The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1)

by Christopher Read

  The eight spetsnaz walked slowly through the pine forest, heading towards the southern edge of the dacha complex, their initial objective being two of the settlement’s four cottages; a second eight-man team would attack from the north, while the four-man headquarters section also acted as a reserve. Two hundred metres above Jester a drone silently circled, its infra-red camera forwarding real-time data via satellite direct to Moscow; a simplified version was then streamed to the visual display attached to Jester’s left forearm, red icons glowing dimly to reveal the position of the two guards. Intelligence suggested an opposing force of no more than sixteen, lightly armed, and of more concern to Jester was their eventual extraction, the ten kilometre trek and helicopter flight to the relative safety of Belarus a hazardous venture into the unknown.

  Jester slowed as he caught up with Eduard, a hand-signal warning the others to exercise caution. Thirty metres ahead the forest abruptly ended, and some fifteen metres further on stood the first dacha. Two storeys high, wooden steps led up to a large wrap-around deck where a single guard leant against the rail, hands busying themselves with lighting a cigarette. Apart from the gleam from the guard’s lighter, there was little more than the soft glow of the moon to brighten the darkness. The only sounds were the gentle rustle of the breeze through the pine trees and the muted spatter of an early-morning drizzle.

  Jester whispered a sitrep, words and image passed on to the HQ section and the watchers in Moscow. Once the attack began, the low-tech alternative of eyes and ears would often be a better guide that the visual display, the drone’s sensors struggling with an overabundance of information and multiple heat sources too close together.

  The guard was Eduard’s responsibility, and other than a Kalashnikov he carried a weapon with rather more ancient origins, the crossbow’s dual visual and thermal sniper-sights making the shot all too easy. The bolt was also a special design and as it plunged through the guard’s chest, the sudden deceleration initiated the release of jagged metal fins which literally ripped the man’s internal organs apart, the guard crumpling down onto the wooden deck.

  Moments later, two spetsnaz raced across the open ground, moving to either side of the first dacha. The others quickly followed, four targeting the second dacha, the visual display revealing the northern patrol circling round to take out the other two buildings.

  Eduard gently tried the only ground floor door, nodding to Jester to confirm it wasn’t locked. Jester signalled to the remaining two spetsnaz, before following Eduard as he gently crept his way up the wooden steps and onto the wrap-around deck. The glass-fronted double doors were closed but again unlocked. Orders confirmed, Jester counted slowly to three. An instant later, Eduard half-opened one of the doors, Jester lobbing two stun-grenades into the room beyond, his actions mirrored by the spetsnaz on the floor below.

  There was a delay of a few short seconds before a series of deafening explosions tore through the dacha’s interior. Almost before silence had returned, Eduard led the way inside, Kalashnikov held ready for instant use. He entered a large room – table, chairs, TV, closed doors ahead and to the left and right, but no terrorists.

  Terrorists first, companion devices such as cell phones and laptops second, paper documents third – such was Moscow’s order of priority. Jester moved inside, nodding to Eduard to check the door to the left; from somewhere far off came the crackle of gunfire, ceasing almost immediately.

  The room to the left was a large bedroom, three single beds, little else of immediate interest. The room to the right was a twin to the one they had just left. The remaining door opened out on to the dining area, stairs leading to the rooms on the ground floor; still no terrorists. Jester duly reported the top floor clear. Seconds later, one of the ground-floor team moved warily up the stairs and into view, shaking his head. Again there was a spatter of gunfire away to the north.

  Jester was growing concerned, and he checked the visual display on his arm, the coloured icons jumping around as spurious heat sources and the residue from the stun-grenades confused the drone’s sensors. Jester widened the target area; away to the north-west two red dots suddenly flickered into existence as if from nowhere, Jester instantly recognising their significance.

  Even as a warning sounded in Jester’s earpiece, he grabbed Eduard, almost flinging him back towards the outer stairs.

