The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1)

by Christopher Read

  Baranovskiy and Nazarenko made no distinction between guards and dogs, using silenced automatics to deal with all four. Elevator and final clamber up onto the roof took some ten minutes, Baranovskiy coping with the sixteen kilograms of missile and launcher, while Nazarenko struggled with the remainder of their gear. Eglitis’ sources had said it would be at least another hour before the guards’ absence was noted, and even then the response would be fairly lax. However, just in case someone should turn up unexpectedly, Katya – the third and final member of the terrorist cell – waited impatiently on the ground floor.

  Baranovskiy got on particularly well with Nazarenko, liking the other man’s confident and somewhat relaxed approach, western Ukraine home to them both. Katya might be the youngest at twenty-one but she was the serious one of the three, it the first time she had travelled outside of her native Lithuania; months earlier Baranovskiy had made a passing comment as to her diminutive stature, his arm almost broken as Katya proved she was no makeweight. For all of them, their hatred of Russia was a genuine bond, it an unfortunate truth that the only common language between them was Russian.

  History clearly proved the dangers of a resurgent and assertive Russia, Baranovskiy prepared to do whatever was necessary to save his country’s future. Eglitis had promised six months of fearful anticipation mixed in with an occasional moment of gut-wrenching terror, confident now that they would be back home before the end of the month. Baranovskiy had no idea what he would do with himself when that time came, and August 14 wasn’t perhaps the ideal apprenticeship for a stable and successful career path.

  The Aeroflot Airbus was late. Baranovskiy sat with his back against the metre-high parapet, concentrating on the background hiss from the VHF radio receiver resting at his feet. Restlessly, he picked up the missile launcher, running his hand lovingly along its length, before once again going through a trial run, making sure the complex set of operations was clear in his mind – grip and stance secure, battery coolant unit in place, sight assembly locked, right thumb on actuator switch... There would be no second chances, and even though the heat signature from the Airbus’ twin engines would make it a deliciously attractive target, Baranovskiy felt the need to practise each and every action over and over again. The American-made Stinger was a weapon he could admire – this wouldn’t be the second-hand thrill of a car bomb, this would be far more personal.

  A sudden sound froze him into immobility. There was a second crackle of static from the radio, followed immediately by half-caught instructions in English to the Airbus’ pilot. Baranovskiy searched the murky early evening sky to the north-west, but it was several seconds before he found the aircraft as it angled down towards the runway. He pressed then released the actuator, the hum of the gyro confirming all was well. Baranovskiy braced his left thigh against the parapet, ignoring the distraction of yet more messages from the radio.

  A sudden gust of wind twisted the launcher to one side; Baranovskiy wrenched it back, but precious seconds were wasted before he managed to relocate the target through the gloom, now some four kilometres distant. Body rigid, he tracked the plane as it flew south-east, the audio tone changing to confirm acquisition lock. His body tensed and almost without thinking his left thumb held the first switch closed; immediately the tone grew louder and Baranovskiy instinctively squeezed the launch trigger with his right hand.

  Even as the missile leapt forward, Baranovskiy sensed something amiss. The exhaust plume momentarily blocked his view, then as he focussed again on the aircraft, he saw that the target’s profile didn’t quite match the computer simulations and despite the grey evening light the aircraft livery looked all wrong.

  The Stinger missile had no such doubts, cruising safely away from the tower block before accelerating once more towards its target.

  The pilot seemed suddenly to sense the threat and the aircraft banked sharply, wrenching itself around in a futile attempt to outmanoeuvre the chasing missile. The Stinger appeared to twist in mid-air, reaching out once more towards the aircraft’s starboard wing. A brief moment later the proximity fuse exploded, shredding the starboard engine and ripping a jagged hole in the fuselage. The aircraft flipped almost horizontal, the motion abruptly reversing as a piece of the starboard wing crumpled and broke off. Now totally out of control, the aircraft’s remaining engine gave a high squeal of protest before the plane spiralled downward, arcing south-west and towards the town’s suburbs.

