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

  “Mr Rodriguez, steer course zero-one-zero; we’ll give ourselves a bit of space and review our options.” Young was running out of ideas. If he didn’t come up with something soon, there were no guarantees the Polish navy would be quite so accommodating. And it didn’t feel right to be retreating from an enemy just half your size... Perhaps a short break would give him sudden inspiration.

  The gap between the John Finn and the two Russian ships slowly increased, Young watching in frustration as the Russians cruised sedately on, no doubt congratulating each other on a job well done.

  “Bridge, Sonar. Passive contact: bearing two-five-five; range approximately 7000 yards; possible submarine, confidence level high; designate – Sierra-One. Too much interference to confirm class or identity.”

  The atmosphere on the bridge changed instantly from subdued anticipation to one of confusion. A new voice interrupted, “Bridge, Combat. No friendly subs anticipated this grid-area; contact potentially hostile.”

  Young felt new rivulets of sweat run their way down under his collar. If the contact was indeed a submarine then he wasn’t so sure it was hostile, it potentially one of Poland’s ageing diesel-electric boats. The Golovko’s reaction to being sandwiched between a U.S. destroyer and a Polish submarine would be unpredictable, it hardly likely to be one of passive acceptance.

  Young’s fears were quickly realised. “Bridge, Combat,” said an excited voice, “The Russians have gone to Battle Stations; both ships.”

  Young made an instant decision, “I have the Conn. All engines ahead flank! Left full rudder; come to course two-seven-five!”

  The orders were repeated and the engines throbbed as the John Finn surged forward, pulling sharply to port, her new course aiming her directly at the Golovko. By putting the U.S. ship into close contact with the two Russian vessels, Young was hoping the submarine’s captain would think twice before doing anything stupid.

  “Battle Stations, Sir?” the OOD enquired, more calmly than he looked.

  Young shook his head, “We’re trying to help the Golovko, not sink her. If we go to Battle Stations, the Russians might well assume we’re attacking. That’s quite possibly a Polish sub out there and if we’re not careful someone is going to start a shooting war.” Young sounded far more confident about the identity of the submarine than he felt, but if it was Russian, then the Golovko’s reaction made no sense.

  “Bridge, Sonar. Sierra-One: bearing two-six-eight, range 6600 yards, speed six knots; course zero-two-two, target class and identity still unknown.”

  The John Finn accelerated directly towards the Russian frigate, now some four hundred yards away. The Golovko had also speeded up, trying to distance herself from the perceived threat. The Soobrazitelnyy swept round in a sharp turn, accepting the challenge and angling west towards the submarine, trying to protect the Golovko.

  “Combat, Captain. Keep those sub reports coming.” Young should ideally be in the CIC but he felt happier on the Bridge, somehow better able to judge the Golovko’s intentions. And there was always the danger that she could still interpret the John Finn’s actions as an attack. Using the bow-mounted active sonar might give the sub something to think about and perhaps convince the Russians that the John Finn was as confused as they were – or it might just make matters worse, forcing the sub to react.

  “Bridge, Combat. Sierra-One: target lost; there’s too much noise, Sir.”

  Young couldn’t blame anyone; with the increase in speed the sonar team would be hard pressed to hear anything other than the John Finn’s engines – that’s why he should have had a helo scouring the sea with sonobuoys and active sonar. To a casual observer, the John Finn was an impressive sight, the destroyer now at full speed with her wake churning astern, turning slightly to starboard in order to keep her bow aimed at the Golovko. The situation was changing rapidly, both Russian warships obviously fearful of the submarine’s intent.

  The John Finn continued its dash directly at the Golovko, the Russian frigate in turn slowly pulling herself round to starboard towards the American warship. Young gave a smile of satisfaction, thankful the Russian captain had followed his lead; a torpedo attack was just as likely to hit the John Finn as the Golovko and a precarious form of mutual protection was now in place.

  But not for long. Young tried to work through what each of the other captains were thinking: the Golovko was distracted from her prime task, out of position and at present unable to obstruct the John Finn; the Soobrazitelnyy too had other concerns. Assuming the Russian ships weren’t in the mood to fire on the John Finn, then Young’s single worry was the unidentified submarine. And knowingly or not, the sub had already played its part.

