A voice-over detailed the protestors’ tactics, their chosen target varying almost at a whim between the American and Polish embassies, with others attacking the Kremlin and White House. Despite the police and security forces putting thousands of officers onto the streets, they were struggling to cope, the news ticker at the bottom of the screen reporting a total of at least fourteen killed since the clashes began.
Abruptly the TV image changed to the Russian President, standing stiff-backed at a podium, face grim. Grebeshkov listened carefully, feeling sad and weary, fearing what was about to come.
“Compatriots, citizens of Russia, this is a critical hour for the Motherland and our peoples. As you are all aware, for several months terrorist elements have mounted a campaign of terror and intimidation, with many innocent lives lost, hundreds maimed, our children murdered without remorse or pity. To achieve their own totally selfish ends, these same terrorists have fostered worker unrest and civil protests, bringing Moscow close to a state of anarchy. Violent protests have now spread to yet more of our great and beautiful cities.
“The present situation is of deep concern to everyone, with the security of every citizen at risk. Our economy too is now in danger, the terrorist offensive forcing factories, offices, and even schools to close. Immediate and decisive measures are needed to bring the present situation under control; we must restore the pride and honour that is an integral part of being a citizen of the Russian Federation.”
A pause for effect, then in sombre tones, the President continued. “As a result, as allowed by Articles 56 and 88 of the Constitution, I have formally declared a State of National Emergency, effective immediately. My sole purpose is to re-impose order and bring the Motherland out of this crisis. I call upon all citizens of the Russian Federation to put an end to this time of uncertainty, and render all possible assistance to the security forces...”
Grebeshkov only half-listened as the President finished with an appeal to people’s patriotic duty; there were no specific details as to what laws were to be strengthened or ignored, and no mention of Article 102 – the need for any such decree to be approved by the upper house of Russia’s parliament. This was the President’s last throw of the dice, if it failed then some form of martial law would be inevitable.
Moscow’s Police Commissioner was next to take to the podium. He began by reinforcing the President’s words, before detailing how Moscow would be affected: suspension of civil rights, a 9 p.m. to 5 a.m. curfew imposed, public protests and strikes banned, access to and from Moscow restricted.
Grebeshkov wasn’t convinced August 14 would be cowed by such a declaration; with their record, they might even be encouraged.
Lincolnshire, England
For far too many hours Charlotte had worried and agonised as to what to do next. Just before lunch another text had arrived from Anderson: he was in Warsaw, everything was fine, the hotel was indeed in the centre, a car would pick her up tomorrow at nine to take her to East Midlands Airport... Charlotte had believed none of it, concerned as to why a text and not a personal call from Anderson. Should she be worrying even more? The location app had stuck with the unhelpful ‘Unknown’, and out of curiosity Charlotte had sent a routine text to her mother. The app’s response to the outgoing message and the subsequent reply had been rather more impressive, Jessica duly confirmed as being safely ensconced in Dublin.
Where Anderson was concerned, Charlotte chose to remain optimistic, guessing that he might well be at Erdenheim. What if she just ignored tomorrow’s invitation to Warsaw? Would that then inspire some sort of angry response? Against Anderson? Or her as well? And could she actually do anything about it?
Whatever she eventually decided, the consequences for Anderson seemed unclear. She could do nothing – and hope that she had totally misread the situation. She could still do nothing – and assume Anderson would somehow manage to get himself out of the mess he was obviously in. For some people, the sensible choice was most definitely do nothing, but Charlotte wasn’t feeling particularly sensible at the moment. Rebane and his friends might well have murdered her father, and they’d probably tried to kill Adam Devereau; Anderson was quite likely to be next.
She could go to the authorities, but they could well be part of the problem; Anderson had even hinted that Rebane had contacts within the police. She could go to the newspapers – who would do what exactly? She could ask her mother for help or advice – but that would then put her life at risk as well. Even if she found someone with the power to act, what actual evidence did she have? Basically, it was all conjecture mixed in with some very dubious logic. One bad choice and Anderson would be dead, and Charlotte might well be next on Rebane’s list.
Charlotte wasn’t ecstatic about her final decision but her conscience would allow nothing less. Having had so little time off, even with her father’s death, her business partner was understanding when she said she needed a break; if he was surprised that Charlotte wanted to take it immediately, then he graciously kept it to himself. Charlotte negotiated a week, playing safe just in case things became even more complicated. Her mother was one such complication, Charlotte unsure exactly how much to tell her, not wanting Jessica to worry nor wishing to put her in any danger. In the end, she kept it simple, and said nothing.
The light was beginning to fail by the time she reached the car park at Freiston Shore, and she walked quickly along to the outer sea wall, before stepping carefully down to its base on the seaward side. Her outfit was rather more sombre than usual for a trip out: black jacket, black top, black jeans and comfortable boots, plus a back-pack half-full with a variety of bits and pieces. Her intention was to try and get something concrete against Erdenheim or Rebane, and her camera was thus the most essential item. If Anderson was there and a suitable opportunity arose to help him, then fair enough, but to attempt any sort of rescue would be foolish. Charlotte stayed with that thought, even though deep down she knew priorities might all-too easily be changed. And she still hadn’t quite worked out what sort of photographic evidence could possibly be considered concrete.
