Additional resources would now need to be actioned ahead of time, their utilisation a delicate balance between breaking the Russian Federation apart and driving it back towards Soviet-style totalitarianism. As a result, Erdenheim could no longer maintain its dual function, and the Management Centre was having to tighten its belt to cope with this final phase. Erdenheim’s normal timetable had now been completely abandoned, all courses cancelled with immediate effect – apologising to a set of very unhappy clients somehow seemed the least of their problems.
Rebane took a final drag on the cigarette and considered whether it would be advantageous to change tactics, if only for a day, and turn August 14’s focus onto individuals rather than its more usual inanimate targets. It was a precarious time both for Rebane and August 14, not a time to make rash decisions, most certainly not a time to make another mistake.
* * *
The return trip back from Boston had still not revealed a suspicious Audi skulking in the rear-view mirror and if Rebane was to be believed, then any followers were doubtless from the Security Services. Devereau had typically given short shrift to Anderson’s complaint about not mentioning his links with MI6, claiming it was a time best left in the past; similarly, Rebane’s presence at Erdenheim and his explanation as to his role were met with the text equivalent of a non-committal shrug, Devereau letting Anderson decide whether or not to cut his losses and move on.
Rebane might have called his bluff, but Anderson wasn’t ready to give up just yet, curious as to Erdenheim’s most recent visitors. The photographs from Friday had given him the helicopter’s registration number, the Civil Aviation Authority website supplying the owner’s name and address; forty minutes later, Devereau was in his car heading south of Watford and on towards Denham Aerodrome near Uxbridge, a sixty-mile round trip on the off-chance of learning something worthwhile.
If Anderson expected Devereau’s persuasive skills would ensure some sort of breakthrough then he was disappointed, and the information was basic at best. Erdenheim had regularly chartered a helicopter from Heathrow to Graythorp, the majority of passengers American, usually no more than six. While it didn’t directly contradict anything Rebane had said, it just seemed odd that Britain would rely so heavily on American expertise, with Carter apparently the lone UK representative.
Charlotte’s arrival was a welcome after-dinner distraction, Anderson trying to be generous at her success in identifying Lara, irritated that he hadn’t thought of it first.
“And Rob confirmed it was her?” he asked while reading though Klaudia Woroniecki’s internet profile.
“Ninety percent certain,” Charlotte said, trying not to gloat too much.
“And you’ve brought Zhilin’s other two books with you because? Personally I’d rather burn them than have to read another page.”
“I thought we might combine resources,” said Charlotte with a smile. “With your perceptive genius and my deductive reasoning, then surely anything is possible. The acknowledgements gave us Rebane and Woroniecki – maybe your friend Yuri is in there as well? I’m still struggling to find nine people from the book that gave me Klaudia.”
Anderson knew it was well worth a try. “I guess we’re sticking with people whose expertise is related to terrorism in some form or another?”
Charlotte nodded, “Using Amazon as a filter helped with some of the more common names; there’s also a Global Expert Database. There might only be fifty or so left to check, less if several double or triple up.”
In fact it was simpler than Charlotte had imagined, there just thirty-five more names to be pursued, one from The Tactics of Terror immediately striking a chord.
“Aldis Eglitis,” Charlotte said, staring down at the page. “He’s the man the Russians are desperate to get their hands on.”
“While true,” said Anderson with a shrug, “it still proves nothing. Just because Zhilin consulted with Eglitis, that doesn’t mean Rebane knows him. Even if they worked together on the book, that was years ago; Devereau would just laugh at me if I used one dodgy reference to somehow link August 14 to what’s happening at Erdenheim.”
“But you have to admit, it’s intriguing.”
“As with everything we’ve found,” said Anderson exasperated.
The news reports had been working hard to keep them apprised as to events in the Baltic, the Government in Warsaw vehemently denying any prior knowledge of August 14’s Polish base. Erdenheim’s complicity remained unproven but the amount of circumstantial evidence was slowly gathering pace and for what it was worth, Anderson’s own verdict on Poland was rapidly edging towards guilty.