  “Left standard rudder,” Young ordered. “Come to course two-seven-zero; maintain full speed.” If the submarine’s sonar operators were doing their job, they would soon be reporting that the John Finn was now past the two Russian ships and heading at speed towards Gdynia. If the submarine was Polish, surely that would be enough to encourage the boat to withdraw. If not – well, that particular scenario still didn’t make any sense.

  The macabre dance continued, the Golovko belatedly sweeping around to try and head off the John Finn. The Soobrazitelnyy seemed confused as to what to do, and then she too swung back towards the destroyer, abandoning her race to counter the submarine.

  Young mentally crossed his fingers: if no-one pressed a button marked ‘Fire’ whether it be in Polish or Russian, then the John Finn was finally about to satisfy her orders. Five more minutes and he might even give a smug smile of self-satisfaction.

  Lincolnshire, England

  “What led Rebane to mention Adam Devereau?” Charlotte asked curiously. “And he didn’t need to tell you Adam used to work for MI6.” She hadn’t anticipated Anderson turning up at the agency with a welcome mid-morning coffee in hand determined to distract her, and she was in two minds as to how to deal with him. “Maybe he was just testing you?”

  Anderson hadn’t seen it that way at the time, but he now wondered whether Charlotte might not be right. He tried to recall the exact words, realising that perhaps the conversation’s sudden lurch onto Devereau was a bit forced.

  “Testing me? On what?”

  “As to whether you’re aware of Adam’s past connection with MI6.” Now totally unable to concentrate on work, Charlotte decided the easiest option was to give Anderson and coffee her full attention; it was either that or tell him to bugger off.

  “Well, it was nice someone told me,” Anderson responded, sounding slightly indignant.

  “Mum wasn’t sure how relevant it was,” Charlotte said, becoming defensive. “And I was forbidden to mention it. In any case, you can hardly complain when you forgot to mention that Marty was Martin Rebane. I thought this was joint effort, not every man for himself.”

  “I wasn’t certain,” Anderson said, sounding only a little contrite. “I was making a lot of it up as I went along and obviously should have asked much more, especially about Erdenheim. When Rebane threw in Devereau and MI6, it just confused me.”

  “It doesn’t take much,” Charlotte said, avoiding his eye whilst sipping her drink.

  “I’ll ignore that. Rebane was definitely telling the truth about private companies helping out with cyber security; so it’s all plausible. He just seems unnecessarily eager to keep everything secret – surely Erdenheim would get more kudos from publicising its government links.”

  “You would have thought so,” agreed Charlotte. “Yuri and Lara – so not Russian after all?”

  “Maybe, maybe not; we somehow need to tease out the facts from the story Rebane’s concocted. And at the moment, I haven’t a clue how to do that.”

  “You said Rebane’s accent was unusual and his actual country of birth might be a useful start. Hang on a sec...” Charlotte put down her coffee to deal with the office phone, switching instantly back to estate agent mode.

  While waiting, Anderson tried a surname search, wondering if Rebane might actually be Russia
n-born.

  “Rebane’s Estonian,” he announced, once Charlotte had ended her call. “Not definite, but likely. His surname means fox apparently and it’s about as common there as Walker is in the UK. In which case, shouldn’t he be helping August 14 rather than trying to stop them?”

  Charlotte gave him an angry look, “You can’t condemn everyone from Eastern Europe just because of a few extremists.”

  “Just a vague thought,” Anderson said undeterred. “Thanks for the advice, I’ll go and see who else I can annoy...”

  * * *

  Monday was always a quiet day, and without Anderson to bother her, Charlotte could easily cope with the usual influx of email and phone calls, plus the occasional personal caller. Charlotte and her business partner varied their hours to suit, more or less keeping to a five-day week, with two part-time staff filling-in when necessary. Contrary to her outward show of annoyance, Anderson’s visit had been a welcome diversion, although he had an arrogant streak she always felt the need to counter, something not helped when his wild assumptions – or perceptive deductions as Anderson liked to call them – turned out to be correct.

