The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1)

by Christopher Read

  Nabiyev’s musings were abruptly cut short as the line of traffic split apart, a policeman directing the vehicles towards two adjacent check-points. The Mercedes pulled to the left before stopping in front of a metal barrier, Nabiyev’s driver opening the car window to hold out the relevant photo-IDs.

  A policeman, gun resting at his hip, moved across to the car, taking the two documents, before giving them and their respective owners a studied glance.

  “One moment.” The policeman handed the IDs to a colleague, who casually swiped each one across a mobile reader, the response from the FSB’s data centre flashing almost instantly onto the screen.

  Without comment the second policeman passed the two documents back across to his colleague. The latter in turn returned them to the driver, a polite smile masking his real thoughts as to how Nabiyev at only forty-four was already a full colonel in the FSB, with a plum job in Grebeshkov’s new anti-corruption unit.

  A moment later and the car was waved through, turning right towards the Lubyanka.

  * * *

  The Prime Minister’s office offered a refreshing alternative to the conference room: ornate wood, leather chairs, modern paintings, technology aplenty. Grebeshkov’s own office would have comfortably fitted in one corner but his mood wasn’t one of jealousy, more curiosity as to why he and Arkady Valentin were the only ones so honoured. The Prime Minister looked drawn and pensive, his fingers tapping out an irregular beat on the desktop, the expectations of a nation weighing heavily on his shoulders.

  Yet there had been some good news, primarily the identification of the apartment where Nazarenko and Baranovskiy had been staying. The contents of its three rooms would keep the forensic teams busy for some time, some in the media already building up the discovery as the beginning of the end for August 14. Pressure on the security forces remained intense, their targeting of East European visitors and foreign workers becoming ever more oppressive, people stopped and searched simply because of their accent.

  Baranovskiy’s interrogators had similarly been encouraged to produce more, whatever the risks, something his injuries and ultimately his heart had failed to appreciate. Now Nazarenko was the FSB’s sole asset, a resource whose value was fast diminishing. For the Prime Minister, however, Nazarenko’s knowledge was a crucial guide as to their next move.

  “It is time for more direct action,” the PM said, as though trying to convince himself. “However, where Eastern Europe is concerned we must tread carefully and Russia cannot be seen to act without just cause. I need to be absolutely sure of complicity before I make any recommendations to the President.” The Prime Minister looked sharply at Grebeshkov, “Dmitry, I understand you have something more from Nazarenko?”

  “Yes, Sir. It’s taken a little time but Nazarenko has confirmed he received weapons training at a site in Lithuania. He was one of twelve recruits, eight men, four women, who stayed there from September until early December, and we should have names and descriptions of Nazarenko’s remaining associates in a day or so. There were five instructors, including Eglitis, all American or East European, presumably ex-military. With luck, based on Nazarenko’s detailed descriptions, we should be able to identify most of them.”

  “Excellent, Dmitry, we seem to be getting somewhere at last. “And you believe his disclosures are generally reliable?”

  “Yes, Sir; the drugs can make him confused and so progress is relatively slow; if we push him too hard then he will start to say whatever he thinks we want to hear.”

  “I understand he’s confirmed the location of the training camp as the one in Dzūkija?”

  “He’s not sure of the exact location, Sir, and I doubt he ever knew exactly where in Lithuania he was; however, his description of the site is an exact match to the satellite images.”

  “Lithuania – it’s hardly ideal. And I doubt NATO will react well to any incursion.” The Prime Minister paused, thinking through their options. “Arkady,” he asked finally, “I assume you have enough assets in the area?”

  “We will have shortly, Sir,” Valentin replied. “The site is south-west of Vilnius, a small dacha settlement of four cottages on the edge of the Dainava Forest. We have now identified a total of sixteen residents, lightly armed, minimal security. However, it’s impossible at the moment to guarantee they’re part of August 14.”