  Nazarenko dragged Baranovskiy away from the parapet, the launcher dropping from his hands, his whole body starting to shake. Even as the rolling boom of an explosion sounded from far-off, the two men were heading back down, desperate now to make their escape. Neither man spoke, Baranovskiy unable to look at his friend, his mind still struggling to accept his mistake. Almost in a daze, he followed Nazarenko out of the building, clattering down the front steps before slowing to a walk, his body still reacting to the adrenalin. Their Nissan SUV was parked some twenty metres ahead, Katya already beside the driver’s door.

  Distracted by the distant wail of several sirens, Baranovskiy barely registered the sound of voices away to his left, reacting only when he heard a shouted command to halt. He broke into a run, hand reaching down into his waistband to pull out his pistol. There was another shout, followed immediately by the crack of a handgun.

  Baranovskiy twisted around, trying to steady his hand before firing at a pair of shadowy figures some fifty yards away – police or security guards it was too dark to tell. The nearest staggered forward then fell to his knees, hands clawing at his chest, but it was Nazarenko who had drawn first blood. The second figure fired twice before flinging himself to the ground.

  Baranovskiy sensed a bullet tug as his side then he doubled over as a second tore into his belly, a shriek of agony drawn from his lips. Fighting against the pain, he wrenched himself upright, firing wildly and emptying the clip in the vague direction of the second man.

  Moments later, the Nissan shuddered to a halt beside him. From the back seat Nazarenko reached across to help drag Baranovskiy inside, bullets punching through the side window as Katya accelerated away.

  * * *

  Positioned on the western outskirts of Domodedovo, the factory building was a decaying remnant of its former self, a victim of Russia’s blind leap into economic perestroika. For once, Grebeshkov had struck lucky, Markova’s Alpha section operating by chance in Podolsk, less than twenty kilometres to the west.

  Within fifteen minutes of the missile attack, they were heading east, their journey guided by police reports detailing the likely route of the target vehicle. A final update, then the searchlight from a police helicopter directed them to where a blue Nissan rested on its side. The car looked to have crashed rounding a bend at speed, and a young woman’s body lay slumped across the driver’s seat, a blood trail leading the pursuers towards a pair of battered gates and the factory beyond.

  Markova personally led the first group into the building, the six of them fanning out and moving cautiously towards the far wall some fifty metres away. Moonlight filtering down through gaps in the high roof revealed the pitted concrete and rusted metal of the building’s interior, the odour of decay hanging heavily in the air. The rubble of a decade littered the floor, a fine dust coating the discarded chunks of machinery like an early-morning frost.

  Markova’s transfer to the FSB’s Alpha Group had been a well-deserved highlight of her military career; her promotion to the rank of Captain had been another – and this in a country where in many men’s eyes women were only fit to be secretaries, cleaners or whores. A loving husband, children, a real home – she had totally failed to live up to childhood ambitions and family expectations, yet she had already accomplished far more than a lifetime of innocent dreams. Some two hundred strong, Alpha considered itself the elite of Russia’s Special Forces, it primarily a specialist counter-terrorist and hostage-rescue section, Markova’s unit with hours spent evaluating scores of real-life incidents.

  Abruptly a s
houted warning from somewhere to Markova’s right was followed immediately after by a double report from a handgun. There was the harsh crack of a stun-grenade, more shots, then an ominous silence.

  Markova moved right, a quiet voice sounding in her earpiece. “Target-one is down and tagged; target-two boxed in, single weapon only.”

  Markova halted beside a large concrete pillar; further right, lying with his back against another pillar, was a young man with one of Markova’s section kneeling protectively beside him, left hand pressing hard down against the terrorist’s blood-soaked shirt. Markova searched her memory but the man’s face meant nothing, certainly not one she recognised as being on the FSB’s terror list. Directly ahead was the scarred carcass of what looked like a giant press, the hint of a shadow indicating where the second terrorist hid.