  Jessica’s plan to share the burden of reading all three of Zhilin’s books might not have met favour with Anderson but Charlotte had been more receptive, borrowing The Failures of Counter-Terrorism and managing to get past the first hundred pages. Now with time dragging, she decided to work on her own perceptive deductions.

  The veracity of Rebane’s story would seem to depend in part on the nationality of Yuri and Lara, and Charlotte followed Anderson’s success by focusing purely on the book’s acknowledgements. One name at a time she began the challenging task of matching each of the thirty-four names to an actual person, her task made a little easier by assuming everyone on the list had some connection with terrorism, be it job-related, as a consultant, an academic, or even as an ex-terrorist. Name, age, sex, nationality, expertise and internet link were all duly recorded onto her phone.

  By late afternoon Charlotte had found all but nine and she now racked her brain to recollect everything Anderson had said about Yuri and Lara, his comments in turn culled from Rob at the Farriers. Common language Polish or Russian; Lara, in her fifties, possibly blonde, good English but probably not American; Yuri, fortyish, English not as good as Lara’s. It wasn’t a great deal to go on but it would have to do.

  None of the men came anywhere close, well over half of them American; however, one woman was an encouraging match to Lara’s profile – Klaudia Woroniecki, age 55, Polish, a political consultant and foreign affairs analyst. Appointed in November to Poland’s National Security Bureau, her official title of Special Assistant to the President and Senior Director for Counter-terrorism was particularly impressive, Charlotte downloading a couple of photos for future reference.

  Charlotte sat back in her chair, pleased with her afternoon’s work. The thirty-four names gave a snapshot of Martin Rebane’s professional associates and whilst it would be foolish to put any faith into her deductions, perceptive or not, Charlotte’s possible success in identifying Lara might – if only for a second – smooth away Anderson’s slightly superior and always annoying frown.

  * * *

  Martin Rebane stood by the open window and took a long drag at his cigarette, his body welcoming the nicotine as a long-lost saviour. Of late it was threatening to become a regular transgression, the cigarette helping to ease the stress of another difficult day. And where August 14 was concerned, new problems were never far from his thoughts.

  Despite his advancing years, Rebane was still able to attract the admiring stares of younger women; his obvious success might partly influence the initial look, but the darkest of blue-eyes set off by silver-grey hair would always rate a second glance. Born near the city of Tartu in Soviet-era Estonia, from Rebane’s early memories two images stood out: protective, hard-working parents, their love for each other and their son never doubted, and a frail, kindly grandmother who had spent most of her evenings instilling in her young grandson an appreciation of his Estonian heritage. Then, in the space of a few months, twelve year-old Martin’s grandmother had lost her long battle with cancer and his father had been crushed to death in a freak accident at work. His mother had struggled on, but there had been too many shocks too close together, and eight months later she too was dead. Rebane had spent the rest of his youth in a State Orphanage, a harsh regime made bearable by the occasional act of kindness and the hope of a better future.

  With his every waking moment bombarded by images of Communist and Soviet ideology, such ideals were the one stable but hated element of his teenage years, and Rebane’s growing sense of national identity had quickly become a confusion of conflicting loyalties. Determined to break out of the cycle of poverty, Rebane had worked hard, and was duly rewarded with a scholarship to read Politics at Tartu State University. Estonian Independence had brought with it a more personal bonus and with his tutor’s backing Rebane took up a place at Oxford. The experience was close to a revelation, the academic rigour of Oxford ensuring he had continued to thrive, and a long-standing interest in the differing motives of terrorist groups had led to the first of many such articles. From Oxford, it was on to an eight-year stint as a journalist, based in the United States, Rebane gaining U.S. citizenship in 2003. The CIA had then come calling.

  Talent, hard work, and a regular stream of articles established Rebane as an acknowledged expert in his field, his expertise ensuring he maintained strong links with the world’s security agencies even after he had left the CIA. Despite such success, he had never forgotten the lessons of his youth, ever conscious of Estonia’s long and difficult struggle for independence.

