The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1)

by Christopher Read

  Finally, the Prime Minister moved on, turning his attention back to the terrorists. “The date August 14 – does it in fact relate to 2008 and Georgia or is it something more obscure?”

  There was a brief silence before Grebeshkov took the initiative, the notes in front of him already open at the relevant page. “Section 9-121 contains a summary of what has been learnt from the two terrorists arrested after Domodedovo; overall, they are both proving to be helpful.”

  The emphasis on the last word was subtle but hinted at how such information had been extracted; no-one needed to ask more. Grebeshkov, as the PM’s Special Adviser, had received a personal update on each interrogation from a stony-faced colonel, and it was thus Grebeshkov’s initials which appeared at the end of the relevant report – a fact he wasn’t entirely comfortable with.

  “Baranovskiy,” Grebeshkov continued, “is still wavering in and out of consciousness but Nazarenko is relatively unhurt, just a minor concussion from when their vehicle crashed. He claims that the name August 14 is merely a convenience, rather than being of any great significance. In fact it relates to the workers’ seizure of the Lenin shipyard in Gdansk on August 14th 1980 and the subsequent birth of Solidarity, which – according to Nazarenko – ultimately led to the collapse of the Soviet Union. August 14 hopes to achieve the same with the Russian Federation – just a little quicker…”

  There was a murmur of derision from around the table and Grebeshkov gave an exaggerated shrug, “It’s unclear quite why either man is so anti-Russian. No doubt we will discover their exact motivation in due course, but it would be unwise to doubt their commitment or their belief in the terrorist cause. Baranovskiy’s error in targeting the British Airways flight has given August 14 worldwide publicity but with the Americans now actively involved, it could well prove counter-productive.”

  Some around the table might not appreciate American help but Grebeshkov knew it could only be to Russia’s advantage, the West’s intelligence agencies offering a different route to searching out the terrorists’ many secrets. A gesture from the Prime Minister and Grebeshkov pressed on; able to keep a wealth of detail at his fingertips, only rarely did he need to refer to the paper file or his own notes.

  “Nazarenko was recruited in August last year – he hasn’t yet explained exactly how, or what happened to him before he entered Russia in late December. The terrorists work in three-man cells, each apparently independent of the other. Nazarenko has yet to reveal the total number of cells and the location of his particular group, but it’s likely all of the cells are based in and around Moscow. He claims not to know who finances August 14 or who its leaders are; Eglitis is more like a chief of staff.”

  “So Eglitis,” interrupted the Prime Minister, “is the key. Find him and we will have them all.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Grebeshkov replied slowly. “For August 14 to rely heavily on just one man would be foolish, especially someone who has a serious heart condition; I think it would be too easy to assume Eglitis knows the location of each and every cell.”

  The discussion widened, Grebeshkov fielding a range of questions from around the table. Conjecture as to the total number of cells was one of the questions left unresolved, although Grebeshkov was confident as to his own figure of at most four.

  Next on the Prime’s Minster’s mental agenda was finance. “Mikhail, I believe that’s in your brief?”

  The FSB’s Anti-Terrorism Chief noticeably straightened his back; he was already under pressure for his section’s lack of prior intelligence concerning August 14, and he was unsure as to how this latest report would be received. With relatively few leads, tracing the origin of August 14’s money had proved difficult, but not impossible.

  “Section 3-42, Prime Minister. Several financial transactions have now been traced back to their source, which are inevitably cash-deposits made into Ukrainian or Polish accounts. Last November, Eglitis purchased a plane ticket from London to Moscow using a British account, the money routed through Turkey and Latvia, but originating in Poland.” He paused, as though for effect, “The Polish account was in the name of Lech Kaczyński.”

  There was a stunned silence, broken eventually by Golubeva, “They’re mocking us,” she said incredulous.

  “No,” Grebeshkov said quietly, “They’re showing us they don’t care.”