Despite such inconsistencies, Charlotte had convinced herself that preparation was the key, with every possibility considered and suitable back-up options prepared. As an additional precaution, she’d even removed the battery from her mobile phone – she wasn’t convinced it was necessary but with Erdenheim’s computer expertise it seemed wise to be extra careful.
The theory that Erdenheim might actually be helping August 14 no longer seemed such a ridiculous idea, especially with Moscow suffering attacks from hackers and cyber-terrorists. The Management Centre was hardly Fort Knox but the closer she got, the more the reality of what she was attempting started to sink in – and the potential consequences. Whether it was arrogance, stubbornness, or just stupidity, she was still determined to follow it through.
Charlotte headed north, staying the seaward side of the sea wall. Despite the encroaching darkness, plus a persistent drizzle and the occasional narrow ditch, it was mostly easy going. A quick check to see where exactly she was in relation to Erdenheim, then she slid back down the sea wall for a short but uncomfortable stay. To add to her enjoyment, the rain began to bucket down.
Chapter 14 – Thursday, May 20th
Lincolnshire, England
The downpour eased after a half-hour, but it remained overcast, a few stars flickering dimly in a futile attempt to brighten the night sky. Charlotte waited until well after midnight before moving cautiously along the seaward side of the embankment, following it north for another hundred yards. She then clawed her way to the top of the sea-wall, crouching down to peer out over the opposite edge. Almost directly ahead lay the Management Centre, a scattering of lights brightening its dirty-brown walls.
Most of the interior was in darkness, with just one room in the accommodation block showing a subdued glimmer from behind the half-open window-blind. More light spilled out from the computer centre on the top floor, security lights stationed above the sto
reroom and each of the side doors barely managing to beat back the darkness for more than a few yards.
Charlotte slipped her binoculars from the back-pack and slowly scanned across the buildings from left to right, using the various light sources to search out some weakness, or indeed anything out of the ordinary. The doors were coded entry, the windows double-glazed with restricted openings. Charlotte wasn’t expecting to break in, she was just hoping there would be something that would help her cause – even evidence that Anderson was actually there would be a start.
The Last of the Mohicans – could Anderson be implying his room was the last one in the block? Silly though it seemed, Charlotte warmed to the idea. From Erdenheim’s original building plans and Anderson’s many photos, she knew there were just five security cameras and a similar number of motion-sensor lights. Presumably any more might draw attention to Erdenheim’s desire for security, or maybe five was enough considering the Management Centre had twenty-four hour occupancy. In any event, twenty minutes research on the internet had provided Charlotte with enough knowledge to work out a relatively safe approach; all it took were the low-tech aids of school protractor, ruler and pen. Assuming the cameras were high quality with dual day and night operation, at best they would have a hundred degree viewing angle and a night-time range of sixty metres. That would leave various blind spots, as long as she kept well away from the main entrance and both side doors.
Decision made, Charlotte crept across the sea-wall, slithering her way down the embankment and into a stinking mud-filled ditch. Whilst mud was supposedly good for her complexion and she couldn’t get much wetter, it was still a disgusting experience. Some of the mud managed to find its way into her mouth, and greasy sewage seemed a fitting description for the taste. Other than that, it was all quite exciting, almost a childhood game of hide-and-seek combined with a mud fight; surprisingly the muddy mix of black silt and water wasn’t that cold – chilly but hardly freezing.
There was still time to turn back, home to a hot bath and cosy bed. Charlotte savoured the thought then reluctantly put it to one side, focusing instead on what to do next. Her chosen blind-spot meant she would need to take a diagonal route to the north-eastern edge, well away from where the lone room-light shone.
The fence was easy enough, Charlotte more concerned by the amount of noise she seemed to be making, yet she was still far enough away for it not to be a problem. The final stretch became a painstaking shuffle, any faster and her mud-covered shoes insisted on slapping loudly down onto the grass. Pausing to catch her breath, she crouched midway between fence and eastern wall, and for the first time she realised she was shaking. Whether it was cold or fear wasn’t obvious, but it didn’t help her confidence. Yet, so far, everything was going as planned, with no suggestion Erdenheim was aware of her presence.
It was then she heard what sounded like a muffled explosion; Charlotte stood stock-still, seconds later she was battered by the ear-splitting screech of an alarm...
* * *
Anderson waved again at the camera, feeling a little foolish, but realising that the longer it took before someone responded the better – that should mean those sharing the night-time vigil were fairly busy, so they might not be following the image from his room too closely.
It was now too risky to assume Charlotte would be left alone and in the morning she would doubtless force Rebane’s hand by ignoring the invitation to Warsaw. Or, knowing Charlotte, she might well do something impulsive and make Rebane act immediately. Somehow, Anderson had to make things more difficult for Rebane in the hope he would be encouraged to move his focus elsewhere and away from Charlotte. And he had to do it soon.
