The Trust Of The People

by Christopher Read

  Chapter 1 – Friday, October 21st

  Marshwick, England – 14:04 Local Time; 13:04 UTC

  Anderson stared at the package in confusion, puzzled but also intrigued. When he had left the previous week, the kitchen table had been totally free of clutter, but now a small brown cardboard box occupied pride of place at its centre. Charlotte was the only other person to have a key to the cottage but there was no note, and there had been no text message to say she had called. Still, it could only be from her, unless of course Santa Claus had got his dates wrong.

  Roughly A4 in size and an inch thick, a lone handwritten word marred its surface – ‘Anderson’. It wasn’t even sealed with tape, a single flap holding it shut. Anderson turned it over, intrigued, but the back was totally blank: no name, no address, and no postage label – so definitely not Royal Mail. Even for Charlotte the use of just his surname was somewhat restrained, almost impolite, and Anderson realised that he wasn’t actually certain whether it was Charlotte’s handwriting or not. Non-verbal communication between them was invariably via a brief text, and the occasional note or irritating to-do list obviously wasn’t enough of a guide.

  If Charlotte was merely the courier, Anderson was still disappointed that she hadn’t left a message and a simple ‘Welcome Back’ would have sufficed. With a frown of annoyance he let the back-pack slide from his shoulder down onto the kitchen table, knowing that he should really have phoned Charlotte last night.

  Basically they needed to spend some time together, and not just an odd day with Anderson either jet-lagged or distracted by the need to find the next pay-cheque. An intimate dinner for two immediately climbed up his priority list, a quick glance at his watch confirming that he had at least a couple of hours before Charlotte finished her stint at the estate agent’s. Coffee, unpack, shop, shower, dinner – even his sleep-dulled brain was quick to confirm such targets were well within his present capabilities.

  Anderson’s relationship with Charlotte was at an awkward stage, the classic friends with benefits but shying well clear of something more permanent. Charlotte was generous enough to put up with Anderson’s frequent trips to anywhere and everywhere, but it wasn’t ideal knowing that he could disappear at a moment’s notice, off on a whim for a week or more while hunting for something newsworthy. Whenever he had a few days off, Charlotte seemed happy enough to split her time between his cottage and her home in Boston, but it always felt as if she was the one having to make all of the compromises.

  It was seventeen months since Anderson had first set foot in the Lincolnshire village of Marshwick, his intrinsic stubbornness turning a routine news story into something far more dangerous. Meeting Charlotte had been an unexpected bonus, and despite an enforced detour to Russia their relationship had quickly blossomed into something worthwhile. Keen not to let it fade, Anderson had opted to leave the financial constraints of London and move north to Marshwick. He hadn’t quite made it the commitment some might have hoped for, choosing to rent rather than buy; nevertheless, to begin with everything had been fine, Anderson’s various contacts helping him to make a steady living out of enterprise journalism. Yet rural Lincolnshire couldn’t provide the challenge of London, and gradually the work had dried up, forcing Anderson to move further and further afield, past events ensuring a good proportion of his time was spent abroad, chasing elusive leads across Poland and the Baltic.

  The rewards of looking towards Eastern Europe had been two-fold, Anderson’s journalistic reputation growing and his finances steadily improving. Articles on Russia and August 14 still had a popular appeal, both across Western Europe and America; Anderson had even been asked to give talks at a couple of events. But again, it all ate away at his time in the UK.

  Charlotte had tried to be supportive, not that she seemed to know quite what she wanted anyway – certainly not a husband, but perhaps not a part-time lover either. One day soon, they’d have to sit down and sort it all out – and sadly that might mean a parting of the ways…

  Anderson shook the thought aside, studying once more the intriguing challenge of the cardboard box. A year ago, Anderson would have treated the package with exaggerated respect, fearing that the contents were more likely to be a bomb than a box of chocolates. Sadly, the latter option seemed unlikely: the parcel might be about the right size, but the weight was all wrong, it heavy enough to be back to the parcel-bomb alternative.

  Even though he knew certain people might well feel aggrieved he was still in one piece, Anderson threw caution to the wind and slipped the cardboard flap aside, flipping the package open.

