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

  Such matters would normally pass the USS John Finn quietly by, but August 14 had poured salt into a dozen open wounds, pushing an angry Russia ever closer towards confrontation with Eastern Europe. On both sides, decades of suspicion and mistrust made compromise increasingly unlikely.

  Moscow

  Nabiyev’s luxury apartment was a twenty minute drive from the Lubyanka, the exclusive suburbs to the north-west of the city offering a relaxed and protected environment for its wealthy residents. As always, Nabiyev ignored the convenience of the lift, taking the main stairs two at-a-time and refusing to give in to the protests from his aching muscles. It was his earliest return home for over a week, and he was looking forward to an early night, preferably with the TV replaced by the low-tech option of a good book. For once, both August 14 and the FSB could take a back seat to the more basic needs of rest and recuperation.

  The entrance hallway was in semi-darkness, the small lamp beside the front door casting its gentle glow past the open sitting-room door into the space beyond. Nabiyev gave a long sigh of contentment and strode into the living room, hand automatically reaching for the light switch; even as the light chased the shadows away, he belatedly noticed the two seated figures waiting silently. Confusion and lack of sleep slowed his reactions and Nabiyev simply froze, brain struggling to work out what to do next.

  Almost as one the two figures stood up, the shorter taking a step forward. Nabiyev recognised first the uniform and then its owner: there was no mistaking Grebeshkov’s favoured henchwoman, and he had seen her face on a dozen reports, almost invariably with a positive comment or recommendation. Curiously, he felt no fear, the constant threat of discovery draining him of even the most elementary of emotions.

  “Captain Markova,” Nabiyev said coldly. “This is an unexpected surprise; I wasn’t aware you had an open invitation to make yourself at home.” He heard footsteps behind him, and Nabiyev stood unresisting as strong hands patted him down for a weapon. “You’d better have good cause, Captain; this is a serious mistake.” Nabiyev kept his body rigid, unblinking eyes watching a half-smile slowly spread across Markova’s face.

  “I’m sorry, Colonel, but I must ask that you accompany us back to the Lubyanka.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “If that should be necessary, Sir.” Markova gave a curt nod, and the man behind Nabiyev grasped his left arm, twisting him around and guiding him back towards the front door.

  There was little doubt in Nabiyev’s mind that it was likely to be a one-way journey. He wondered whether to bluff it out in the hope Grebeshkov was just guessing, but it was too much of a risk. He was marched along the corridor, the other two following close behind. Ahead and to the left were the double doors of the two central lifts; to the right the wide stairs down to the building’s front entrance. His thoughts raced ahead, Nabiyev following through in his mind the next few seconds, desperately searching for the right opportunity to make his escape.

  A metre from the stairs, Nabiyev suddenly twisted his left heel to stamp viciously down on his escort’s ankle. As the man stumbled, Nabiyev wrested his arm free, charging down the stairway, then with reckless abandon he vaulted over the stair-rail and down onto the flight below. It was a fall of several metres, and he felt bones in his right foot crack as he landed off-balance close to the second-floor landing.

  A bullet shattering the wooden rail close to his hand hurried him down the final flight. Nabiyev’s every action was now based purely on instinct, but the futility of his response was already taking its toll, his despair neutralising the effect of the adrenalin.

  An elderly couple hovered nervously beside the building’s front entrance, bewildered eyes following Nabiyev as he elbowed his way past. A second bullet drew a strangled cry from the woman’s lips, a crimson line lancing down her arm from shoulder to elbow. Nabiyev wrenched open the entrance door, stumbling his way out into the open. Heel first, he staggered down the front steps, his broken foot twisting away from the pain. Abruptly Nabiyev lurched to the left, pressing his body tight against the grey blocks of the building’s front wall. As the first of Markova’s men raced down the steps, Nabiyev reached across, both hands grabbing the man’s gun arm and yanking him round. A vicious downward jerk and the arm snapped at the elbow, the man falling forwards, his shriek of agony cut short as Nabiyev’s knee caught him full in the face. The man’s gun clattered to the ground; off-balance, Nabiyev flung himself towards it.

