The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (26 page)

The TV picture
reverted to the newsroom, the anchorwoman explaining the scenes
were from an hour earlier, prompting renewed fears the military
might be brought in to stabilise Moscow and prevent further
disruption; although quite how the army would defend Moscow against
cyber-attacks, or even wildcat strikes, was left unanswered. The TV
picture flipped back to a live image of the embassy. Now the camera
position was from higher up and further back: somehow the police
had managed to re-establish their cordon around the embassy walls,
but the street was still filled with an angry and vociferous crowd.
In the background, bright against the early evening light, flames
danced upwards from the embassy entrance, smoke billowing out to
obscure most of the upper floor. Heard above the noise of the
protestors was the occasional rattle of gunfire, although
Grebeshkov could see no evidence that any of the crowd near the
embassy were armed.

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.

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.

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 storeroom 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.