  There now was little doubt as to where the terrorists’ loyalties lay. Five years as President of Poland, Lech Kaczyński’s death in April 2010 had seen over 100,000 people attend his commemoration ceremony, and a day of national mourning had been declared across Europe. The cause of the Polish Air Force Tupolev crash near Smolensk was still controversial, several investigations failing to satisfy those looking for Russian complicity. Also killed were the President’s wife, former president Ryszard Kaczorowski, government members, senior military officers, and relatives of victims of the Katyn massacre. As the crash had occurred on Russian soil, the initial investigation was carried out by the Russian authorities. Their report had placed the majority of the blame onto the Polish pilots, as had the follow-up Polish report. Yet conspiracy theories abounded, ranging from a deliberate assassination of the Polish President to suggestions that Russia was merely trying to prevent him from attending the Katyn ceremony. It was a wound that was taking a long time to heal, and any terrorist link to Poland would bring its own set of unique problems, not least because it was part of NATO.

  It was another twenty minutes before the Director of the SVR, Arkady Valentin, gave his report. Valentin had been one of the President’s few surprise appointments and at just forty-five had become the youngest ever head of Russia’s primary foreign intelligence agency, his first success that of replacing the old guard, the few dissenting voices swiftly silenced.

  “Section 8-106,” said Valentin, pausing whilst the others turned to the relevant page. “The terrorists are invariably disciplined, well trained, and familiar with the use of guns and explosives, even a Stinger missile. We’ve managed to track some of the terrorists’ movements prior to their arrival in Russia, specifically Baranovskiy, which combined with satellite data and other intelligence, gives an indicator of where they might have been trained. The most likely site is in the Dzūkija region of Lithuania, near to the border with Belarus. An initial assessment of this site has confirmed the presence of at least a dozen personnel, together with visual evidence of weapons’ training. That by itself is not definitive but if they are August 14 it suggests several more terrorist cells may soon join those already here in Moscow.”

  “Not at all what I wanted to hear,” the Prime Minister said with a sigh of frustration. “And Eastern Europe again – this has become a dangerous theme. But let’s be clear, Arkady, you’re not absolutely certain where Baranovskiy was trained, and might it be somewhere other than Lithuania?”

  “It’s possible, Prime Minister. It will take time to gather sufficient evidence, and it may never be conclusive – men and women firing weapons doesn’t have to mean terrorists… Perhaps we should consider bringing in the Americans?”

  That was now two of the Committee’s members who seemed keen to involve the United States. A terrorist base in Eastern Europe would make everything far more complex and action against Lithuania – in whatever form – without American agreement would be at best unwise.

  The Prime Minister chose to keep his thoughts to himself, “Thank you, Arkady. Lithuania lies well outside the remit of this Committee, but should your fears be confirmed, Russia’s response will need to be judged most carefully–”

  Golubeva was quick to interrupt, “With any response we must also consider the fact that August 14 appears to be particularly well informed. Their agents seem able to bypass police raids and road blocks at will, and the increase in security obviously hasn’t halted the attacks.”

  Moscow’s Commissioner of Police was the first to protest, struggling to hold back his anger, “We lost a man at Domodedovo and three more at Lubyanka. Every one of my officers wants to ge
t these bastards. If there’s an informer, I suggest you look elsewhere…”

  “Perhaps not the police,” Golubeva continued, unabashed. “The conspiracy theorists always seem keen to blame the FSB.”

  “As they blamed the U.S. Government for 9/11,” Grebeshkov retorted calmly, before his two colleagues could respond. “The FSB is always an easy target. My responsibility, indeed my specific charge from the Prime Minister, is to ensure the FSB is blame-free.” He looked directly across the table at Golubeva, speaking slowly so as to emphasise each word, “My responsibility, my reputation.”

  Golubeva gave a thin smile, but remained silent.

  “Well said, General,” the Prime Minister said smoothly. “I think you have your answer, Irina.”