  Inside were an A4 envelope and a hardback book. But not just any book, one all-too familiar to Anderson, the garish dust jacket instantly recognised: Red Terror, Truth and Fiction by Charles Zhilin…

  Anderson stared at it in part confusion part anger, his body automatically tensing as though the book represented some kind of physical threat. Definitely not from Charlotte then – she hated the book almost as much as he did. Red Terror: the title was as exciting as it got, the actual content a long-winded and uninspiring review of Soviet-sponsored terrorism. The sender doubtless realised its significance to Anderson, and he or she was clearly keen to get his attention.

  “It appeared yesterday,” said an amused female voice behind Anderson. “Sitting on the table as if by magic; doors and windows all secure.”

  Anderson swiftly pivoted around, almost falling over, his brain struggling to cope with too many surprises. “Bugger it, Charlie; you scared the shit out of me.”

  Charlotte stood in the lounge doorway, sandwich in hand, Anderson confused by the sight of her in T-shirt and jeans rather than the expected smart suit. Although not a market day, Friday was one of Boston’s busiest, and Charlotte should have been snowed under with the pre-weekend rush of house buyers, not idling around scoffing his limited food supply.

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t resist and sneaked a peak,” Charlotte explained. “Wished I hadn’t now. I wasn’t really hiding, but I just wanted to see the look on your face when you opened it, just in case medical assistance was required. Thanks for being less than an hour late – such excellent time-keeping is to be commended.”

  Anderson ignored the sarcasm; his arrival home was suddenly turning rather surreal, his memories of the book interlaced with narrow dimly-lit corridors and bloodied bodies during Russia’s internal struggle for power. Someone obviously wanted to send a message and had used a most effective method, one specifically targeted to Anderson, which in itself offered a good clue as to the book’s sender.

  “Shouldn’t you be hard at work,” he said, trying to give himself time to think. “Or has everyone in Boston suddenly decided they quite like where they live?”

  “Switched my afternoon off.” Charlotte gestured with her sandwich at the package, “Not sure what’s in the envelope, I didn’t dare look – one heart-wrenching shock per day is all I can cope with. Having had a whole day to think about this, I’m betting it’s from one of your Russian friends.”

  It was said with the hint of a smile and Anderson chose not to rise to the bait. He had always been deliberately evasive about what had actually happened in Moscow and Charlotte knew better than to try and drag it out of him. Anderson had maintained an interest in Grebeshkov but that was more or less it, certainly no clandestine emails back and forth to the Lubyanka; if anything was a shock, it was that Grebeshkov’s luck had finally run out, Anderson aware of at least two previous attempts to kill him.

  Charlotte’s tone was suddenly more serious, “Russian TV is reporting that three more senior officers from the FSB have been arrested; supposedly corruption rather that anything to do with Grebeshkov. That makes at least four this week… If someone wanted to send you something important, then maybe this was the only safe option, the book a way of confirming it’s genuine.”

  Anderson nodded his agreement, fairly certain in his own mind as to the identity of the parcel’s sender. Markova was just one of a select few who woul
d appreciate the book’s relevance to Anderson, but such an odd calling card still seemed an unnecessarily cryptic way to prove the package’s authenticity.

  Charlotte pulled up a chair, remaining silent as Anderson pondered his next move. In contrary mood, he opted for the basic essentials of food and caffeine, needing to clear his head after the shock of seeing the book. The look of thoughtful anticipation on Charlotte’s face was another incentive to wait awhile. Worryingly, he also sensed a certain nervousness, confirmation that she too thought it might not be good news, with Anderson chasing some news story a thousand miles from anywhere. The official line from Moscow was that August 14 was a spent force but there was still the danger that the terrorists would resurface with a new leader and a new campaign, reigniting the possibility of conflict between Russia and its NATO neighbours. Of course, it was always possible that the parcel had absolutely nothing to do with August 14, or even that it really was from Santa Claus.

  It was another half-hour before Anderson’s attention moved back to the package, Charlotte moving her chair round to sit beside him.