Chapter 12 – Tuesday, May 18th
Moscow
Grebeshkov ignored the driving rain and strode purposefully along Nikolskaya Street, forgoing his official car for the short journey from the Lubyanka to the Kremlin. For his four bodyguards it was far from ideal, but Grebeshkov had curtly dismissed their concerns. With one leading the way, the others kept close to Grebeshkov while giving him a certain amount of personal space; fortunately, the bodyguards’ very presence often created its own protective bubble, and in the main the other pedestrians quickly stepped aside.
The narrow street was one of the oldest in Moscow, its fine buildings once making it a centre for scholars and poets; now it catered for the fashionable and the thirsty, the bright lights of the boutiques and bars blighting the ornate stone facades. Since the uprising of ‘93, Moscow’s streets and squares had undergone a popular transformation, and in an attempt to eradicate the memory of 70 years of communist-inspired ineptitude, the city had gradually reverted to its pre-revolutionary state. So Twenty-Fifth of October Street had once again become Nikolskaya Street, with the even more preposterous Fiftieth Anniversary of the October Revolution Square restored to its more traditional title of Manezhnaya.
The walk was slowly helping to clear Grebeshkov’s mind, his thoughts preoccupied with the latest reports from Kaliningrad. May 18th: the Baltic Fleet should have been celebrating its birthday; instead, it was forming an ever tighter noose around Gdansk and Gdynia, while readying itself for the arrival of yet more NATO ships. Other than the USS John Finn, only a handful of vessels had been foolish enough to test the blockade and in such cases the warships had been quick to enforce their mandate; four merchant ships had been fired upon, one suffering minor damage, no casualties reported.
In reply, NATO had denounced and threatened, with additional warships now being deployed to the Baltic, both from the U.S. Sixth Fleet and their European allies. Diplomacy was still struggling to find a solution, with talks at the United Nations deadlocked. For the moment it had become a test of wills, and eventually NATO’s raw power would force Russia to give way. But Poland too had been censured, and Polish public opinion was split as to whether the Government was implicitly helping August 14. The terrorists themselves had apparently been spirited away from their base near Gdansk, their present whereabouts unknown.
In Russia, protests continued to grow, with Arbat Square the main focus for dissent. Violent clashes between demonstrators and police were also being reported from Kaliningrad to Vladivostok. The U.S. and Polish embassies were virtually under siege and the theory that August 14 was an American-Polish invention was rapidly gaining acceptance. Russia’s aggressive response had generally been well received, many of influence warning the Government against accepting any US-led compromise, some going so far as to demand even tougher action against Poland.
Otherwise, the streets of Moscow were relatively peaceful, August 14 noteworthy for its inactivity. Despite the lack of progress as to whether the terrorists trained in Poland had even reached Moscow, Grebeshkov was growing more confident that August 14’s strength had finally been blunted. Link and pattern analysis, using CCTV evidence of Nabiyev’s movements combined with the data from his car, was also helping highlight where others from August 14 – even perhaps Eglitis – might be found, just one of several strategies vying to complete their destruction.
By the time Grebeshkov reached the Pokrovsky Opera the pavement had become more crowded. Distracted, Grebeshkov almost walked into an elderly couple, the woman having to quickly step aside. The General turned to apologise, his words suddenly stilled as the woman gave a shuddering cry and collapsed to the ground, a bright red welt newly revealed on her jacket.
One of Grebeshkov’s bodyguards reacted far quicker than the General and a hard shove sent him up the three steps towards the Opera entrance. Grebeshkov had time to realise someone was shooting at him and time to wonder why he couldn’t hear the shots above the screams, when both legs abruptly buckled beneath him, a dark cloud sweeping him down into unconsciousness.
