The Will Of The People

  Chapter 17 – Sunday, May 23rd

  The Princess Eloise

  Anderson wandered his way blindly to the bathroom, turning on the bathroom light then squeezing through the half-open door so as to not waken Charlotte. It was a toss-up between ibuprofen for his ribs and aspirin for his eyes, or maybe even both. The bruises were still fairly spectacular but starting to fade, and he opted just for the aspirin. The vision problems had resurfaced the previous day, although a little different to before, his eyes seeming to have a life of their own and wanting to look anywhere but straight ahead. Anderson assumed it was stress-related, maybe even some weird migraine, and aspirin seemed to be the sensible choice, thinning the blood prior to the next stage of a stroke or heart attack.

  Strangely Anderson didn’t feel particularly stressed, and under different circumstances it would have been a fairly relaxing break. Captain Koval had been true to his word and their regular visits to the bridge helped split up the day; then there was the TV and a large library of DVDs. Charlotte had asked on the Friday for something to read and to her surprise an ageing Kindle had duly arrived – no network connection but with over five hundred books already stored on it. Twenty minutes later, half-a-dozen board games had been thrust into Anderson’s arms. Charlotte’s competitive streak had immediately surfaced, the Kindle thrown aside as she challenged Anderson first to Scrabble, then Monopoly. Anderson had been in his element, ignoring the quiet voice urging him to tread carefully, and despite the random influence of letters and dice, he had convincingly won both games. To her credit, Charlotte had taken defeat gracefully, only glaring at Anderson in angry silence for rather less than the anticipated half-hour.

  Despite such distractions, every waking moment was invariably clouded by the fear of what lay ahead, and Anderson’s relationship with Charlotte wasn’t quite as it had been. Intimacy was more gentle than passionate, and there seemed to be a barrier between them, made up of unspoken feelings of guilt mixed in with a good helping of regret. Even though it was far was too late for such thoughts, Anderson simply couldn’t ignore his own arrogance in assuming the danger was imagined or exaggerated, and he was determined to do what he could to make amends. Unfortunately, there seemed little chance of that: Koval was deaf to inducements, and whenever they left their cabin, an armed and uncommunicative escort kept a vigilant eye on their every move. Their escort was always the same man, Charlotte nicknaming him Lurch, even though the comparison to the Munster’s butler was minimal – five foot six and of broad build, his gloomy demeanour was always a depressing start to each new day.

  Koval had refused to talk about what would happen to them once they reached Poland, but however Anderson viewed the various possibilities, none seemed particularly healthy. Charlotte and he knew too much, and their Baltic cruise was merely delaying the inevitable. Anderson was prepared to do whatever it took to regain their freedom, he was just hoping for the right opportunity, something that would give them at least a fifty-fifty chance. Charlotte worked out some new escape plan every few hours, before then explaining to Anderson in great detail why they were all far too risky. If she had hoped he would dismiss her concerns, or suggest brilliant improvements, then she had been sadly mistaken, Anderson well aware that the Princess Eloise was proving to be a particularly effective prison.

  Anderson stepped back into the main cabin, feeling his way in the dark to his bed, the green LED of the smoke detector his only guide. His watch showed it was just after four, and it would be another four hours or so before their standard wake-up call of a double rap on the cabin door, Lurch typically returning within the half-hour with two well-stocked breakfast trays.

  Anderson lay on the bed, brain too busy with a torrent of thoughts to allow him to sleep. The opportunity to escape was always likely to be elusive, but the promise of a solid surface under their feet seemed to offer far more chance of success than the cold watery expanse of the Baltic. Despite the unknowns, Anderson was convinced it was better to wait until they had embarked from the Eloise – wherever that might actually be.

  The TV news was a depressing reminder of August 14, Gdansk now an unlikely destination. The attack on the USS John Finn had attracted worldwide condemnation and Russia’s new Government could have simply chosen to admit nothing, but instead they had mounted a robust defence of their actions, blaming the West for ignoring the well-defined exclusion zone and foolishly risking the lives of their own personnel. In response, NATO had argued and denounced, its Secretary General warning Russia for what seemed the hundredth time. No other vessels had attempted to run the blockade, with most merchant ships choosing to divert to ports in or near Germany. The theory that August 14 was American by birth also appeared to be gathering public acceptance, the CIA perhaps once again overstepping the boundary between inspiration and misjudgement. The official line from the White House was to ridicule such rumours, but it wouldn’t be the first time a U.S. President had lied to the World – and not even the American people trusted the CIA.

  Anderson’s musings were distracted by a sudden change in the background noise, something unusual adding to the constant deep throb from the engine – first a series of heavy thuds, followed soon after by the clatter of footsteps reverberating along the deck. He listened intently, and within seconds there were several dull pops. He tried to interpret them as something other than gunshots, but failed. Playing safe, Anderson turned and flicked on the bedside light, shaking Charlotte awake.

  “Something’s happening,” he said urgently. “Best get dressed, just in case.”

  Charlotte looked as though she wanted to argue, then she gave a nod of confirmation, flinging the duvet aside. Anderson grabbed some clothes and forced himself into them. From outside the cabin there were raised voices, the actual words indistinct, then a loud crash as something heavy smashed down on the cabin lock. A brief moment later the door was thrown open.

  A black-suited figure stepped warily across the threshold, night-vision goggles sat awkwardly atop his head, submachine gun moving quickly from Anderson across to Charlotte, then back again.

  Anderson stood with arms half raised, unsure as to whether they were about to be rescued or murdered. The gunman spoke rapidly in Russian, then awaited a response, his gun still aimed at Anderson’s midriff.

  Eventually it was Anderson who offered the standard if rather feeble reply. “British, we’re British...”