  Lincolnshire, England

  Anderson returned from a visit to Marshwick’s general store to be met by a grinning Rob. “There was a call for you,” said Rob with a wink, “Commander Saunders’ daughter...”

  Anderson nodded his thanks as he took the proffered post-it note and tried to look nonchalant; after a terrible start with Charlotte, things had definitely improved, and now he finally had her mobile number. He stepped back outside, preferring a little more privacy for the return call.

  For once Charlotte actually sounded pleased to hear from him even if the pleasantries were effectively ignored. “To cut a long story short, I phoned Erdenheim. I trust you’re not busy tomorrow morning because you’ve got an appointment to go and visit them; eleven o’clock sharp.”

  “An appointment?” repeated Anderson in confusion. If he had any sort of a plan then it was to stay inconspicuous, not rush full pelt into the lion’s den.

  “Well someone needed to take the initiative,” said Charlotte forcefully. “Otherwise you’ll keep badgering my mother. So I put on my best telephone voice, claimed I was your assistant and spoke to a very snooty receptionist. Don’t worry; I used my mobile not the agency landline.”

  “What sort of an appointment?” asked Anderson, struggling to get a word in.

  “You’re supposed to be some sort of journalist, so I said you’d like to go and journalise, or whatever it is you do. I suggested Erdenheim might appreciate the publicity, what with your many newspaper and magazine connections – I take it you do have connections? It seemed a long shot but half an hour later Pat McDowell phoned back and said fine. Also, we’re going on a drive after I finish work to meet someone – don’t bother asking whom or why. I trust that’s all okay?”

  Anderson struggled to take it all in, Charlotte’s tone sounding rather friendlier than the rapid-fire words themselves might suggest. “That’s great,” he said, managing to sound enthusiastic.

  “I’ll pick you up from the Farriers at six-thirty; forget the camera, it just won’t be appropriate. You can reward me with dinner later; the Farriers is fine.”

  “The Farriers, for dinner; you and me? Did the next millennium arrive and I missed it?”

  “I believe I said that about lunch, not dinner. Do please keep up.”

  “My apologies for being so slow. You said no camera but presumably I’m actually allowed to talk to this contact; even ask the occasional question?”

  “Probably not,” Charlotte said. “Just follow my lead...”

  A bemused Anderson returned to the bar, opting for a celebratory drink. Strictly speaking, the appointment at Erdenheim would be outside his self-imposed deadline but he could hardly pull out now. And it was about time he actually met Pat McDowell.

  When Rob returned with his drink, Anderson tenaciously resumed his quest, choosing to ease his way slowly into finding more on events prior to the Commander’s death. “Was Darren Westrope a regular?”

  “His Dad is,” Rob replied, happy to talk, “but not Darren; Boston’s got a bit more to it than ‘round here.”

  “What about the people from Erdenheim, do they ever come in for a drink?”

  “Now and again; they have their own bar but a few come over once they’re desperate for a proper pint. Jon Carter just lives round the corner but he’s not been in for a while – too busy playing computer games, I guess.”

  “And Pat McDowell?”

  “Not that much,” said Rob with a shrug. “Just an occasional drink with a few of his Erdenheim buddies. Since Darren’s accident, they’ve avoided evenings.”

  “I guess it’s fairly quiet ‘round here most of the time,” said Anderson, well knowing that he was talking to the village’s chief gossip. “No scandal to report? Or something else that might be of interest to an underused journalist; preferably with a few facts thrown in.”

  Rob eyed Anderson curiously and he took his time replying. “There’s always something,” he said thoughtfully. “But if it’s McDowell you’re after, it’s mostly hearsay.”

  Anderson tried to look nonchalant, hoping for a mutual exchange of information. “He’s an interesting guy. Did he tell you he was ex-military; 82nd Airborne in fact?”

  “Guessed as much,” Rob said, sounding impressed. “You been checking up on him then?”

  “Comes with the job; I’m assuming he’s never visited the Farriers with some of his old American buddies?”

