The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1)

by Christopher Read

  A sudden thought, and after a rapid search she added a newly-found app to her phone, one which claimed to be able to provide the geographic location for both incoming and outgoing calls. That seemed about as much help as technology could supply; the rest was down to her.

  Charlotte calmed herself, then checked each of her two versions for a final time. Neither was perfect but they would have to do, and if she didn’t phone Anderson soon, she’d certainly lose her nerve.

  When Anderson’s phone went unanswered and defaulted to a recorded message, Charlotte had her response ready. “Hi Mike, it’s Lottie. Not sure if you’re still In England or have reached wonderful Warsaw, but I was thinking about what you said. Give me a call when you’ve got a moment.” When the location app quickly flashed up ‘Unknown’, Charlotte restrained her impulse to throw the phone against the wall.

  It was another thirty minutes before Anderson called back, again opting for voice only. “Hi Lottie, I just got your message.” Anderson’s tone was positively cheerful, or was he just relieved?

  “Hi Mike, thanks for calling back. How are things going?”

  “Pretty good, thanks. Again I’m sorry I had to rush off; my flight leaves early in the morning and there were various things I needed to sort out first.”

  Still no mention of Devereau and Charlotte knew it really was time to worry, certain that Anderson would have contacted Devereau by now; even if he hadn’t, Devereau’s family would surely have let him know that Adam was fighting for his life. Or was Anderson so selfish that Warsaw was the priority?

  Charlotte didn’t believe it and she ran her finger along version two of her prepared script. “I was just thinking again about Warsaw. I can get away on Thursday for a few days, and I’ve never been to Poland.”

  “That’s great, Lottie,” Anderson said, managing to sound enthusiastic. “I’ll get it organised.”

  “I looked it up, and there’s some lovely castles to visit. Where exactly are you staying, is it in the centre or on the outskirts – I just need to plan ahead?”

  Anderson took his time answering, “I’m not sure, the centre I think; I’m sorry, I’m being met when I get to Warsaw.”

  Charlotte sensed Anderson had missed what she was after, glossing over her use of the present tense. And for Charlotte to have emphasised the word centre – as in management training centre – would have been far too obvious. She continued to ramble on about nothing in particular, concerned now she was being far too subtle and Anderson would also miss the second hint. He was playing his part, his tone staying relaxed and animated.

  Decision made, she moved on to the last item on her second list, making sure she said it exactly as she’d written it down, while trying to make it sound natural.

  “Sorry to have messed you about over Warsaw. I’ll get back to my lonely sofa and watch a film... I thought now you’re one of the departed, then putting my trust in Leonardo DiCaprio would be a good choice, or is it a case of Matt Damon?”

  Charlotte could almost hear Anderson’s brain ticking over, “Matt Damon definitely,” he said with emphasis. “I think most people would prefer Jason Bourne to watching Titanic for the hundredth time.”

  “Any other suggestions for a relaxing evening in?”

  Again there was a slight pause before Anderson responded, “The Last of the Mohicans: romance, betrayal and lots of fighting – what more do you need...”

  Charlotte’s hand was shaking as she finished the call. She sensed Anderson had finally picked up on what she was asking, but she wasn’t sure. Saturday’s argument had revolved around a top ten movie list, with twenty or more suggestions thrown back and forth, including The Departed. In the film DiCaprio had played an honest cop, Damon a corrupt cop. If Anderson was on the same wavelength as Charlotte, the message seemed clear: Anderson believed that Charlotte couldn’t trust the police. And the comment about Damon and most people – did that mean she shouldn’t trust anyone? Matt Damon as Jason Bourne had spent most of his time being chased by the CIA – was that relevant?

  Then Anderson had added in The Last of the Mohicans.

  Charlotte struggled to work it all out. Maybe he was hinting that Erdenheim was some CIA operation, but the Mohicans’ reference was just too obscure. But then if it was that obvious, Rebane would understand it as well, so Anderson was presumably trying to be devious.

  Or, of course, Anderson could just prefer Matt Damon to Leonardo DiCaprio, and particularly enjoy spy thrillers and historical epics...

  * * *

  Rebane glanced at McDowell as though wanting his opinion, unsure whether he was missing something.

