The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) by Christopher Read Page B

tried
to match Jessica’s smile, but he needed first to apologise. “I got
carried away with the idea that your husband’s death might not be
an accident. I’m sorry; it was just a foolish notion.”
    Jessica’s
reaction was to give Anderson an even wider smile and he feared she
was actually going to hug him.
    “Thank you,
Michael,” Jessica said warmly, “for such a gracious apology. I
assure you, such concerns are totally unnecessary. I actively
encouraged you and we must both share any fault. I still believe
there’s some mystery here and these books are not something George
would normally buy: he’s much more Bernard Cornwell than Tom
Clancy. With non-fiction, it’s virtually all antiques and naval
history. I can’t imagine there’s even a single book on terrorists
or terrorism.”
    She paused, as
though making up her mind about something. “I always find a strong
coffee and a good lunch helps focus one’s thoughts; let’s see if we
can solve this conundrum together.”
    He’d been
through the front door barely a minute and Jessica was already
taking charge, Anderson not yet off the hook. There seemed little
harm in giving it one more go, past assumptions put aside at least
for the moment.
    Anderson still
wanted to check the ground-rules. “If there’s no ulterior motive
for the Commander to order Zhilin’s books, then we’re simply
wasting our time with a lot of pointless conjecture. Are you sure
you want to do that?”
    Jessica’s
response was immediate, “Most definitely, Michael; we’ve gone this
far, and I’m looking forward to a bit more outrageous speculation.
Don’t worry, I promise not to be shocked or upset by any of your
more outlandish ideas.”
    “Sadly,”
Anderson said, “ideas are a bit lacking at the moment, outlandish
or otherwise.”
    “In which
case, do we need to bite the bullet and read all three books? It’s
only one each if I volunteer Charlotte.”
    Anderson’s pained look was enough to veto such an idea. The
events described in Red Terror were decades old, the youngest of those involved
well into their seventies; the other two books covered more recent
times but that merely opened up scores of lines of inquiry. Somehow
there had to be a simpler way.
    It became a
working lunch, Anderson wasting five minutes in a search for other
editions of Zhilin’s books but there was only ever the one, not
even a paperback or eBook alternative – an indication as to
Zhilin’s rather limited appeal. The ridiculous was discussed along
with the feasible, the Russian links argued over, nothing ignored,
but it was again proving a fruitless exercise in conjecture, there
too many unknowns to come close to something that made reasonable
sense.
    Eventually the
tone from Anderson’s phone provided an essential distraction,
Devereau the caller. “Mike, where are you exactly?” he asked,
sounding impatient.
    Anderson lied,
“About halfway to Bristol; just stopped for something to eat.
Shouldn’t you be getting on a plane or something?”
    Devereau
ignored the question, “Did you finish pursuing whatever it was you
were after?”
    “Yes and no;
could be something but it’s proving difficult to get anywhere.”
    “And it has to
do with George Saunders? How he died?”
    Anderson might
not have mentioned his inquiry was related to Saunders but Devereau
had no problem reading between the lines. “There are certain
aspects that needed following up.” He didn’t want to get into
specifics, not without something concrete.
    “Forget
Bristol,” said Devereau. “I’ll deal with it. Get yourself back to
Marshwick. You seem to have upset someone with influence and
they’re rather keen to find out more about you. Fortunately, I too
have friends in high places, but no-one’s telling me who’s asking
questions or why. Upsetting important people is always a good sign,
so you must be doing something right. Phone me tonight with an
update…”
    Things were
looking up thought Anderson