  Rob frowned, searching his memory, “He brought some Yanks in for a meal a while back; good tippers.”

  “How far back exactly?”

  “A month at least; I can check if you want.”

  “Not unless there was something memorable about it, other than the tips?” Anderson knew Rob would put his own slant on everything but it was a risk he needed to take.

  Rob shook his head, “Not that I recall. Picked up a bit when Pat came with two of his other mates; be a couple of weeks ago now.”

  Anderson’s quizzical look was all the encouragement Rob needed. “Man of about forty and an elderly woman; the three of them sat in a corner, occasionally gabbling away in Polish or maybe it was Russian – not McDowell, of course, he can barely speak the King’s English… The woman spoke American like McDowell and it was only the man whose English wasn’t so good. He was drinking steadily and the woman was stupid enough to try and keep up; in the end Pat almost had to carry her out. She wasn’t too happy, I can tell you.”

  “A Polish-Russian man of about forty, and an older bilingual American woman,” Anderson repeated slowly. “Is that right?”

  “More or less. I don’t think she was American; probably Polish or Russian like the guy; she’d be mid-fifties, blonde hair.”

  “Does that happen often – McDowell drinking with people he can’t converse with?”

  “Alcohol can beat any language barrier,” Rob replied philosophically. “You wanted facts and memorable, and where McDowell’s concerned that’s all I’ve got.”

  “And they were from around here or something to do with Erdenheim?”

  Rob was trying his best. “Erdenheim, I think; so maybe they were some of the outside experts he gets in.”

  “I guess you’ve no idea what they were talking about?”

  “I just said they were talking foreign. And I do serve drinks to paying customers when not being given the third-degree.”

  Anderson gave a slow and deliberate glance around the empty bar, “Well, it’s fortunate I’m the only paying customer you need worry about at the moment. Might any of your regulars have overheard anything?”

  Rob frowned, “Now you’re asking... I doubt it; bar wasn’t busy.”

  “And this was before or after the Commander went to Spain?”

  Rob gave Anderson an annoyed look, then moved across to study the wall calendar, turning it back to April. “Definitely after; it’d probably be the week of the 26th, the Monday or maybe that Tuesday.”

  Anderson persevered, “CCTV?”

  “Not unless you’re the police,” Rob said, with a hint of exasperation.

  Anderson bought him a well-deserved drink, mulling over how this latest titbit fitted in with everything else. It was well after the Commander’s death and Darren’s accident, and any link to Red Terror or terror
ism was speculative at best. Much like the rest of Anderson’s leads, it was all a bit confused, a mess of ideas with no clear answers.

  Perhaps Charlotte’s mysterious trip out would provide some clarity as to his next move – if not, then at least there was dinner to look forward to.

  * * *

  Anderson sat in the passenger seat still none the wiser as to their eventual destination, Charlotte sidestepping his questions to quickly turn the conversation round to McDowell.

  “Before you clam up, I’ve been fully briefed,” she announced, keeping her eyes on the road ahead as it wound its way towards Graythorp. “I might be a sceptic but Mum seems determined, so let’s just see where it all leads. Is there anything more on Pat McDowell?”

  Anderson was already regretting his haste in involving mother and daughter but it was a little late to turn back the clock. “There might be more to the Russian connection than just one of Zhilin’s books.”

  “Are we talking about McDowell or Erdenheim?”

  “I’m guessing it’s the same thing. McDowell was at the Farriers with a man and an older woman, common language Russian. When I say Russian, I might actually mean Polish; Yuri and Lara, I’ve decided to call them.”

  “Very poignant… Are you suggesting Dad had seen them at the Farriers?” The car slowed, Charlotte glancing to her left, drawn – like Anderson a few hours earlier – to the tributes at the base of the sycamore.

  “The dates don’t work,” Anderson said, hoping he didn’t need to explain further. “It’s just another intriguing fact to add to the rest.”