  The book itself seemed pristine, if perhaps not quite brand new. Despite the cold shiver of déjà vu running down his spine, Anderson quickly flicked through its many pages – nothing obviously added, nothing hidden inside. So far, so good, and unless Charlotte objected strongly, the book would quickly be finding its way into the kitchen bin.

  With studied indifference, Anderson extracted the single A4 envelope and placed it carefully onto the kitchen table. A quick side glance at Charlotte and a mental drum-roll; then he let the contents slide out onto the table.

  It all seemed a bit of a let-down, just several colour photographs, roughly A4 in size, clipped together. On top was the head shot of a woman, with ‘Hanson’ written in black pen across the bottom. Early-thirties, blonde hair, ice-blue eyes; the sort of woman any man would always look at twice. The image quality was relatively poor, as though taken with a cheap phone or from long distance and then blown up. The woman was leaving what looked to be a bar or restaurant; no clue as to its name or where it might be.

  Without comment, Anderson passed the first sheet across to Charlotte. The second photo was of the same woman and a similar background, just from a different angle. The third image was almost the exact same shot but from further back, and now with an older man in the frame. Despite the fuzzy nature of the photo, Anderson instantly knew who he was, and he could never forget – or forgive – the beating McDowell had dished out while two of his men held Anderson upright. The American could be charming and amiable, but underneath he was a complete and unadulterated bastard.

  Charlotte recognised McDowell virtually at the same instant, almost ripping the photo from Anderson’s grasp.

  “It seemed too easy to believe he was dead,” she said finally. “At least he’s lost the ponytail.” She had every reason to hate McDowell, if only because he was part of the terror group that had murdered her father.

  There were another three photographs: the first showed McDowell and Hanson sitting opposite each other while having a meal, the other two had just McDowell against a background of grey stone, possibly the side of some large building.

  The final sheet wasn’t in fact a photo, but a handwritten A4 sheet. Whilst legible, it looked to have been written at speed, with a nominal attempt at punctuation.

  12 October Germany – Hanson and McDowell meet for dinner, reason unknown. Hanson midway through two day symposium at Wilhelmshaven Naval Base with 1 thru 5.

  Paige Hanson Naval Intelligence Washington DC

  Patrick McDowell present location unknown

  1 – David Brandt Thales Wilhelmshaven

  2 – Walter Drummond John Hopkins University Baltimore

  3 – Judith Gastrell BAE Systems Barrow-in-Furness

  4 – Lukas Kramer Atlas Elektronik Bremen

  5 – Adrien Mercier Thales Underwater Systems Valbonne

  Following transcript hints at new terror offensive – London? No indication British Intelligence aware of threat.

  Wed 12-Oct 21:24:40 +02:00

  Hanson – …told to emphasise the importance of ensuring we all stick rigidly to the agreed schedule. London must be seen as the start of an unbreakable commitment; there can be no second thoughts and no unfortunate delays. One piece out of place and everything is likely to fall apart.

  McDowell – There’s no reason to worry. Everyone, especially Marcelo, is well aware the attacks need to be properly co-ordinated and we’re all set for the 27th. So far the only complication is this symposium.

  Hanson – The timing was unfortunate but any …(inaudible)… may not be that crucial. As long as…

  Transcript ends

  “Well that’s very helpful,” Charlotte said, heavy on the sarcasm. “It’s not even signed. Presumably, the sender wants you to pass everything on to the police.”

  “SO15,” Anderson confirmed. “Although I’m not sure why I’m the one having to tell them the bad news.” SO15 was the Metropolitan Police’s anti-terrorist unit, also known as Counter Terrorism Command. With over 1500 staff and access to the combined assets of MI5 and MI6, SO15 was Britain’s main line of defence against any potential terrorist attack. He read the note again, more slowly, trying to digest precisely what it was saying. The comment about British Intelligence clearly seemed to put the onus on Anderson to do something constructive, but he couldn’t understand why Markova hadn’t just gone straight to MI6. And when writing under obvious pressure was her English really that good?

  “So is it definitely from the FSB?” Charlotte’s tone was almost accusing, as though Anderson receiving such a package was tantamount to treason.

