Anderson sat in his small room at the Farriers, flicking through the TV news channels for the very latest on events in Russia. Domodedovo was still making the headlines, the total of confirmed dead fast approaching six hundred. The missile attack had re-ignited the Russian public’s concern that far too little was being done to stop the terrorists, and Wednesday morning had seen Moscow’s police having to contend with several large demonstrations, the biggest targeting the Government building known as the Russian White House – due purely to its colour and not because it had anything to do with Russia’s President, so the BBC somewhat patronisingly explained.
With still an hour to waste before his 11 a.m. appointment at Erdenheim, Anderson chose to give Red Terror one last go – he could then return it to Jessica with a clear conscience. Dinner with Charlotte had been less than he had hoped for, although the gentle smile and single chaste kiss as they had said goodbye had offered the promise of something more. Sadly, the assignment in Bristol would soon be the priority, Anderson just not sure whether to delay his pursuit of McDowell or simply abandon it altogether. Although he wasn’t convinced the Commander’s heart problems were entirely relevant, it was one more complication to what was already a convoluted tale and it was simply Anderson’s contrary nature that made him persevere with the frustration of Charles Zhilin’s long-winded book.
He ignored the main body, scouring through the two pages of acknowledgements, then the notes and index, hoping that something might stir some deep-seated memory. Twenty minutes of searching was enough to prove he was still wasting his time, Red Terror’s secret as elusive as ever. Name, photo, event, date – the key element could have easily been staring up at Anderson and he wouldn’t even know.