  A single shot rang out and Nabiyev felt a crushing weight smash him to the ground. His next breath was a tortured wheeze, the blood bubbling at his lips. As darkness overwhelmed him, Nabiyev’s final thought was one of relief, satisfied he had done what was right, done what he could for the future well-being of Tatarstan.

  Chapter 10 – Sunday, May 16th

  Moscow

  A ten-metre wide map of the Baltic shone out from the north wall of the Command Centre, lights and numbers flickering brightly in a variegated display, with each coloured icon representing a multi-million rouble investment in both men and materiel. Every aspect of the Baltic Fleet’s deployment – surface fleet, submarines, ground and coastal forces, naval aviation – was instantly accessible, including data on less vital aspects such as repairs, resupply, and reserves, the pattern most complex in the south near to the coast of Kaliningrad. Most of the remainder of the Command Centre was taken up with banks of consoles; they in turn were looked down upon by a circular gallery, itself leading to adjacent conference and briefing-rooms. Control of the Baltic Fleet was actually under the command of Kaliningrad, with the Command Centre in Moscow merely reproducing the data from Fleet Headquarters.

  Grebeshkov stared down through the wide window of the main briefing-room and studiously watched the interplay as various senior officers conversed with their opposite numbers in Kaliningrad. A quiet word from an Admiral and every major difficulty could be predicted, analysed and countered, almost as though routine. If only Grebeshkov’s problems could so easily be solved – yet his hoped-for miracle was starting to take shape.

  First, the traitor Nabiyev, his betrayal revealing Grebeshkov’s arrogance in declaring the FSB totally blame-free; surprisingly, Irina Golubeva had been gracious enough not to gloat, keen to encourage the lie that Nabiyev be lauded as a Russian hero, his death more conveniently laid at the door of August 14. Other than six iPhones, the search of Nabiyev’s apartment had found little of interest, the satellite data from his Mercedes roadster a guide as to certain of his movements. Second, a painstaking trawl of rented accommodation had finally had its reward. In a pre-dawn raid on a house in St. Petersburg, the cell responsible for the bombs at the Mariinsky Palace and aboard the MS Konstantin Balmont had been captured intact, the three terrorists presently being interrogated deep within the Lubyanka.

  The remaining members of August 14 were wise enough to maintain a low profile, the Polish-trained cells having had months to fit in and find a secure refuge. Unless they chose to reveal themselves somehow, it would take time to whittle away at such foundations. It was also galling that three of the terrorists responsible for the initial devastating attack on the Moscow Metro were still at large. Eglitis and his two associates had managed to evade the massive media campaign and police hunt for more than twelve weeks now, and that couldn’t be entirely down to Nabiyev.

  Grebeshkov turned away from the window, and retook his seat at the conference table between Irina Golubeva and a grey-faced Admiral. Golubeva was deep in conversation with a Colonel from the Ministry of Defence, apparently making the most of the fifteen minute break to press home the President’s point of view, and determined to show the tougher side of Russia’s political system. The Prime Minister now clearly knew the penalty for failure, news reports confirming he had suffered a massive heart attack, his present condition said to be critical. Grebeshkov was confident that there was an element of truth in there somewhere, his sympathy more with the PM’s family, than the man himself.

  A long sigh of frustration,
then he reached forward to gulp down his second vodka of the morning. Abruptly he pulled back, annoyed with himself for his lack of resolve. For some obscure reason the alcohol took on a more important role, representative of his future success or failure. Grebeshkov made a simple resolution, just between himself and his conscience: no more vodka – at least until August 14 was no more.

  From Moscow Command Centre to a four-hour stint at his Lubyanka office, then on to an afternoon meeting of the National Advisory Committee – Grebeshkov was still the first to arrive, waiting impatiently whilst the others took their seats. The President quickly moved on to the single item on the agenda.