  “I guess so; probably from one of Grebeshkov’s associates, name of Markova.”

  Charlotte’s eyes narrowed, “Markova – she’s a woman?”

  “Very attractive and very scary – a bit like you. I think her name is Natalia or Natasha but using her first name never quite seems appropriate; so let’s just think of her as Markova.”

  “There’s a compliment in there somewhere,” replied Charlotte, not taking offence. “There’s obviously a power struggle inside the FSB and I imagine they’re not that keen on sharing secrets, especially with the West. Markova could have chosen to ignore protocol and do the right thing. Or perhaps she’s hoping you might persuade SO15 it’s not some sort of hoax?”

  Anderson pursed his lips, just not certain how much use the information would be. “McDowell doesn’t actually say it’s London that’s going to be attacked; it could be anywhere. We don’t even know which month the 27th refers to.”

  “McDowell is trouble,” said Charlotte positively. “And someone seriously needs to ask what McDowell and Hanson are up to, and why these other five; unless it’s more to do with who they work for.”

  Anderson knew little about Atlas Elektronik, but BAE and Thales were involved in just about all of Britain’s defence contracts. A terrorist connection just couldn’t be good news, but the journalist in him was loath to involve SO15 unless he had to; after all, it wasn’t every day that he was presented with such privileged information.

  “August 14 almost split Russia apart,” Charlotte continued, determined to have her say. “Perhaps McDowell wants to try and do one better with the UK?”

  “That doesn’t seem likely,” Anderson said dismissively, instantly regretting his tone.

  Charlotte shrugged, “Just a thought. Markova certainly seems to believe McDowell needs stopping.”

  Anderson stared down at McDowell’s photograph, still in two minds as to how to respond. Going to the media was probably a non-starter as the authorities would definitely slap a DA-Notice on any news story, citing concerns as to National Security. Contacting SO15 would also likely be a nightmare, with them asking a million questions he couldn’t answer. And he could hardly guarantee the information was genuine; he didn’t even know who had delivered it.

  The silence stretched out to become almost embarrassing
.

  “Surely,” Charlotte encouraged, “we can’t just sit back and wait until McDowell sends a clearer message of intent.”

  “Some might argue it’s safer to move on and forget McDowell,” Anderson said quietly, merely playing devil’s advocate.

  Charlotte’s response was instant, “The 27th is just six days away. Whether it’s London or not, someone is going to be attacked, and more than once...”

  Anderson half nodded to himself, knowing it was a problem he couldn’t just ignore – the potential consequences of simply doing nothing were unthinkable. Yet he was starting to worry that it was all some sort of FSB scam with him as the naïve victim. That was pretty much the norm for Anderson, with early expectations of glory invariably dashed by a subsequent dose of reality. An innate stubbornness ensured he tried anyway, and he was more a ‘glass half full but might soon be empty’ personality, always trying to look on the positive side while knowing it wouldn’t last.

  Decision made, Anderson’s first task was to coerce Charlotte into going home, not seeing the need for both of them to be grilled by SO15. McDowell’s reach had once extended into the local police, perhaps even MI5, and as a form of insurance Anderson emailed a handful of key contacts, before finally contacting the anti-terrorist hotline.

  Anderson’s past history ensured he was treated with a semblance of respect. He stuck rigidly to the truth – he neither knew the origin of the data nor its delivery method, although he assumed it was from someone associated with Russia’s Security Services.

  An uncomfortable few hours followed, Anderson unsure quite what to expect, the landline and mobile unusually silent, his email inbox empty.

  With nothing better to do, he reordered his earlier plans: coffee, shower, unpack, dinner. The final component had sadly been reduced to just dinner for one, contact with Charlotte off limits until SO15 had done their worst.

  Even as Anderson finished his meal, the phone finally demanded his attention. It was SO15 once more, a different more authoritative voice, Anderson told to expect visitors the next morning.

  It perhaps had been too much to expect to get away with one phone call and nothing more, but Anderson was still disappointed. Spending a morning, maybe even longer, being harangued by the police was not something he was looking forward to – to his mind, it fell somewhere between a root filling and a colonoscopy.