For eight weeks now his hand-picked unit had questioned and probed, rechecking the hundreds of lines of inquiry as they spread outwards from Moscow and towards Eastern Europe, searching for the clue ignored or the false lead blindly followed. Yet despite their expert scrutiny, there was nothing of concern, no evidence of manipulation or collusion, not even a rogue agent provocateur working on a hidden agenda. Grebeshkov was surprised but not complacent, his investigation now stretching out to include the Moscow Police and National Guard.
Grebeshkov turned away from the window, settling down at his desk to re-read the latest update from two floors below. The search was still ongoing for the three remaining metro bombers, although now they had names as well as faces. From subsequent attacks, an additional three suspects had been identified, but again they were nowhere to be found. Unexpectedly, none of the terrorists were from Chechnya or Dagestan, or indeed any other Russian Republic; four were Polish, including the woman killed in the metro, two more were Ukrainian.
Then there was the Latvian, Aldis Eglitis. He was well known to the FSB due to past exploits and it seemed likely he was August 14’s bomb maker, perhaps even their leader. The explosive used was invariably C4, its probable origin Iraq, Eglitis with more than two decades of experience in its use. He had made no attempt to hide from the security cameras or disguise his appearance, and so far Eglitis’ arrogance had been well justified, the FSB unable to track his movements either in the days leading up to the metro attack, or during the succeeding weeks. The terrorists seemed able to come and go as they pleased, invisible to police, CCTV, and the public alike, just six nondescript faces hidden amongst some twelve million others.
Overall, it made for uncomfortable reading. Previous terrorist campaigns had lacked cohesion but August 14 seemed well organised and totally determined, with few qualms as to the numbers killed. So far they had avoided the extreme of suicide attacks and even the woman killed at the Lubyanka had been trying to escape, the terrorists making the most of their resources: two cells, three at most, presumably operating independently of each other.
August 14 – the name had caused confusion and the terrorists’ media rant had offered no obvious clues, no-one yet prepared to believe it was a fourteen-week countdown to some momentous event. If it symbolised a date in the past, then the link was far from obvious. The infamous Marxist-Leninist terrorist Ilich Ramírez Sánchez, known popularly as Carlos the Jackal, had been captured on that day in ‘94, and in 2007 four suicide bombs had killed almost 800 in Iraq; up to a thousand more had died when Egyptian security forces had attacked supporters of ousted President Morsi in 2013.
The Poland – Ukraine – Latvia connection offered various alternatives, the most likely being from 2008. At a mass rally in Tbilisi, the leaders of Poland, Ukraine, Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia had stood with Georgia’s President to publicly declare their support for Georgia in its conflict with Russia over South Ossetia. The actual date of the rally was August 12th, with Georgia’s President signing a French-brokered peace plan three days later – the 14th might thus represent some as yet unidentified event of importance, perhaps even a very specific personal loss.
Whatever the significance of the date, Grebeshkov knew the FSB had to smash August 14 sooner rather than later, before the citizens of Moscow finally lost patience. In less than twenty-four hours the crowds would gather to celebrate Victory Day, army units now both in the parade and as part of the increased security, everyone concerned that August 14 would find its own unique way to mark the end of the Great Patriotic War.
The terrorists needed money, shelter, transport and basic necessities – with their faces splashed across the media and a generous reward offered, the breakthrough would eventually happen, and the FSB’s own specialist counter-terrorism unit, the elite Alpha Group, was more than ready to exact a suitable revenge.
Yet Grebeshkov still worried that he was missing something crucial and disbelief was proving to be an irritating bedfellow, leading to many a sleepless night. The terrorists were just a little too clever, able to disappear far too easily for them not to be receiving high-level inside help. And if not the FSB, that left either someone close to the Security Committee or indeed a member of Grebeshkov’s own specialist team.