  “Absolute confirmation is not that easy to find,” Grebeshkov added. “There might well be some documentary proof at the site but retrieving it has its own dangers. Unfortunately, Sir, Director Valentin and I are concerned that the number of terrorist cells introduced into Russia could well be greater than Nazarenko’s suggested total of just four.”

  “Concerned? Or is it something more definite?”

  Valentin was quick to explain, “Simple maths, Sir. Nazarenko spent three months in Lithuania, arriving here in December; that easily gives August 14 time to train at least one more group, even if they took a couple of months off for a winter break. Of course, it’s also possible these sixteen presently in Lithuania have been there since December, rather than being brand-new recruits, or even that they have nothing at all to do with August 14.”

  The Prime Minister gave a deep sigh of frustration, fingers tapping absently, trying to work out the best way forward. “We have to assume the worst-case scenario. If you’re right, we could easily be looking at eight or more terrorist cells already inside Russia, with several more preparing to join them.”

  “Lithuania,” Valentin said, “could supply all of the answers we so desperately need: who finances them, how many of their people are actually here, names, faces... perhaps even the identity of their leaders. Evidence we could then use to justify such an attack. Conversely, there are significant risks, and the diplomatic repercussions of any action must be carefully weighed against the potential rewards.”

  There was a long silence while the Prime Minister made up his mind. “Let’s be very clear,” he said, emphasising each word. “Are you both agreed that this site in Lithuania has been, or indeed still is, a training camp for terrorists; specifically for those of August 14.”

  Valentin’s response was immediate, “Yes, Sir.”

  Grebeshkov knew it was too late to have second thoughts and what happened next wasn’t down to him. “I agree, Sir. However, I must formally advise that the consequences of military action on Lithuanian soil could be disastrous.”

  “We must tread carefully, Sir,” Valentin reaffirmed.

  The Prime Minister slammed his hand down onto the table, irritated by their lukewarm support, “How many more terrorists can we allow Lithuania to train before we react – ten, twenty, a hundred... They abuse our friendship and you expect us to do nothing?” Abruptly, he waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal, “Your opinions are duly noted, gentlemen; however, we must act decisively, the Russian people expect nothing less.”

  * * *

  Kolomenskoe Park is one of Moscow’s more popular attractions, serving up a different architectural wonder around every turn, from magic stones for health and happiness to the beautiful Church of the Ascension of the Lord on the bank of the Moskva. Despite the many tourists, there are still vast areas of relative peace and tranquillity well away from the security cameras where privacy is assured.

  Eglitis sat on a wooden bench, listening to the church bells and soaking up the beauty of the scores of apple trees just coming into blossom. Couples and family groups were spread out across the orchard, sitting haphazardly amongst the trees, enjoying each other’s company. It was a truly harmonious scene but Eglitis still found it difficult to relax, there always that small doubt some observant policeman would see through his disguise or decide his ID was worthy of a more detailed check. Today’s meeting was important but hardly essential; nevertheless, they both believed such risks were justified, it perhaps being their final opportunity to exchange essential information and review progress.

  Nabiyev was late, a fact which hardly helped Eglitis’ mood. To sit too long would draw
unwanted attention: to many in these suspicious times, an old man sitting alone watching children at play was obviously a kidnapper or a paedophile, not a grandfather missing the love and laughter of his own family.

  Eglitis rose stiffly, hunching over his walking stick, trying not to over-play his part. On cue, Nabiyev immediately appeared in the distance, striding purposefully along the path. Eglitis quickly sat back down, annoyed with himself for his own impatience, and annoyed with Nabiyev for lacking the good sense to be on time. He trusted Nabiyev – as much as he trusted anyone – yet he always felt the younger man was far too relaxed over the potential dangers. Eglitis had no illusions as to his own fate, merely unsure whether it would be a consequence of the demands of August 14 or the fragility of his failing heart.