* * *
From the opposite pavement Eglitis backed away, moving south-west towards the Kremlin. As two of Grebeshkov’s bodyguards crouched over the General’s still body, a third opened fire, the shop window beside Eglitis shattering with a deafening crash. Around Eglitis the pavement emptied as pedestrians sought sanctuary wherever they could. At least one person was already wounded, his cries merging with the frightened screams of those caught up in the mayhem. A few yards away, a car had smashed into the rear of another, virtually blocking the street, a bemused driver standing beside his car and staring open-mouthed at the chaos unfolding on either side of the street.
Further back down Nikolskaya Street, a blue Lada mounted the pavement, terrified pedestrians flinging themselves aside as the car fought its way along the one-way street and past the now stationary traffic. Eglitis pressed himself into the cover of a doorway, firing twice in the vague direction of Grebeshkov’s bodyguards; then, as the Lada shuddered to a halt beside him, he wrenched open the rear door and threw himself in.
An instant later bullets peppered the side of the car, the young driver grunting in pain as blood darkened the back of his shirt. He jammed his foot back down on the accelerator and the Lada leapt forward. Another hundred metres and the man wrenched the wheel to the left, down a narrow lane and past the Epiphany Monastery. Abruptly the Lada screeched to a halt behind stationary traffic, Eglitis thrown painfully against the driver’s head-rest.
“Keep going!” Eglitis shouted. “Just get us anywhere but here!”
The driver used the pavement again, the Lada moving only a few yards before a line of parked and empty cars blocked the way ahead. A savage pull on the wheel, and the Lada smashed its way back onto the road, cars battered aside in its frenzied attempt to break free.
The driver turned as though to speak to Eglitis, then with a blood-choked sigh he slumped forward. Eglitis took a glance behind, choosing to continue on foot, half-running half-walking, gun hand held tight inside his jacket. He gave another hurried glance back, brain filtering out the innocent to focus on four men in the black uniform of the FSB’s counter-terrorist unit, plus at least half-a-dozen police. The closest was some seventy metres away, gun drawn, looking but not yet seeing his quarry. Eglitis couldn’t understand how the security forces had reacted so quickly, sensing now that he had been drawn into some sort of trap.
He raced left, heading towards the nearest metro entrance. Heart pounding, his breathing was becoming laboured and he felt his chest begin to tighten, the spasm pressing in with an intensity that drew a sudden gasp.
Eglitis staggered to a stop, sinking to his knees, fighting against the pain.
From around the corner a single policeman appeared gun in hand. He looked straight at Eglitis, then shouted something incoherent. Eglitis was barely conscious but he managed to loose off a shot, hand shaking with the strain.
The reply was instantaneous, a bullet tugging at Eglitis’ right arm, a second thumping into his side. The shock turned the angina into a full-blown heart attack and a grey-faced Eglitis collapsed to the ground, left hand clutching helplessly at his chest.
Bushey, England
Devereau was running late, the plans for his grand-daughter’s birthday apparently requiring his involvement in a long list of instructions, thus ensuring he would not suddenly cry off with a forgotten appointment or some other familiar excuse. List duly considered and confirmed, Devereau was given leave by his wife to begin his usual early morning constitutional for the newspaper. The commuter and school traffic had just about ended, a daily waste of time of which Devereau was delighted not to be a part. It was eight years since he and MI6 had parted company, Devereau being pig-headed and resigning on a matter of principle when falsely accused of fiddling his expenses and then trying to cover it up. The injustice of it all played only a small part in his reasons for leaving. What rankled most was his superiors’ lack of belief in his ability. If he had wanted to fiddle his expenses, it would have taken far more than a junior clerk to ferret it out.
That was all well in the past, and Devereau was quite proud of the freedom his new occupation gave him – no fixed base except his home, no secretary except his live-in daughter, no hour-long city commute. Thank heaven for his HTC phone: it had most of the resources of his previous office, all nicely wrapped up in one very smart pocket-sized package.