  “Get out!” Jester shouted. “It’s wired!” They took the stairs three at a time, Jester aiming to be anywhere but the dacha. They had barely crossed halfway to the forest fringe before several muffled explosions ripped through the dacha complex, three of the four buildings belching forth a torrent of smoke and heat from shattered windows and doors.

  Jester flung himself head-first into the undergrowth, the night-goggles torn from his face. Flashes of gunfire lit up the pine trees opposite, the familiar rapid-fire burst of Kalashnikovs now an unwelcome indication of the terrorists’ firepower. Slowly to begin with but increasing in intensity, the spetsnaz fired back. Jester’s earpiece was silent, the visual display attempting to reboot.

  Bullets flicked through the branches to Jester’s left, a red-hot needle of pain ripping into his side and out through his back, his cry of anguish bitten short to become stifled groan. Beside him, Eduard got off a three-shot burst, before grabbing Jester by the arm and dragging him deeper into the forest.

  Jester twisted painfully around so his back was against a tree, left hand clamped across the wound, watching with something akin to indignation as the blood seeped through his fingers. The opposition were supposed to be nervous ill-trained amateurs, the need for body armour dismissed as unnecessary and restrictive – but when had August 14 ever acted like amateurs? It was an idiotic mistake, born of over-confidence, the dacha complex well-prepared for its Russian visitors.

  Lincolnshire, England

  Marshwick’s general store was a treasure trove of hidden supplies, with the shelves along each narrow aisle crammed with everything the villagers could possibly need, ensuring they would think twice before making the frustrating trip to a supermarket in Boston. Anderson took his time whilst trying to work out what he might need to cover the next few days, still unsure whether it was a good thing that Charlotte had already managed to organise some alternative accommodation. He had grown to quite like his small room, and the privacy offered by a holiday let might well be a poor exchange for the convenience of pub food and his regular psychoanalysis from Rob.

  It was almost as an aside that Charlotte had revealed the results of her own research into Erdenheim. Anderson had tried hard not to sound petulant and even though the discovery of some man named Marty was hardly dramatic, it was still far better than anything he had come up with. A celebratory bottle of wine was thus high on Anderson’s list of potential purchases, it preferably one to be shared while settling into his new abode.

  “Isn’t it time you stopped interfering in matters that aren’t your concern!” The woman’s tone was angry, and Anderson instinctively turned, keen to see who was the recipient of the woman’s wrath. Unfortunately, she was staring straight at him.

  “I’m sorry?” Anderson didn’t need to act confused.

  “Thanks to you, I’m losing money, and I don’t appreciate someone spreading lies and gossip.” The woman was in her late forties, dressed in a casual top and jeans, her body language a mix of determination and disapproval.

  The general store suddenly seemed to have more customers than Anderson had noticed, the woman’s angry words immediately gaining an interested audience.

  Anderson worked hard to defuse the situation, brain feverishly trying to work out what the woman might be referring to. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Perhaps we could talk outside? I’d be happy to sort out any misunderstanding...”

  “You wouldn’t be wanting to talk outside if my Steve was here, and I don’t call it a misunderstanding when my wages get cut in half.”

  “You mean Erdenheim?” Anderson asked uncertainly. That was all he could think of, unless Ro
b had taken umbrage at him leaving the Farriers.

  “Of course I mean bloody Erdenheim...” The woman now noticed how much attention she was attracting, and with an angry glare at Anderson she stormed past, thrusting her half-full basket onto the counter, hand reaching for her purse.

  Anderson waited until the woman had paid for her shopping before following her out onto the street. “If there’s some way I can make amends and sort all of this out. What about lunch? It’s the least I can do under the circumstances.” Admitting responsibility seemed the most sensible course, although Anderson still didn’t understand how exactly he was at fault. Even as he spoke, he realised that the woman might just think he was trying to pick her up – in which case the aforementioned Steve could soon be making his presence felt.

  The woman paused, brow furrowing as she worked out whether to spurn or accept Anderson’s offer.