  “Despite the FSB’s valiant efforts and three more terrorists removed from Moscow’s streets, the threat from August 14 remains significant. General, I understand you are ready with an update on the Polish link.”

  Grebeshkov had pooled reports from various agencies, again hardly needing to refer to any notes, “Today’s arrests could be a crucial breakthrough and we are working hard to get reliable data without compromising such important assets.” Or, in plain language, the interrogators were discovering as much as they could, as quickly as they dared, without first killing the three terrorists.

  “It would appear,” Grebeshkov continued, “that fears of a second batch of terrorists arriving in the spring from Lithuania were definitely misplaced. Consequently, August 14 can only maintain its present momentum by utilising one of the hidden cells or bringing in assets direct from Poland. Eglitis might even feel the need to act in person, a form of retaliation for August 14’s recent losses. We can use deductive profiling to try and predict potential targets – government offices and officials are at high risk, and are being protected accordingly. Eglitis is under pressure and in poor health, and wherever he’s hiding in Moscow there’s a potential vigilante on every street corner. This could well be our best chance to finish the Lithuanian component of August 14 for good.”

  “But not the Polish one,” the President said with a thin smile. “Thank you, General. Unfortunately, the situation with regards to Poland has not altered. There are still some twenty terrorists in Gdansk simply biding their time, waiting while someone works out how and when to smuggle them into Russia. And we won’t be able to stop them all. We cannot allow August 14 to go into hibernation or simply transfer elsewhere. Pressure on the Polish authorities, and subsequently the terrorists, will only begin once we cause some serious pain. Accordingly, the naval blockade and other sanctions will be enforced early tomorrow...”

  Marshwick, England

  Anderson got up late and had a lazy brunch, his Saturday outing with Charlotte going as well as he could ever have hoped. The weather had done its worst, a near gale-force wind and driving rain restricting their options, Charlotte finally settling on Tattershall Castle and Woodhall Spa; both Charlotte and Anderson had deliberately steered the conversation well away from difficult topics, and as a result it had been a relaxing and pleasant day out, their mutual love of films quickly turning competitive. Finally, it had been back to Charlotte’s Boston home, and wine, dinner, and bed – although not exactly in that order.

  Yet throughout that rain-drenched day, Lincolnshire’s roads always seemed to have a smart-looking silver Audi somewhere close at hand, Anderson just not sure whether it was entirely down to his imagination working overtime. Having accepted that the Commander’s death was an accident, he had become rather more blasé as to any potential risks; yet late at night, on his own and miles from anywhere, it had been difficult not to feel apprehensive.

  In the light of day such fears had seemed exaggerated, Anderson irritated by his own willingness to put an enigmatic spin on every situation, however innocent. Erdenheim’s multiple American links weren’t by themselves suspicious and the terrorism theme started by the Commander could easily be nothing more than coincidence. And what if Erdenheim had well-connected friends who didn’t appreciate Anderson poking around – was that really good reason to assume something underhand?

  Determined to make amends for his earlier ill-considered accusations, Anderson’s Sunday schedule began with a visit to the tall sycamore on the Graythorp road. The article on Darren Westrope might have started out as a convenient pretext but Anderson’s conscience wouldn’t allow him to now ignore it, those who had known and loved Darren deserving something better than an outright lie.

  Anderson parked a few yards beyond the circle of floral tributes, spending a self-conscious twenty minutes taking a series of photographs. Part of him was curious to see whether a silver Audi would make an appearance but the single vehicle that drove past was both the wrong colour and make, the elderly female driver even giving Anderson a sad wave of support.

  By the time he returned to the cottage, Anderson’s thoughts were back to the problem of Erdenheim. He sat at the kitchen table, freshly-made coffee in hand, gaze drawn inexorably towards Zhilin’s book, refusing to be beaten by a simple union of paper and ink. Charlotte had had no luck pinning down the American Marty’s surname and Anderson idly tried a new internet search on Charles Zhilin, adding in ‘Martin’ in the vain hope of finding something relevant.

