The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2)

by Christopher Read

  Valdez couldn’t see what has happening but he could guess: a shouted command to Joseph and the handguns were ripped from the sports bag, Valdez determined to help Marcelo.

  Others too reacted to the marines’ use of deadly force, and the catamaran became the main focus for the remaining allied boats. As they began to crowd round, a helicopter and patrol boat moved closer, the catamaran like some giant magnet dragging in everything towards it.

  Valdez clambered on board, sensing Joseph was firing at someone or something. He swung himself up onto the bridge deck to see Marcelo struggling with a marine, a second man at the wheel trying to steer the catamaran away from the encircling craft, both marines facing away from Valdez. The catamaran’s captain lay motionless on the deck, blood oozing from a wound near his left eye.

  Valdez stepped forward and smashed the handgun backhanded across the second marine’s head, the man dropping instantly. Marcelo’s assailant turned at the sound, releasing Marcelo and instinctively reaching for his gun.

  Valdez shook his head in admonition and the marine froze, gaze moving slowly up from Valdez’s gun, body tensing for a bullet.

  It was the marine’s lucky day, Valdez ignoring his training in order to show the world the nature of Filipino restraint. Gun held to the marine’s spine, he pushed the man in front of him, the two of them standing looking out at a scene of utter chaos. The catamaran was surrounded by boats on all sides and amidst the babble of noise and confusion people were fighting hand-to-hand, their different clothing the only way to tell friend from foe.

  Abruptly, there was the boom of a far-off foghorn, and in an instant the sound was taken up by other vessels, the air reverberating with discordant cries. Valdez’s ears were blasted with noise as the dive vessel joined in, some people cheering, broad smiles replacing the scowls as the boats began to disengage.

  The Chinese seemed to understand that it was all over, if not knowing quite why. Valdez lowered his gun and gestured at the marine to help his injured compatriot. He looked around, moving from the sight of the two dead Vietnamese to try and find his cousin.

  Joseph lay on the dive vessel’s deck, face down. As Valdez stumbled towards him, terrified that he too had been shot, Joseph struggled to his knees, eyes streaming, the helicopter’s dazzle gun having been used to good effect.

  To the north-west, a wooden fishing boat and a battered utility vessel headed back from the reef, a large Philippine flag draped across the fishing boat’s bow. Minutes earlier, the flag had been held high by a young woman as she stood ankle deep on Mischief Reef, posing for photographs. She had even managed to smile, inwardly terrified that the Chinese troops slipping and splashing their way towards her would arrive before she was safely back on board.

  The armada had successfully landed one person and one flag – for Marcelo, and maybe even Valdez, it was enough for now.

  Eastern United States – 10:25 Local Time; 14:25 UTC

  Charlottesville’s offering of Thomas Jefferson's home had been a relaxed finale to their Wednesday outing and Thursday’s agenda was consequently down to Anderson, the search for McDowell temporarily on hold.

  This time Anderson drove, and for a good part of the forty mile trip to Arlington, his attention was focused rather more than normal on exactly what vehicles were behind them. The previous day both of them had had the same nagging concern that they were being followed, a shared sixth-sense that needed to be fully tested. Anderson assumed it was most likely his usual paranoia, modern technology rather negating the need for something as old-fashioned as a tail, and there was certainly nothing obvious to confirm their fears.

  Arlington National Cemetery proved to be everything he’d expected of it, and so much more, the hours of walking still not revealing all of its secrets. The stunning views somehow added to the poignancy of the whole experience, the changing of the guard such a simple but moving ceremony.

  The journey back to Leesburg was relatively sombre, the mood lightening once they reached the Inn. As Charlotte got ready for dinner, Anderson followed his usual pointless ritual of checking what Charlotte irreverently referred to as ‘the Berlin phone’.

  For the first time since his trip to Germany, there was actually a text: as before, the instructions were minimal, the sender obviously having watched too many B-movies.

  Anderson stared at the message in confusion, wondering what on earth he ought to do next, and how he could explain it all to Charlotte. Virginia was supposed to be a relaxing holiday and in retrospect it had been stupid to bring the phone. Not that it would have made any difference – the Russians obviously knew exactly where Anderson was and would have doubtless found some other way to contact him.

  For some very odd reason, the thought of meeting a Russian spy in the heart of America was a lot more worrying that meeting one in Berlin. Basically, it was the usual Anderson dilemma – behave like a proper investigative journalist and investigate, or ignore it and let someone else take the risks and get all the credit.

  Whoever the call was from, they seemed quite happy to feed him one clue at a time, and they obviously knew Anderson particularly well, fully aware he could never refuse a challenge.

  * * *

  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 just 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.