The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) Read Free

minutes to the daily commute – then
so be it.
    And by the
beginning of May the terrorist attacks had seemingly stuttered to a
halt, the high-profile police action provoking a renewed sense of
optimism. For Eglitis and his paymasters, however, it was merely a
lull before the crescendo of the next phase.

Chapter 1 – Friday, May 7th
Marshwick, England
    A chill wind
swept in off the North Sea, driving across the flat Lincolnshire
landscape to buffer against the sombre group gathered around the
grave and Anderson hunched his shoulders over even more, trying to
bury his face into the collar of his coat. He had deliberately
detached himself from the other mourners and he could barely hear
the vicar’s words, but it seemed impolite to intrude yet further
upon the grief of family and friends. It wasn’t as if he even knew
the dead man and he was only there because Devereau had needed a
favour, one Anderson would have been hard-pushed to refuse.
    Eighteen
months they had worked together, Adam Devereau doing his best to
ensure Anderson’s transition to enterprise journalism wasn’t a
disaster, Anderson grateful enough to try and make it work.
Persistence seemed to be the key, that and Devereau’s many
contacts, Anderson now with a decent, if unpredictable income.
Commercial pilot to freelance journalist – the adjustment had
proved easier than Anderson had anticipated, the career change one
enforced upon him by the return of blurred vision and the
suspension of his pilot’s licence for the second time. Central
Serous Retinopathy was the medical term, the consultant blaming it
on stress with the threat of permanent eye damage only one of many
unpalatable outcomes.
    As the friend
of a friend, Devereau had helped far more than Anderson had any
right to expect and being asked to attend the funeral of a complete
stranger seemed little enough in return, even if it did entail a
five-hour round-trip. With Devereau still in New York, Anderson was
the preferred substitute, a private word to the widow felt to be
more respectful than the standard of flowers and a card. Not that
Devereau had been particularly forthcoming about the late George
Saunders, Anderson’s curiosity only growing once he’d read some of
the online obituaries, the funeral service adding a more intimate
perspective to the multitude of facts.
    Known
affectionately as ‘the Commander’ to friends and acquaintances, the
church had been full to bursting, and it was the first time
Anderson had experienced a retired Admiral deliver a eulogy.
Lincolnshire born and bred, Saunders had joined the Royal Navy
straight from university, eventually finding his niche in Naval
Intelligence before retiring back to village life and the challenge
of being a parish councillor. A frequent visitor to Spain, he had
been reported as missing by his wife whilst walking alone in the
hills east of Malaga, it two more days before his body had been
found at the base of a deep ravine; with no suspicious
circumstances, it had all the elements of a tragic accident.
Despite the combination of Naval Intelligence and an unusual death,
Saunders had been retired far too long for the national press to
see it as a story worth pursuing. The journalist in Anderson was
tempted but reluctant, curious now as to whether Devereau actually
wanted him to become involved – in which case why hadn’t he just
said as much?
    Anderson
musings were cut short as a distant roll of thunder sounded out its
warning and already there was a cold wet trickle nuzzling its way
down the back of his neck. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease
the ache in his back, and by chance his gaze settled on a tall,
burly figure away to his left. Like Anderson, the man stood apart
from the rest of the mourners: late-thirties; six-foot four; black
hair tied in a ponytail; alert, restless eyes – Anderson had walked
past a score of such men every flight, most in uniform, some not.
Using the Commander’s history with Naval Intelligence