  The top results seemed to offer up a solution too simple and easy to be correct, the links encouraging Anderson to look again at the book’s list of acknowledgements. Three days ago the very first sentence had meant no more to Anderson than any other; now, thanks to Charlotte’s persistence and Ray Fletcher’s devious memory, it jumped out at him, offering an unexpected twist to the Erdenheim puzzle.

  ‘I am indebted to my good friend and colleague, Martin Rebane, for his continued counsel and advice, his insight as to the causative factors of terrorism proving invaluable, and in many ways this book is as much his as mine.’

  Martin Rebane – Marty of Lamborghini fame?

  Anderson quickly scanned through the rest of the names on the two acknowledgements pages, there no-one else called Martin. It wasn’t much but it was enough for Anderson to search for something more on Rebane, the first eight results linking back to Charles Zhilin and his three books. Which begged the question as to whether the Commander’s phone calls to America might have had more to do with Martin Rebane than Pat McDowell?

  As with Zhilin, the internet was a little lacking in detail on Rebane: Master’s degree in International Relations from Oxford; early career in journalism, including a short stint with The New York Times; then the CIA, seven years as a counter-terrorism analyst and three as a Russian specialist; now a consultant to various government and private agencies. No definite age but Anderson could make a good guess; more annoyingly there was no photograph.

  Anderson was back on conspiracy mode, curious as to whether being a consultant to various private agencies might include Erdenheim. And if so, why the Centre would need the services of a counter-terrorism analyst for significantly longer than a half-day? Did it really matter anyway?

  Devereau seemed keen to encourage Anderson to follow his instincts and basically, future progress came down to how enterprising Anderson was feeling, confrontational tactics perhaps his one chance of getting to the truth. A bit of gall and bluster, that’s all it would take…

  Chapter 11 – Monday, May 17th

  Graythorp, England

  Anderson was baulked at the very first hurdle, Erdenheim’s security gates remaining closed as he approached. Frustrated, he pressed the intercom, worrying he might well have to settle for option two and try to catch Rebane – if it were him – at his Boston home later that day.

  “Hello, can I help?” It was a male voice, English accent, so definitely not McDowell.

  Anderson looked into the baleful eye of the security camera and gave what he hoped was a winning smile. “My name’s Michael Anderson; I was hoping to speak to Pat McDowell about a feature I’ve written on the Management Centre. I visited Erdenheim last Wednesday and I’m sure Pat would want to see the results.”

  “Do you have you an appointment?”

  “I’m afraid not, but I’ll onl
y be a minute.”

  “One moment, please.”

  It was only just past nine o’clock and Anderson now worried that he would simply be told McDowell wasn’t there and to email the feature. The wait turned into a full minute, then abruptly the two gates separated, the way ahead open and inviting. Anderson edged slowly forward, a twinge of doubt starting to creep in as the gates slid shut behind him.

  The car park had its usual mix of vehicles, although fewer in number than previously; one notable addition was a sleek white Lamborghini, the car’s beautiful lines bringing an admiring glance from Anderson. He parked alongside, gathering up the Erdenheim printout before striding confidently up to the main entrance and through the door.

  “Mr Anderson, welcome again.” McDowell was his normal smiling self, directing Anderson into his small office. Anderson duly followed, noting the absence of a receptionist; in fact the whole building seemed somewhat quieter than his last visit.

  “How’s business?” Anderson asked idly. “You seem a little lacking in guests.”

  “Oh, most are on a visit; different group to when you were here last but we’re virtually full.”

  Anderson didn’t question the lie. He sat down opposite McDowell and passed across the printout. “I just wanted to check you were happy with your part of the feature before I pass it along to the Boston Standard; as I said before, you’re welcome to use the photos in any future publicity and I’ll email you the best ones with a copy of the final version.”