  Markova gave new orders, her instructions succinct and precise, well aware that the terrorist would likely prefer suicide over the FSB’s hospitality. Almost immediately, the man stepped out into the open, firing twice, his body tensing for the expected deadly response.

  From Markova’s left, two duller shots sounded, the first of the plastic rounds knocking the man’s gun arm backwards, his weapon flying out of his hand; a brief instant later the second round thudded into his thigh, forcing him to his knees.

  Markova walked cautiously towards him, gun held two-handed out in front of her, two more spetsnaz moving in from either side. The terrorist lifted his head to stare contemptuously up at Markova, no words spoken, the bitterness showing in his eyes.

  Markova couldn’t help but smile, it part relief, part satisfaction. Grebeshkov had insisted on a live terrorist; well now he had two.

  Lincolnshire, England

  The estate agent’s was close to the river, down a narrow alley and only a few yards from the town’s all-seeing landmark, the Boston Stump – or more properly, Saint Botolph’s Church. After a decade in South London, Charlotte’s move back to Lincolnshire had arisen from the desire for something more; London had become claustrophobic and the friendships she had made there seemed looser than the ties of family. Boston and Marshwick offered familiarity, together with ready-made close friends left over from the happiest of times at the High School. It was perhaps a retrograde step, almost an admission of failure, but Charlotte had few regrets, confident about the future and content with her lot.

  The agency was a joint undertaking between herself and an old family friend, Charlotte the junior partner and general dogsbody. Junior partner she might be, but the ‘Welch & Saunders’ sign was a constant reminder that the move to Boston had been the correct one. By luck or good judgement, the opening of the agency had coincided with a buoyant rental market and steady house sales, and both partners considered the venture a significant success. Charlotte enjoyed the various roles, although it was sometimes hard to ignore the fact that in terms of public trust estate agents were generally fighting for bottom place along with journalists, bankers and politicians.

  Her father’s death had hit her hard, bringing home the fact of her parents’ mortality. As an only child, Charlotte felt it her duty to stay strong for her mother’s sake. George Saunders had always been the rock of the family, patient and loving, rarely judgemental; now, if Jessica would allow it, that family role would need to move down a generation.

  “Excuse me; do you have a map of Boston I could have?”

  Charlotte looked up from her desk, the polite smile frozen on her lips as she recognised her visitor. “Mr Anderson, I was wondering when you would turn up and it seemed wishful thinking to expect you to return from whence you came.”

  “I couldn’t keep away,” Anderson replied smiling. “Everyone made me feel so welcome.”

  “It must be your boyish charm.” Even though Anderson’s smile seemed genuine, Charlotte felt her annoyance with him instantly resurface. “A map, you said, printed on paper? I would have thought some all-singing app would have been standard issue in your line of work.” She took out some of her irritation on the filing cabinet, wrenching open the top drawer and extracting a street map. “With the agency’s compliments. Or was this just an excuse to annoy me further?”

  Anderson took the proffered map, gaze holding hers. “I didn’t create a very good impression the other day and I owe you an apology for my rudeness. Perhaps we could start again?”

  “Apology accepted,” Charlotte replied without enthusiasm. “Now, if there’s nothing else?”

  The smile returned, “Lunch?”

  Charlotte knew she should have expected as much, but the audacity of the offer still took her by surprise. A curt and unladylike response formed on her lips, then something stopped her: Anderson had tried to make up for his initial blunder and her own rudeness had now far exceeded his.

  “Thank you, Mr Anderson, but no; another millennium perhaps. I too must apologise for doubting that Adam Devereau even existed; my mother appreciated your visit and said you were very... considerate, I think was the word.”

  “She’s a lovely lady,” Anderson said, “and anyone else would probably have told me to get lost, so I tried to be on my best behaviour.”

  “That must have been very stressful, for you. I just hope you’re as considerate when it comes to putting some sensational spin on my father’s death.” Charlotte’s brain kept sending the message ‘be polite’ but her mouth seemed unable to heed the advice.

