Rebane glanced at McDowell as though wanting his opinion, unsure whether he was missing something.
“Play it back from the beginning,” McDowell said, eyes watching Anderson.
A nervous Anderson sat and listened to the recording, thankful now he hadn’t thrown in The Aviator or the more blatant Citizen Kane as a suggestion – between them, Rebane and McDowell were smart enough to work out he was telling Charlotte to go to the papers. But were they smart enough to work out Charlotte’s use of The Departed? Despite being pre-warned by Charlotte’s text referring to herself as Lottie, even Anderson had momentarily been confused. The Last of the Mohicans would help to muddy the waters, and it was amazing how quickly his brain had seized up when trying to think of some clever film title that would guide Charlotte as to what to do next.
The recording ended and Rebane sat studying Anderson thoughtfully. “The Last of the Mohicans – why that film?” he asked quietly.
“It’s a good film; Charlotte wanted a title and that’s all I could think of on the spur of the moment.”
Rebane gave a nod of understanding, “I appreciate your co-operation, Mr Anderson, long may it continue.”
“It’s still not necessary to involve Charlotte,” Anderson said, “She knows nothing that could threaten August 14.” Despite Rebane implying she would be safe in Poland, Anderson was unconvinced by anything Rebane said. He was assuming Charlotte wasn’t being serious about Warsaw but he couldn’t be certain, and he was terrified any plane journey would turn out to be a one-way trip.
“She’s already involved up to her pretty neck.” Rebane responded sharply. “And there’s too much at stake to risk simply ignoring her.” He gestured crossly at McDowell, “Take him back, Pat; Mr Anderson is beginning to test my patience.”
McDowell escorted Anderson back to his room in the accommodation block. The rear-facing room was rather lacking in its dual role as a cell, despite the locked door and window; hence the addition of a camera high up in one corner and the handcuffing of Anderson to a metal fitment on the wall. The bed had been moved so Anderson could lie down with some degree of comfort, but his right wrist was already scraped and bruised. He had worked out several possible ways to wrench the handcuff free, but the vigilant eye of the camera was an appropriate deterrent – that and the warning from McDowell. It wasn’t the words themselves that worried Anderson, or even the tone in which they were said; it was the way McDowell smiled – like a snake marking out its next victim.
Events were starting to have a horrible inevitability, and despite Rebane’s promises Anderson assumed the latest plan was for him to suffer some accident, possibly in Poland. Until then, Anderson had a TV to watch and butler service for food, drinks and toilet break. The hours invariably dragged by, self-reproach as to his many misjudgements a constant companion; Rebane’s confirmation that George Saunders had indeed been murdered was still a shock, Anderson’s instincts proving to be far superior to his common sense.
He couldn’t be sure how much Charlotte knew, or had been able to guess, but Rebane seemed very wary of leaving Charlotte to her own devices, and her film references showed she was obviously up to something. Anderson just hoped she didn’t try anything too outrageous and she was sensible enough to pick Devereau as her first point of contact.
Rebane had done a good job of convincing Anderson as to August 14’s reach, but with Anderson now having had plenty of time to brood and mope, Rebane’s comment about Devereau being warned off simply didn’t ring true. Devereau wasn’t the type to appreciate being ordered around and it was just one example of where Rebane might simply be exaggerating for effect. If not, then things could hardly get any worse.