Grebeshkov opened up one of the personnel files from the Alpha Group Index, pausing briefly to study the image adjacent to the personal data. The daughter of a Russian diplomat, Captain Natalia Markova had inherited an Asiatic attractiveness, her features hiding a subtle mix of self-confidence and resourcefulness: degree in political science, fluent in three languages, no obvious vices, and no subconscious desire to prove herself better than her male counterparts.
The campaign against August 14 had stalled, and the FSB was struggling to prove it was capable of defeating the terrorists. Markova had never yet let Grebeshkov down, and he needed someone whose integrity matched his own, someone with the initiative to help tease out the traitor in their midst.
Chapter 3 – Sunday, May 9th
Marshwick, England
“I’m sorry the house is in such a mess. George was always a hoarder, but I just can’t seem to work out what to keep and what to... well, throw away, I suppose, or perhaps take to a car boot.”
Jessica Saunders gave Anderson a thin smile, then continued to reminisce about her husband while Anderson sat on the sofa and made brief notes. Once the Farrier’s barman had piqued Anderson’s interest, he couldn’t let it lie, and a sleepless night had followed with his mind flipping from one fanciful scenario to another. George Saunders’ accident, Darren Westrope’s crash, the American McDowell – three elements which taken together could mean absolutely nothing, or so much more. Whilst a double murder might be stretching it a little far, fate seemed to be whispering in Anderson’s ear; there could well be a story here and all he needed to do was fit the pieces snugly together.
The buzz of chasing down a story was sometimes worth the effort just by itself and Anderson had quickly managed to get his head around who was where and when; not that it offered any answers, but it helped him work out what questions needed to be asked. George and Jessica Saunders had flown to Spain on Sunday April 11th, the Commander going missing on the Wednesday, his body discovered two days later: multiple broken bones, fractured skull – all injuries consistent with a fall from the track at the top of the ravine. Darren Westrope had died early Monday evening, April 19th. Two accidents resulting in two deaths, five days and fifteen-hundred miles apart, yet Saunders and Westrope had lived a mere hundred yards from each other.
Anderson’s staple opening line of researching an article on a young life unfairly taken had worked as well as he could have hoped and Darren himself seemed a normal enough nineteen year-old: college course at Boston in Computing, free time spent out and about enjoying himself, no obvious link to Erdenheim or Pat McDowell, and no apparent motive for anyone to want him dead. The car crash had occurred roughly a mile and a half from Marshwick, Darren’s Fiesta heading east towards Graythorp, the Management Centre of Erdenheim standing on its northern edge. North, west and south, there was nothing else other than miles of farmland, the sea to the east. Graythorp itself was a hamlet of no more than a dozen houses, yet no-one seemed able to shed light on where exactly Darren was headed the evening he’d died or even precisely what time he’d left home; he might even have just fancied a random drive.
Everything pointed to it being a tragic accident, the police happy that the other driver wasn’t drunk, on drugs or speeding, the inquest set for June. Pat McDowell, on behalf of the Management Centre, had contacted Darren’s family to offer his condolences but unlike with Saunders, he hadn’t attended the funeral. McDowell himself seemed to be a favourite target for the gossips, his reputation based on nothing more than his physical size and a surfeit of self-confidence. Yet the American still seemed out of place: 82nd Airborne, then off the radar for almost five years until he arrived at Graythorp.
Erdenheim’s Management Centre had only opened it
s doors the previous November, offering single day and residential courses on leadership and team-building. Purpose built, with state-of-the-art computer facilities, its client list included two multinationals, the Centre’s out-of-the-way location made easier by the presence of a helicopter pad. McDowell and a Jonathan Carter were listed as its directors, the American parent company with three other facilities spread across North America.
