truth. “Somehow, that seems too convenient. And Highland County – it’s not usually the first choice for UK tourists?”

  “It was just a stupid hunch that someone might know you; not that we got anywhere.” Anderson could have lied, but there seemed little point.

  “Not even with Riley? Nice guy, but no good at small talk.”

  “Nor at answering questions; I got the impression he doesn’t much like journalists.” Anderson was doing his best to protect his sources, even though Riley had barely told him anything worthwhile.

  McDowell nodded as though in agreement, Anderson apparently confirming what he already knew. “Finally, we have Leesburg. You could have picked anywhere to stay – so why that particular town?”

  Anderson sensed McDowell thought the question important, although it wasn’t obvious as to why. “Nothing specific; it was just a convenient base.”

  “And there was no other reason?”

  Anderson shook his head, still confused. “The Jackson Inn had a good review; Leesburg’s less than an hour from Washington and it’s not so big that you can get lost. Good roads, good range of restaurants, White’s Ferry close by – what more can I say?”

  McDowell chose not to pursue it. “I almost believe you, Mike. Even if true, past experience shows you have an annoying habit of interfering in my business. Secrets tend not to remain so once you get your teeth into something.”

  “That’s my job,” Anderson retorted. “What am I supposed to do?”

  McDowell didn’t look particularly sympathetic. “We all make mistakes,” he said philosophically. “Coming to Virginia was definitely one of yours. Unfortunately, I cannot simply let you run free.”

  Anderson was struggling to find something he could bargain with, not that he felt McDowell was in the mood to listen. “So now what – some car accident or two bullets in the head like in Mississippi?”

  “I’m happy to admit they’re both attractive options, but maybe such extremes won’t be necessary. I propose a more equitable solution.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  McDowell feigned a hurt look, “You misjudge me, Mike. Forget your holiday and fly off back home to England. You and Charlotte can still get out of this in one piece; all I ask is that you stop interfering in matters which are not your concern.”

  “This has nothing to do with Charlotte,” Anderson said sharply. “She j
ust came along for the ride.”

  “Maybe that’s true, maybe not. Just to be clear, it’s her life as well as yours that’s on the line here. Get on a plane tomorrow and that’s an end to it.”

  “And I have your word on that” said Anderson with a trace of anger. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because,” McDowell encouraged, “it’s the ideal solution for everyone. Two more suspicious deaths will only give the FBI something extra to work with. What happens here is not your affair, Mike. Give it a couple of months and come back for a proper holiday; I’ll be long gone by then.”

  Anderson stayed silent, trying to get his brain in gear to work out exactly what McDowell had in mind: while he didn’t doubt McDowell’s willingness to carry out his threat, compromise just didn’t seem the McDowell way – he much preferred to stay fully in control. He obviously knew all about Berlin and perhaps also Markova’s note, but presumably not Gabriel. Yet Anderson’s subsequent visit to Highland County had hardly been productive; so why was McDowell so concerned?

  Leesburg itself seemed more of a clue. As far as Anderson was aware, Charlotte had merely looked at the map and found somewhere that was a convenient distance from her list of places to visit. Their present location had to be thirty miles from Leesburg – was that sufficiently close for McDowell to jump to the wrong conclusion? If it had been Anderson, then his natural state of paranoia would ensure the answer was a resounding ‘yes’, but McDowell was far more laid-back.

  McDowell seemed to misinterpret Anderson’s silence, “It’s not as if you have a choice. Twenty-four hours, and if you’re not on that plane, you’d both better watch your backs.”

  He stood up, sliding the chair away from him. “If you think the FBI can protect you, then that would be foolish – you know how we work.”

  A nod of dismissal and Anderson’s visit was deemed to be over, the van driver yanking Anderson to his feet and guiding him towards the front door.

  Anderson worried as to what he should do. If there was a safe option, he didn’t know what it was: he certainly couldn’t trust McDowell to keep his word, not unless there was some serious advantage to it. It just seemed far easier for McDowell if he simply shot Anderson and dumped his body somewhere.

  And there of course was his answer – McDowell was just curious as to why Anderson was in Virginia and what he and Charlotte actually knew. Now, with such questions duly answered, Anderson was expendable, the van taking him on one last ride.

  It all fitted together so easily, and such a straightforward if extreme solution was typical of McDowell’s way of working. Hanson became expendable, now she was dead; Anderson was more of an inconvenience, but in McDowell’s eyes he was too great a risk to leave alive.

  By the time he reached the van, Anderson had already convinced himself that it was fight or die. His only advantage over his escort was the element of surprise. The man sat opposite with his gun held across his body, if anything the barrel pointing at the driver rather than his captive. Anderson wondered whether he should wait and hope that the man relaxed even more, but by then he might well have lost his nerve, stupidly putting his faith in McDowell’s false promises.

  The van accelerated away, turning right, then after another hundred yards, sharp left. Although there were no street lights, there was enough scattered light for Anderson to see by and he instantly launched himself at his escort, a good old-fashioned shoulder charge aimed at the top of his chest. The man tried to react, but Anderson was far too close and with a heavy clunk his escort’s head thudded into the side of the van, the two of them tumbling to the floor.

  Anderson finished up half-across the other man, the breath knocked out of him, and he desperately scrabbled for the gun, dragging it from nerveless fingers. Somehow it went off, the sound deafening in the enclosed space, Anderson sensing rather than hearing a shouted curse from the driver.

  The van slewed sideways, and Anderson slid face down along the floor of the van, almost losing his grip on the gun. His escort was already twisting around, clambering to his knees.

  These could easily be the men that had murdered the two Congressmen and Anderson had too much to lose to worry about the consequences of his actions. He shot the man in the thigh, instantly lifting the gun higher just in case his colleague was thinking of interfering.

  He had no need to worry: the driver was still struggling to control the van, it slithering off the road and into the treeline before coming to a shuddering halt; high-up on the windscreen the first gunshot had punched a hole through the laminated glass. Anderson pushed himself to his feet and thrust open one of the rear doors, gaze wavering between the two men to work out whether either was a threat.

  The driver hadn’t yet moved from his seat: swearing with every breath, he was busy fumbling left-handed with his seat belt, other hand held to his ear, blood dripping down the side of his face, no sign of a gun. His colleague looked to be in shock, both hands clamped around his thigh, blood oozing darkly between his fingers. Anderson gave a final wary glance and then he leapt down onto the road, racing along the edge of the tree line, the adrenalin continuing to kick in.

  The residential road was empty of traffic; the houses all looked to be in the multi-million bracket, separated from each other and the main road by a clump of trees. Anderson kept running, heading towards the traffic noise. He was desperate to get away but also desperate to warn Charlotte, terrified that McDowell would exact his revenge as soon as he could.

  It took no more than a few seconds to reach the main road, Anderson arbitrarily turning right, then after fifty yards racing across the two lanes and into the trees beyond – no sign of pursuit. Another hundred yards and he started to slow, grabbing his phone to call Charlotte, urging her to answer.

  She did so at only the second ring, Anderson breathlessly shouting out a single word, a pre-arranged signal to do with a lot of shit hitting a very big fan.