  Nabiyev gave a smile of welcome, his hug and triple kiss suggesting to the casual observer that Eglitis was at the very least an old friend, or more likely the two of them were father and son. Nabiyev sat himself beside Eglitis, a box of sushi offered as part-apology for his being late.

  With a wave of his hand Eglitis declined, keen to keep their meeting short and to the point. “I need information not food. Baranovskiy and Nazarenko?”

  “Baranovskiy’s dead,” Nabiyev said dismissively, “but Nazarenko’s still talking. We need to assume the FSB will extract everything he knows within the next forty-eight hours.” He gave Eglitis a hard look, “The attack on British Boeing was unfortunate; we cannot afford to antagonise potential allies.”

  Nabiyev’s casual indifference as to the sacrifice of his fellow conspirators instantly annoyed Eglitis but he knew it would be pointless to speak his mind. “A regrettable mistake,” he said quietly. “One we must learn to deal with. Has Nazarenko told the FSB where he was trained?”

  Nabiyev waved his hand uncertainly, “I get to learn some of what the drugs and beatings have revealed, but not all. As I said, it would be best to assume they will eventually discover everything.”

  Eglitis gave a brief nod of agreement, “What else?”

  “There’s to be saturation security coverage of a random district, changing each day. Tomorrow it’s Presnya in the centre, then Konkovo in the south-west; I’ll try to update you when I know more...”

  The briefing continued, Eglitis getting a feel for how the search for August 14 was progressing. Their survival depended on staying one step ahead of the police and the FSB, and it was ironic that Nabiyev had been pulled from his role in counterintelligence to help monitor the FSB’s own investigation into August 14. Paradoxically, that had severely limited his usefulness, information often trickling down to him far too late to be of any real benefit.

  After some twenty minutes, they parted as they had met, Eglitis waiting a further five minutes before shuffling his way along the path, heading south towards the Kashirskaya Metro. It was time to prove that the FSB’s recent success would do little to stop the terrorist attacks, August 14’s reach extending far beyond the confines of just Moscow.

  Marshwick, England

  “Michael, I’m so pleased you’ve called; come in and sit down, and I’ll put the coffee on.”

  Jessica’s welcome was one not to be denied and Anderson took his usual seat on the sofa, placing the Commander’s book on the coffee table in front of him. He knew he wouldn’t be allowed to depart Marshwick with nothing more than a thank you and a simple goodbye, just hoping that he could persuade Jessica to leave McDowell and Erdenheim well alone.

  “Coffee will be ready in a minute,” Jessica said, returning from the kitchen. “Now, how are you? What about a bite to eat? You can’t go back to London without something inside you. Or did you eat at the Farriers? Is it London, or did Charlotte tell me you were heading off somewhere else?”

  Anderson randomly picked which questions to answer, “I’m fine, Mrs Saunders; I’ll have something to eat later, and it’s Bristol.”

  “Jessica, please... Bristol, of course; now I remember.” She gestured towards the book, “Did it help after all?”

  “I’m afraid not; certainly nothing leapt out at me.”

  “It could have been an impulse buy, I suppose, unlikely as that seems. It took my husband three years to propose and another two to actually walk down the aisle. George being impulsive meant having to plan less than a month ahead.”

  Anderson tried to match Jessica’s smile, but he needed first to apologise. “I got carried away with the idea that your husband’s death might not be an accident. I’m sorry; it was just a foolish notion.”

  Jessica’s reaction was to give Anderson an even wider smile and he feared she was actually going to hug him.

  “Thank you, Michael,” Jessica said warmly, “for such a gracious apology. I assure you, such concerns are totally unnecessary. I actively encouraged you and we must both share any fault. I still believe there’s some mystery here and these books are not something George would normally buy: he’s much more Bernard Cornwell than Tom Clancy. With non-fiction, it’s virtually all antiques and naval history. I can’t imagine there’s even a single book on terrorists or terrorism.”