For the last few hours, Anderson had trodden a tricky line, trying to convince everyone he was no threat by acting out the frightened wreck of a man. Anderson feared it might not be that far from the truth, and there was also the danger his liability index might increase as a consequence, reducing the time before someone decided he was an unnecessary and unwelcome burden. However, Anderson had his plan, and he was determined to stick to it.
There was still no response to his wave, and Anderson tried yet again with both arms – surely one of the computer nerds could have come up with something better than Anderson having to wave himself silly in order to have a piss. Still it all helped to calm his nerves.
Anderson ran through in his mind the next few minutes: if McDowell turned up to temporarily release Anderson, then he would try again in a couple of hours; anyone of smaller stature and Anderson would opt for something rather more violent – he just hoped he was brave enough to follow it through. Most likely it would either be Laurel or Hardy – Anderson’s chosen names for McDowell’s two associates from the cottage: one tall and thin, one rather more rotund. Other than that, it was a poor comparison as both were English rather than just Laurel, and neither were particularly funny. Anderson had seen or heard at least six other residents, and he presumed they were mostly computer experts, with McDowell, Laurel and Hardy providing security.
Whenever any of the three turned up to deal with Anderson, it was always with gun in hand, although Anderson’s pathetic demeanour was starting to make them rather less guarded. As a commercial pilot, Anderson had received some training in the use of handguns, and securing a semi-automatic from one of his chaperones was high on his list of priorities. McDowell’s gun was not one Anderson recognised, but both Laurel and Hardy used what looked to be a Glock. That meant there was no need to fully cock the pistol before firing the first round, the process of simply chambering a round – or racking the slide – partially cocking the hammer; the safety was also integrated within the trigger, rather than being a separate lever. Even if it wasn’t a Glock, Anderson assumed any other pistol would be pretty similar; if not, then he’d just have to have to wing it and hope for the best.
Anderson’s one advantage over his jailers was the small size of his room: the en-suite of shower and toilet was adjacent to the door, leaving a short corridor, then a space roughly nine feet by eight for bed, wardrobe, chair and dressing-table. The door to the en-suite faced the opposite wall of the corridor, and was some four feet from the entrance door. Anderson’s guard could thus never be more than a few feet away. When he’d first used the bathroom, even though the door was left open, someone would always check it after – but now they didn’t seem bothered. Nor did they appear concerned about the TV, which was as loud as Anderson dared, despite him opting for whatever programme made the most noise. Bruce Willis was presently eliminating most of a gang of cyber terrorists in Die Hard 4.0, something which Anderson could only empathise with.
He stood up to wave for a fifth time, but abruptly the room door opened and a familiar figure entered; despite his fears, Anderson almost smiled, thankful it was Laurel and not someone twice his size.
“Sorry, I was getting desperate,” Anderson said meekly.
Laurel stood at the end of the narrow corridor, half-leaning against the wall, gun held nonchalantly in his right hand. Left-handed, he lobbed the key to Anderson’s handcuffs onto the bed.
“Better make it last,” Laurel said gruffly, “And don’t take all fucking night.”
Anderson undid the cuff on his right wrist. As he stood up, Laurel took a pace back to allow Anderson free access to the en-suite, gun pointing vaguely at Anderson’s midriff.
“Thanks,” Anderson said. “I guess I’m just a bit nervous...” He moved towards the door of the en-suite, nodding towards the TV, “Good film; lots of action.”
Laurel glanced beyond Anderson and towards the TV; just for an instant, Anderson thought to adjust his plan, then the moment was past. Laurel moved to his left to lounge against the wall, and Anderson pushed open the door to the shower and toilet. He had tried closing it once but that apparently was against the rules, so Anderson had worked hard to develop a nervous whistle – something which proved useful when he had earlier unscrewed the showerhead. Lighter than he’d hoped, it was still the best weapon he could come up w
ith.
Even before the first few tuneless notes of his musical accompaniment had ended, Anderson was back through the open en-suite door, showerhead arcing round for a classic uppercut to Laurel’s chin. Plastic and chrome shattered, and Laurel staggered back, eyes shocked and confused, his only sound a dull groan. Anderson pressed home his advantage, knowing at any second McDowell could be on his way. His left hand grasped Laurel’s gun arm, wrenching it up, desperately forcing the pistol to point away from his body; his right hand, still grasping the remains of the showerhead, swept down a second, then a third time, striking Laurel’s forehead just above his nose. Laurel slumped to the floor, unconscious, gun clattering down beside him
Anderson hadn’t time to worry as to what he had done – this wasn’t a game, something with rules or an agreed code of behaviour, this was his life that was on the line. He grabbed Laurel’s gun and pulled open the bedroom door, taking a quick glance up and down the dimly-lit corridor. It was empty, although as he watched a light flickered on from the room opposite, a warning that Laurel’s demise hadn’t gone completely unheard.
Anderson’s room was closest to the central building, and it was some thirty yards along the corridor to the fire exit, a red warning light winking ominously above the door. Anderson backed quickly towards the exit. Suddenly, light spilled out into the corridor as a room door opened, and Anderson instinctively loosed off a warning shot, no specific target in mind. Back-first, he crashed against the push bar and the exit door sprang open, the shriek of the security alarm sounding out its warning.
The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) Page 19