  “Play it back from the beginning,” McDowell said, eyes watching Anderson.

  A nervous Anderson sat and listened to the recording, thankful now he hadn’t thrown in The Aviator or the more blatant Citizen Kane as a suggestion – between them, Rebane and McDowell were smart enough to work out he was telling Charlotte to go to the papers. But were they smart enough to work out Charlotte’s use of The Departed? Despite being pre-warned by Charlotte’s text referring to herself as Lottie, even Anderson had momentarily been confused. The Last of the Mohicans would help to muddy the waters, and it was amazing how quickly his brain had seized up when trying to think of some clever film title that would guide Charlotte as to what to do next.

  The recording ended and Rebane sat studying Anderson thoughtfully. “The Last of the Mohicans – why that film?” he asked quietly.

  “It’s a good film; Charlotte wanted a title and that’s all I could think of on the spur of the moment.”

  Rebane gave a nod of understanding, “I appreciate your co-operation, Mr Anderson, long may it continue.”

  “It’s still not necessary to involve Charlotte,” Anderson said, “She knows nothing that could threaten August 14.” Despite Rebane implying she would be safe in Poland, Anderson was unconvinced by anything Rebane said. He was assuming Charlotte wasn’t being serious about Warsaw but he couldn’t be certain, and he was terrified any plane journey would turn out to be a one-way trip.

  “She’s already involved up to her pretty neck.” Rebane responded sharply. “And there’s too much at stake to risk simply ignoring her.” He gestured crossly at McDowell, “Take him back, Pat; Mr Anderson is beginning to test my patience.”

  McDowell escorted Anderson back to his room in the accommodation block. The rear-facing room was rather lacking in its dual role as a cell, despite the locked door and window; hence the addition of a camera high up in one corner and the handcuffing of Anderson to a metal fitment on the wall. The bed had been moved so Anderson could lie down with some degree of comfort, but his right wrist was already scraped and bruised. He had worked out several possible ways to wrench the handcuff free, but the vigilant eye of the camera was an appropriate deterrent – that and the warning from McDowell. It wasn’t the words themselves that worried Anderson, or even the tone in which they were said; it was the way McDowell smiled – like a snake marking out its next victim.

  Events were starting to have a horrible inevitability, and despite Rebane’s promises Anderson assumed the latest plan was for him to suffer some accident, possibly in Poland. Until then, Anderson had a TV to watch and butler service for food, drinks and toilet break. The hours invariably dragged by, self-reproach as to his many misjudgements a constant companion; Rebane’s confirmation that George Saunders had indeed been murdered was still a shock, Anderson’s instincts proving to be far superior to his common sense.

  He couldn’t be sure how much Charlotte knew, or had been able to guess, but Rebane seemed very wary of leaving Charlotte to her own devices, and her film references showed she was obviously up to something. Anderson just hoped she didn’t try anything too outrageous and she was sensible enough to pick Devereau as her first point of contact.

  Rebane had done a good job of convincing Anderson as to August 14’s reach, but with Anderson now having had plenty of time to brood and mope, Rebane’s comment about Devereau being warn
ed off simply didn’t ring true. Devereau wasn’t the type to appreciate being ordered around and it was just one example of where Rebane might simply be exaggerating for effect. If not, then things could hardly get any worse.

  * * *

  Charlotte prevaricated as to the wisdom of driving to Anderson’s rented cottage then decided to chance it, using the fact that the agency had a spare key as some sort of omen. She drove the long way round, looking out for a tail, but trying not to make it obvious she was being careful. Thankfully, all seemed normal.

  With the cottage empty, she again felt like she was snooping – which of course she was, but in a good way. She stayed less than ten minutes, any lingering doubts that Anderson was in control of his own destiny finally erased. Anderson might go to Warsaw without certain clothes, shoes, or aftershave, but he most certainly wouldn’t forget his favourite camera.

  Chapter 13 – Wednesday, May 19th

  Moscow

  The nurse cast a despairing look at her erstwhile patient then strode haughtily from the room: if Grebeshkov wanted to run the risk of an infection and thus kill himself, then that was his problem, not hers. As a result the General’s transfer from bed to wheelchair was made with the inexpert assistance of two bodyguards. It was then only a short journey to the main elevators, before a final transit along the wide passageway to the hospital’s side entrance. Outside, a three-car convoy waited impatiently with engines running.