He walked at a steady pace, finding the breeze with its persistent rain more refreshing than unpleasant. In any case, Devereau was feeling rather pleased with himself, and it would have taken a torrential downpour to dampen his mood. Asking Anderson to go to Marshwick had been one of Devereau’s better ideas and it was clear there was something very unusual happening at Graythorp. Despite his cavalier treatment of Anderson, he was now as much a friend as employee, and Devereau was content to let Anderson take the lead, helping out if needed. Friends in the Security Services were nowadays few and far between and Devereau mentally worked his way through his diminishing list of Intelligence contacts, weighing up which one might know something of Erdenheim’s true role.
Some fifty yards behind Devereau, on the opposite side of the road, a stolen BMW crawled slowly along. The driver kept the BMW in second gear, making regular checks on rear-view and wing mirrors for signs of other traffic. Despite the hour, the suburban road was relatively quiet, and August 14’s second target of the day never once looked back, Devereau striding along at a surprisingly brisk pace.
The BMW’s driver let the car glide to a halt while he carefully checked the mirrors once more. Still undecided as to his next move, he wavered between a simple hit-and-run or waiting for an opportunity with a more predictable outcome. It needed to be clear-cut, and concussion or even several broken bones would simply not suffice.
Devereau gave a quick glance behind, then started to angle his way across the road. The driver made an instant decision. Seizing his chance he pressed down hard on the accelerator and the BMW surged forward.
Devereau was only a yard past the central white line when he looked to his left. For a brief second he froze, then instinctively he threw himself backwards.
The driver snatched the steering wheel to the right and there was a dull thump as metal and plastic met flesh and bone, Devereau’s body half twisting as his head smashed down onto the bonnet. An instant later his broken body was cast aside, a squeal of protest dragged from the tyres as they skidded across the tarmac. The driver immediately released the brake, before thrusting his foot back down on the accelerator.
The adrenalin was still doing its work as the driver swung the car through two right turns and out onto the main road. Now he began to wonder if he had been too clever, the shriek of the tyres must have attracted attention and already someone might be on the phone, giving details of the colour and make of the car. Yet an innocent driver would surely have slammed on the brakes, even if he later drove away in panic.
The driver forced his breathing to slow: no need to worry, it was a job well done.
Lincolnshire, England
Breakfast became a rushed affair and it was well after eight by the time Charlotte left, Anderson wasting another hour before choosing to get with grips with writing his second article on Erdenheim; this one not just for local consumption but a money-making exclusive unmasking all of Erdenheim’s many secrets
. Sadly, he wasn’t quite certain as yet what exactly they were.
Anderson sat in the kitchen, paper notes resting on the table beside him, and stared at the laptop hoping for inspiration. Devereau was the expert on high-powered scandals and exposés, Anderson the apprentice with his first big case and depending upon how well their assumptions panned out, either Erdenheim was part of a covert scheme to counter August 14 or it was August 14. Ideally, Anderson wanted an opening statement that was suitably dramatic and could cleverly cover all possibilities, but with facts presently a little thin on the ground, that was proving difficult.
Anderson’s deliberations were interrupted by the crunch of a car on the gravel drive. He glanced through the window to see McDowell emerge from a black SUV; no sign of anyone else. Anderson mulled over his options then dismissed the cowardly ones – even so, he only half-opened the front door.
“Mr Anderson, I hope I haven’t interrupted anything important. I’ve come with an invitation from Martin Rebane...”
McDowell’s demeanour was relaxed, his smile seemingly genuine. Anderson breathed out in relief, his grip on the door loosening. It was the only invitation McDowell needed, and in one fluid motion the door was barged open, Anderson thumped in the pit of his stomach.
Doubled over, he took a step back, unable to do anything but watch as McDowell strode across the threshold, grabbing Anderson by the shoulders and dragging him into the kitchen and up onto a chair.
The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) Page 16