  “I’d be happy for your mother to vet any article before it gets to print, if that would help.”

  “That would be appreciated, Mr Anderson; thank you… Mum told me of your interest in Darren Westrope; sometimes people do just have unfortunate accidents.”

  “Of course they do. Professional curiosity can have its annoying side and I accept I’m probably being over-dramatic.”

  “Professional curiosity to some, nosy interference to others. I’m sorry, Mr Anderson, but I must get on. Try not to litter Boston’s streets with our map; it doesn’t go down well.”

  “Of course,” Anderson said. He made to leave, pausing just short of the door before turning back to face Charlotte. “It’s Michael, by the way, or Mike. And thanks for the map, Miss Saunders; in some respects I’m rather old-fashioned and I really do have places to visit.”

  Charlotte couldn’t help but return his broad smile. “In answer to a previous question; it’s Charlie to a select few and most definitely not – under any circumstances – Lottie.”

  * * *

  To Anderson’s eyes and ears, Boston was something of an enigma. His confusion had started once he had reached the outskirts and read some of the shop signs, only to increase when he heard the languages being spoken in the town centre: mostly Polish, but also Portuguese, even perhaps Russian and Romanian. In terms of a cosmopolitan mix, this was more like a major city than what he had imagined was a sleepy Lincolnshire town.

  It was a thought he put on hold as a text came through from Devereau, confirming that he wouldn’t be back from New York until the Wednesday and detailing a job in Bristol. Anderson kept his reply deliberately vague, merely stating that he was pursuing a new lead and he needed two more days.

  Two more days – time enough to satisfy his own conscience and feel he’d done his best. He was tentatively assuming Saunders and Westrope were somehow working together, but he had no supporting evidence and no idea what they might actually be working on. It was simple intuition, backed up by a mix of conjecture and optimism. Saunders wasn’t stupid, if there had been something fishy going on at Erdenheim or with McDowell, he would have called the police. And what better way to draw attention than by murdering two people. Despite every objection common-sense threw at Anderson, he couldn’t just drop it, and his two-day deadline seemed a fair compromise.

  The Commander’s book had proved typically unhelpful, Anderson’s hope that the American author was somehow important immediately dashed, it three years since Zhilin had died from cancer. A scan through of its four hundred plus pages had revealed nothing worthwhile, no notes in the margin
or sentences underlined, not even a corner turned over; Anderson even had to tease a good few of the pages apart.

  Despite a sudden spattering of rain, Anderson paused at the centre of the Town Bridge to check the map and get his bearings. He might be struggling to come up with anything convincing but he wasn’t yet out of ideas, a Geoff Shaw the next on his rapidly diminishing list of contacts.

  * * *

  The pub wasn’t quite as friendly as the Farriers but it served well enough, Shaw refusing Anderson’s offer of a free lunch but still willing to have a beer and a chat. The fact it was Darren’s parents who had passed on Shaw’s details was perhaps the only reason he had agreed to meet, Anderson again struggling not to seem insensitive, his virtual story on Darren growing more real by the day.

  “You did what you could,” continued Anderson, as he toyed with his second soft drink of the day. “No-one could have helped save Darren.”

  “So everyone says. You stand there and just pray for the ambulance to turn up; for someone – anyone – to arrive who knows what to do. Those ten minutes seemed like an hour.”

  “And the other driver, Bob Kendal; he must have been in shock as well.”

  “He was in a terrible state; just cuts and bruises but he kept trying to wrench open the driver’s door, anything so he could get to Darren and help him. When we arrived Kendal was pretty much incoherent and he didn’t even realise the engine to his van was still running.”

  “He was lucky you got there when you did.”

  “I guess.” Shaw said, while absently lifting his head to look at the TV screen high up on the wall above Anderson’s left shoulder. “We saw a spurt of dust in the distance but didn’t think much about it; didn’t hear anything at all.”