By the time he had arrived at Jessica Saunders’ house, Anderson’s enthusiasm for his chosen task had started to wane, well aware that he’d let rumour and wishful thinking affect his judgement, and embarrassed to be asking impertinent questions while people were still coming to terms with their loss. To his relief, Anderson had immediately been welcomed into Jessica’s house for Sunday afternoon tea and cake, there no mention of his contretemps with Charlotte. Jessica was more curious than anything, his friendship with Devereau apparently enough to convince her Anderson could be trusted, and she had skilfully avoided any mention of how exactly the Commander and Devereau had become friends, Anderson never yet getting to the bottom of Devereau’s slightly murky past.
It was inevitable that the conversation would eventually move on from the Commander’s naval career and work as a parish councillor to the trickier subject of their regular holidays in Spain, Anderson doing his best not to be too insensitive.
“I’m just sorry to be asking lots of difficult questions,” continued Anderson. “Please ignore any that go too far.”
“Ask all you want, Mr Anderson. Don’t worry; you’ll soon know if any of your questions could be classed as impertinent.”
Anderson jumped in regardless, not sure how else to word it, “Could you tell me a little more about the Commander’s accident?”
“We both love Andalusia,” Jessica explained, pouring out a second cup of tea. “The beaches are beautiful but away from the coast there’s a whole different world, almost unspoilt...” Her hand trembled slightly as she lowered the china teapot, then she looked up and gave Anderson a sad smile. “The hills around Nerja have some wonderful walks; the Junta de los Rios is a bit further away but with spectacular views. George knew the area well, so I wasn’t worried that he went alone.” She paused, and her tone softened, “The Spanish authorities were very good and they even brought in a specialist team. Some of the paths are very steep and can be quite treacherous, especially after rain. And it had rained that night...” She broke off briefly before continuing, “I take it you believe George’s death might not have been an accident?”
Jessica was proving as perceptive as her daughter, or perhaps Anderson was just far too easy to read. “No, not really,” he said, his tone somehow managing to sound both embarrassed and defensive. “I’m just trying to cover every possibility… Darren Westrope: I understand from his parents that he used to work for you?”
Jessica looked at Anderson in surprise, “Darren?” Her brow furrowed, “He did, yes; for several weeks last summer holidays. He needed money for a car and sorted out the garden, together with a bit of decorating.” She studied Anderson closely, “Darren’s crash was terrible but no one here blames the other driver. If you’re suggesting a connection between Darren’s death and my husband’s then I think it very unlikely.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Anderson said quickly, still pushing his luck. “Darren wasn’t working on something recently for the Commander?”
“I don’t think so.” Jessica’s eyes misted over, “Darren’s funeral was only last Monday, such a sad affair.”
“And there’s been nothing out of the ordinary?” asked Anderson gently. “Say, in the last couple of weeks before you went to Spain?”
Jessica pursed her lips and thought for a moment, “Not that I can recall. George was pretty busy for a month or so before our holiday, but that wasn’t unusual.”
“Busy doing what exactly?”
“Council business and suchlike,” Jessica responded, not put out by Anderson’s continued probing. “George always tried to spend some time each day out and about, and not under my feet. That last week was a little chaotic; I probably would have asked more but I was busy getting everything organised for our holiday. I’ll check his diary in a minute if it helps.”
“No unexpected visitors? Someone different on the phone?”
“Sorry, no-one. In any case, strangers on the phone would be nothing new.”
“And there’s no possibility of your husband being involved in something related to his work in Naval Intelligence?”
Jessica did well to keep her surprise in check, “Now you are definitely creating something out of nothing.” She paused, choosing her words carefully, “When George first retired, his opinion was sometimes sought after, but not for years now.”
“And Spain was pretty much as usual? Your husband didn’t seem worried or have something on his mind?”
“We were both looking forward to it,” Jessica said with a shake of her head. “George was perfectly happy, I’m convinced of that. The Spanish police asked about money problems and such like, but we’ve never had worries on that score. I sense you’re grasping at straws, Mr Anderson.”
Anderson was indeed becoming desperate, “Nothing relevant filed away on his phone or his computer?”
Jessica gave an amused smile, “I doubt it; George wasn’t that keen on technology. We’ve an ageing laptop but I tend to use it more, shopping and holidays mainly.”