  She paused, as though making up her mind about something. “I always find a strong coffee and a good lunch helps focus one’s thoughts; let’s see if we can solve this conundrum together.”

  He’d been through the front door barely a minute and Jessica was already taking charge, Anderson not yet off the hook. There seemed little harm in giving it one more go, past assumptions put aside at least for the moment.

  Anderson still wanted to check the ground-rules. “If there’s no ulterior motive for the Commander to order Zhilin’s books, then we’re simply wasting our time with a lot of pointless conjecture. Are you sure you want to do that?”

  Jessica’s response was immediate, “Most definitely, Michael; we’ve gone this far, and I’m looking forward to a bit more outrageous speculation. Don’t worry, I promise not to be shocked or upset by any of your more outlandish ideas.”

  “Sadly,” Anderson said, “ideas are a bit lacking at the moment, outlandish or otherwise.”

  “In which case, do we need to bite the bullet and read all three books? It’s only one each if I volunteer Charlotte.”

  Anderson’s pained look was enough to veto such an idea. The events described in Red Terror were decades old, the youngest of those involved well into their seventies; the other two books covered more recent times but that merely opened up scores of lines of inquiry. Somehow there had to be a simpler way.

  It became a working lunch, Anderson wasting five minutes in a search for other editions of Zhilin’s books but there was only ever the one, not even a paperback or eBook alternative – an indication as to Zhilin’s rather limited appeal. The ridiculous was discussed along with the feasible, the Russian links argued over, nothing ignored, but it was again proving a fruitless exercise in conjecture, there too many unknowns to come close to something that made reasonable sense.

  Eventually the tone from Anderson’s phone provided an essential distraction, Devereau the caller. “Mike, where are you exactly?” he asked, sounding impatient.

  Anderson lied, “About halfway to Bristol; just stopped for something to eat. Shouldn’t you be getting on a plane or something?”

  Devereau ignored the question, “Did you finish pursuing whatever it was you were after?”

  “Yes and no; could be something but it’s proving difficult to get anywhere.”

  “And it has to do with George Saunders? How he died?”

  Anderson might not have mentioned his inquiry was related to Saunders but Devereau had no problem reading between the lines. “There are certain aspects that needed following up.” He didn’t want to get into specifics, not without something concrete.

  “Forget Bristol,” said Devereau. “I’ll deal with it. Get yourself back to Marshwick. You seem to have upset someone with influence and they’re rather keen to find out more about you. Fortunately, I too have friends in high places, but no-one’s telling me who’s asking questions or why.
Upsetting important people is always a good sign, so you must be doing something right. Phone me tonight with an update…”

  Things were looking up thought Anderson wryly; his leads might be so thin as to be virtually invisible but the number of his allies was growing almost daily.

  * * *

  “Anyone home?” Charlotte asked loudly, shutting the front door behind her.

  “We’re in the study...”

  We – Charlotte was first confused then intrigued, half suspecting – or was it half-hoping – it might be Anderson. The study was awash with boxes and books; books in boxes, books in waist-high piles, books strewn across her father’s desk. Anderson and her mother were on their knees searching through a box each, discarded books seemingly being added to any random pile.

  “I assume you’re looking for something?” Charlotte said flippantly.

  “I never realised your father had so many books,” responded Jessica, struggling to her feet. “We’ve emptied the garage and the loft; there are just hundreds of them, certainly enough for our own library.”

  “I’ll ask again,” Charlotte said. “What exactly are you looking for? And, Mike, why aren’t you photographing the Avon Gorge or something a little further west than Dad’s study?”

  It was Jessica who answered first, “We’re looking to see if your father’s liking for four-hundred page narratives on terrorism was purely a one-off and so far there’s nothing even close. They really needed sorting out anyway and it’s nice to have a helper. Now you’re here, Charlotte, make yourself useful; my knees are getting too old for such work.”

  Charlotte kicked off her shoes and knelt down beside Anderson, “I’m guessing this is Mike’s idea?”