  Purely as a theoretical exercise, Rebane had sought to find a way of removing the last vestiges of Russian influence and so securing Estonia’s treasured sovereignty. An off-hand comment to a Polish colleague had brought an unexpected response, followed soon after by a meeting in New York. People of influence seemed to share Rebane’s concerns and more to the point were willing to fund his ambition. If Rebane really had the know-how and contacts to test Russian frailty, then it would be foolish to ignore such an opportunity, the solution one essentially brought about by the will of the people, August 14’s role purely that of creating the right environment to ensure success.

  In the years since the end of the Cold War, Russia and the West had seen a surge of terrorist attacks and ethnic rivalry, and the national unity provided by a common enemy had evaporated as people’s perception of the threat had changed. Rebane simply wanted to channel people’s everyday frustrations to a more effective end, his co-conspirators a relentless mix of manipulation, deceit, and terror.

  McDowell and Carter had helped Erdenheim become a surprising success as a management centre, almost outshining its covert role as an intelligence base and centre of operations for August 14. To some, Boston might have seemed an odd location, but its small port and the town’s vibrant ethnic mix ensured Rebane’s European associates could come and go almost unnoticed. The town’s large Polish community had also proved to be an excellent source of occasional intelligence, bypassing the more official routes. Overall, Erdenheim had proved invaluable, its cutting-edge facilities and bespoke computer simulations giving August 14 a further advantage.

  Now, a combination of bad luck and bad judgement was threatening to bring Erdenheim to the attention of Britain’s security services. George Saunders’ unannounced visit in response to Anne Teacher’s concerns had caught Rebane off guard, something subsequently provoking the Commander’s interest; within days he had used past contacts to probe and enquire, pushing the boundaries well beyond just idle curiosity. With unease growing amongst August 14’s backers, the decision had been made to terminate him as soon as practicable, the fickle nature of luck showing that the Commander’s murder had been a prudent choice, then with Anderson’s arrival a completely pointless one. Darren’s Westrope’s accident had thrust Erdenheim into the spotlight, attracting the unwanted int
erest of villagers and local journalists. If George Saunders had still been alive it would doubtless have spurred his pursuit of Erdenheim, but in place of Saunders, the coincidence of two sudden deaths had instead tempted Anderson to investigate further. A stubborn and perceptive old man traded for a persistent and slightly less perceptive younger one.

  Anderson was clearly playing his own devious game, guesswork and conjecture helping him stumble towards a confused interpretation of the truth. McDowell hadn’t helped, his failure to appreciate the dangerous combination of jet lag and alcohol resulting in more public embarrassment for Erdenheim, and something else for Anderson to get his teeth into. The three-way conversation at the Farriers had supposedly revolved around trivia, nothing controversial, McDowell almost blasé as to the long-term consequences of his actions.

  Anderson’s latest visit to Erdenheim had seemed a final chance to convince him there really was no story here, and Rebane had steered as close to the truth as he had dared, concerned that Anderson might already know enough to recognise any obvious inconsistency or falsehood. Sadly with Adam Devereau now seemingly involved, that could well prove a very dangerous strategy and could Rebane really afford to step back and continue to do nothing?

  Anderson and Devereau were not the only ones whose interference was proving unwelcome, and the film footage of the camp in Lithuania was merely the latest example of unsolicited meddling. Whilst such revelations had helped accelerate Russia’s internal crisis, the Kremlin’s response had gone far beyond the anticipated diplomatic bluster and eventual sanctions, the Gdansk blockade inflaming tensions throughout Europe. The final outcome was impossible to predict, even for Carter and his proven computer simulations, and well beyond anyone to control.

  In Moscow, August 14 had lost far too many valuable assets to remain effective, the high mortality rate highlighting the FSB’s unexpected and unwelcome fight-back. The chance of reinforcements from the facility at Gdansk was also disappearing by the hour, Poland reacting to the Russian blockade by placing a police cordon around August 14’s training camp, its occupants effectively under house arrest.