Anderson didn’t push it and opted to again change tack, “The driver involved in Darren’s accident was from the Management Development Centre at Graythorp – do you know much about one of its directors, an American named Pat McDowell?”
“The man from Erdenheim,” confirmed Jessica. “I know of Mr McDowell but I can’t say I’ve ever met him.”
“He was at the funeral, taller than me, burly, hair tied in a ponytail.”
“Was he,” Jessica said in surprise, “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice him; but then I didn’t notice you either until I saw you with Charlotte.”
Anderson ignored the jibe, relieved Jessica was being so helpful. “Would the Commander know him? Or the other director, Jonathan Carter?”
“Jon Carter’s often in the Farriers and he only lives round the corner; mid-thirties but looks about twenty. George definitely knows Jon and he went to Erdenheim’s opening last year so he would have met your Mr McDowell then. The Centre’s only a few buildings close to the sea wall and it’s a nice walk from Graythorp to the RSPB Reserve at Freiston Shore.”
“Is that a walk your husband would ever do?”
“One of several, yes; George would pick somewhere local at least once a week and he was quite happy off by himself. I think he saw it as a way of patrolling his territory.” Jessica pulled a face, “That sounds bad, doesn’t it? But it was meant in a good way… George would generally write something in his diary, just in case there was ever a problem.” She stood up, “Help yourself to cake and I’ll go check; just give me a minute.”
Anderson waited patiently, letting his gaze wander at will around the room. A framed photograph of a very young girl – presumably Charlotte – occupied pride of place on the marble mantle-piece; on either side were pictures of Jessica and George – one obviously their wedding, the other with the Commander standing proudly in full dress uniform. The old-fashioned three-piece suite and floral curtains gave the sitting room a nice homely atmosphere, a quality totally at odds with Anderson’s far-fetched fantasy of a double murder.
Jessica returned with a chunky hard-backed book in her hand, front cover garishly showing bright-red blood dripping from a yellow hammer and sickle.
“I can’t see anything to suggest George took the walk along the sea bank recently,” she said as she sat back down. “But he did in fact visit Erdenheim; the morning of March 29th to be precise. I just can’t recall that he said anything about it at the time, so I’ve no idea why he went there.”
Jessica placed the book on the coffee table in front of Anderson and gave him another one of
her sad smiles. “You’ve now got me thinking about everything that happened over those last few weeks. George was an avid reader and this was one of three books he ordered off the internet, all by the same author; I think they even came by next-day delivery. They turned up a few days before we went to Spain but when I asked George if he wanted any of them to read on holiday, he said not to bother.”
“Red Terror, Truth and Fiction,” quoted Anderson, picking out the key facts from the information on the dust jacket, “A detailed study of Soviet-sponsored terrorism from 1945 to 1991; author Charles Zhilin.”
“All three share the terrorism theme and they’re not at all what George would normally read,” Jessica said, sounding confused. “This one was sitting on top. By all means borrow it, Mr Anderson; perhaps it’s relevant in some way.”
Anderson smiled his thanks while trying not to show his disappointment, one diary entry and a hardback book little enough for two days of effort.
Chapter 4 – Monday, May 10th
Domodedovo, Russia
Some forty kilometres south of Moscow sits Domodedovo International Airport, Moscow’s main outlet to the Western World, the three terminals struggling to cope with some 30 million passengers per year. Around the airport, the town of Domodedovo similarly continued its own expansion, Russia’s planners doing all they could to ease the plight of its home-hungry millions. Three kilometres west of the airport, the last in a set of eight massive apartment blocks, each sixteen storeys high, waited empty and forlorn. Despite already being a month late, and at least one more from completion, the second-shift had finished some fifty minutes earlier, able finally to enjoy what little remained of the Victory Day national holiday. The building was now left safely in the hands of its two security guards and their dogs.
The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) Page 3