  “The Farriers?” encouraged Anderson. If in doubt, his response lately to every problem seemed to involve eating, and the Farriers menu was already forever etched on his brain.

  Mention of the Farriers seemed to do the trick, lunch rejected for the less-compromising alternative of a soft drink, and not the bar but one of the outside tables. Pippa Mason had worked as a housekeeper at Erdenheim since it had opened, weekday mornings until twelve with an occasional full day at the weekend. She had been working the morning of Anderson’s visit to the Management Centre, having been pre-warned by McDowell to make sure everything was immaculate in case of publicity photographs. So when she had been called in to the office and told by McDowell that the Centre was having to cut her hours until at least June, she had discounted his excuse of disappointing course numbers, and assumed it was all down to some poor review from Anderson. Less than forty minutes later, Anderson himself had been standing in front of her, glibly unaware of the ensuing onslaught. His subsequent offer had seemed to be Pippa’s one chance to change his mind, yet she was still finding it hard to believe he was entirely blameless.

  And for a brief moment, Anderson wondered whether she might actually be right. Perhaps McDowell’s decision was somehow related to Anderson’s meddling, although he couldn’t quite grasp how his investigation could so instantly affect course numbers.

  Anderson coaxed yet more from Pippa, resisting the urge to question her about an American named Marty or indeed anything controversial. Erdenheim employed two housekeepers and Pippa’s colleague was similarly affected, but as neither of them was being laid off, that seemed to imply some rooms and certain facilities were still in everyday use.

  With Pippa departing the Farriers apparently unconvinced of Anderson’s innocence, Graythorp was next on his agenda, along with the pursuit of a white Lamborghini.

  * * *

  The concrete surface of the pillbox was a convenient vantage point, allowing an unrestricted if distant view of Erdenheim, a wide ledge providing a good resting place for Anderson’s forearms. The Centre’s car park was more than half-full but no sign of a white sports car, the highlight of the past hour the sight of a small van from Boston delivering farm produce.

  For some reason he wasn’t that bothered, confident that Charlotte would have Marty’s surname figured out soon enough. Erdenheim might be short on clients but Marty’s house proved its enigmatic backers had plenty of money, Devereau doubtful as to whether McDowell and Carter had found the million-plus to find the Management Centre themselves. Carter had sold his computer company for several million but had invested badly, the money mostly frittered away; yet he obviously hadn’t lost any of his computer skills, writing most of the software for Erdenheim’s computer simulations.

  Boredom was starting to catch up with Anderson and he moved across to the western side of the pillbox, gaze idly following the road as it meandered its way into Graythorp proper. He had spent exactly a week chasing his way around the Lincolnshire countryside but had never really taken the time to get to know the area. The only high point was the sight of the Boston Stump several miles away, and the totally flat landscape with its scarcity of trees still seemed alien to him.

  Abruptly Anderson froze, listening intently. From far-off came the unmistakable whirring of a helicopter, the squat shape easy to pick up against a bright blue sky. It flew in from the south-west, heading straight for Erdenheim before angling steeply down to land on the helipad. The main rotor blade slowed, idling impatiently while the helicopter’s four passengers – each struggling with a large suitcase – stepped down on to the tarmac. McDowell and another man emerged from inside the main building to greet them; after brief handshakes, the new arrivals were escorted into the Management Centre. Anderson took a good selection of photos but wasn’t optimistic as to whether they would be of any use – even with the zoom the distance was too great for a quality shot.

  The helicopter left without waiting, heading back the way it had come. Anderson watched for another twenty minutes before calling it a day, curious as to what the helicopter’s visit might mean.

  Just because Erdenheim might be struggling for numbers, there was no reason to assume clients and guest speakers wouldn’t still be putting in an appearance. Even so, it was an intriguing development, and Anderson sensed it was time he actually did some proper work for a change. He had promised McDowell a feature on Erdenheim and if nothing else, it would give him a good excuse for a follow-up visit.

  Moscow

  The Senate building within the Moscow Kremlin appeared to be in turmoil, aides scurrying back and forth, Grebeshkov’s two armed escorts saying little as they guided him through the corridors of the President’s power base. The evening summons to the Kremlin had left no room for discussion, and it had been with a deep sense of foreboding that Grebeshkov had walked out of the FSB’s headquarters and into the waiting Mercedes. The Prime Minister had been unavailable all day, leading to rumours of a heart attack, or even that he was under arrest. The latter possibility certainly didn’t augur well for Grebeshkov, especially with his recent promotion as the PM’s Special Adviser.

  The leading escort stopped by a double set of doors and Grebeshkov was ushered into the Security Council Meeting Hall. A respectful salute, then Grebeshkov was left alone with his thoughts, the room’s sombre feel totally in tune with Grebeshkov’s present mood.

  Grebeshkov chose to seat himself near to one end of the long conference table. After the excessive number of meetings he had been forced to endure over the last week, it seemed fitting that he should be sacked – or would it be court-martialled – in such formal surroundings. He assumed he was about to become another casualty of the fallout from Lithuania, and the raid had turned out to be a serious error of judgement. The events of Thursday, culminating in the Moscow riot, had finally forced the Prime Minister’s hand, and even the destruction of a second terrorist cell could not prevent the inevitable. Of the twenty spetsnaz smuggled into Lithuania, four had been killed, another six wounded. Although the possibility of the dachas being booby-trapped had been considered, the reluctance of August 14 to consider suicide attacks had led the Special Forces to downplay such a possibility. And no-one had foreseen that the terrorists would create escape tunnels. Ten or more had managed to slip away before doubling back to turn the attack on its head.

  Even the extraction of the spetsnaz – including the dead – had been beset with problems, coming close to disaster. NATO forces in northern Lithuania had already been on standby, air and ground units consequently reacting far more quickly than had been anticipated. It was only because the two helicopter pilots had wilfully disobeyed orders, extricating the spetsnaz earlier than planned, that they had managed to cross into Belarus just minutes before being intercepted.

  To complete the debacle, the intelligence gathered from the dacha complex was apparently negligible, the only significant success the capture of a lone terrorist. At least seven others had been killed, but altogether it was a poor reward for the loss of four good men, and the repercussions were only just beginning.

  Despite such setbacks, Greb
eshkov truly believed Moscow’s war against August 14 was being won, albeit slowly. Of the original thirteen terrorists, just six were left, including of course, the FSB’s prime target of Eglitis. With Nazarenko’s help, they now had names and faces for all six, their age profile a curious split of young and old: nine were under twenty-five, the remaining four all over fifty.

  Not that August 14 was Moscow’s only problem. While Markova’s fears that Golubeva could be part of a coup were probably an exaggeration, there was enough evidence to sow the seeds of doubt, especially in the present atmosphere of mistrust. Grebeshkov had considered denouncing Golubeva in the vain hope of saving himself before immediately rejecting the idea. She could simply be acting on the President’s behalf, garnering support for difficult times ahead. Even if guilty, would ruining Golubeva really help Grebeshkov’s cause? Whatever her motives, for the moment at least, the wisest course seemed simply to say nothing.

  Forty minutes he had been alone with his thoughts when the conference door was thrust open and the President strode into the room, the door pulled closed behind him. Grebeshkov stood respectfully, the President immediately waving him to sit back down.

  “I’ll be brief, General,” the President said brusquely, seating himself directly opposite Grebeshkov. “Your record as an investigator in the FSB is impressive. Success which, according to Irina Golubeva, is based on old-fashioned thoroughness combined with the confidence to act as much on instinct as reason. Is that a fair assessment, General?”

  “I would like to think so, Sir.” Golubeva was rapidly going up in Grebeshkov’s estimation, her unexpected praise an immediate reward for his decision not to expose her.