  There was a slight delay as Grebeshkov struggled to manoeuvre his way onto the back seat of the black limousine, then the convoy accelerated away, heading west. The lead car used its siren in an attempt to clear the road ahead, its task made more difficult by traffic-clogged roads and frustrated drivers, the convoy stop-starting its way towards Barvikha and the government dachas. Grebeshkov would have preferred to have returned home, but with the doctors predicting a recovery time of two to three weeks, the President had been insistent, and four days enforced recuperation at Barvikha was the very least he would accept – in the present climate, the Kremlin or even the Lubyanka was no place for an invalid.

  Grebeshkov had been shot twice, the first bullet striking him in his side in line with his heart, the second passing though his right thigh. The body armour had stopped the first bullet, although its kinetic energy still had the potential to kill: known as behind-armour blunt trauma, a cone-shaped layer of compressed body armour and clothing was often driven into the soft tissue, creating a surface injury that at first glance looked similar to a gunshot wound. The resultant shock-wave could on occasion cause more serious injuries depending upon where the bullet struck; in extreme cases, such as when the pulmonary artery was lacerated, the energy transfer itself was the cause of death. Fortunately for Grebeshkov, internal damage was restricted to a single fractured rib. The second bullet had missed both the femur and the femoral artery, and although there was some soft tissue damage plus bruising to the bone, the recommended treatment was nothing more than bed rest and a mix of anti-inflammatories and antibiotics.

  Of dubious consolation was the fact that Eglitis and his associate had both been killed, representing belated justice for two more perpetrators of the Metro bombings. That left just one man, a sixty-year old Polish man named Bagiński, as the sole survivor from Eglitis’ original four cells.

  Just for an instant, Grebeshkov almost felt sorry for Bagiński: everyone involved was fighting for a cause they truly believed in, and under different circumstances Grebeshkov might be the one pushed to extremes while trying to achieve the impossible. The only real difference between them was their motivation, each of them doing what they thought was right.

  In the hours since the assassination attempt, Grebeshkov had worked hard to stay in touch with events both in Moscow and the Baltic. Eglitis’ personal effects had led in turn to his hideout, a large three-storey house east of the city centre, although the subsequent search had produced little of interest other than the usual clutch of cell phones.

  With Eglitis’ death it had been hoped the threat from August 14 would decrease; however, since early that morning there had been an upsurge of terrorist attacks against government facilities – not bombs or bullets, but renewed cyber-espionage. The victims ranged from the old favourites of transportation, communications and the electric power grid, to the previously untouched targets of water supplies and hospital services, even the stock market. Life for the people of Moscow had moved on from the intolerable to the impossible, with disruption to every aspect of their daily existence.

  August 14’s tactics were working to good effect, with even the most placid of Muscovites becoming frustrated and angry as they watched the city crumble around them. Industrial action was spreading, a strike by immigrant workers protesting against the government’s crackdown on its East European workforce exacerbated when Russian workers also took to the streets, demanding an even tougher stance against August 14 and its Western masters. Combined with those employees who couldn’t actually get to work, Moscow was effectively in the grip of a general strike.

  With respect to the Baltic, a short-term compromise had finally been agreed in order to allow time for a more permanent solution to be found. NATO would halt reinforcements heading to the Baltic, while Poland would allow a joint American-Russian mission access to the training centre near Gdansk and to its twenty occupants, all of whom were now being held at a military facility in Gdynia. In return, Russia would permit vessels – other than those heading for Gdansk’s three fuel terminals – to enter port. That process had already started – but with merchant ships having first to be inspected and then only allowed to follow a very specific route, entry to Gdansk and Gdynia was proving to be fairly tedious. In effect, Russia was imposing a shipping-based quota system. Finally, for mutual protection amid the fear of some tragic mistake, a new no-fly zone had been established, covering the Baltic for one hundred kilometres north and east of Gdansk, with Gdansk Lech Walesa Airport and the military airport at Gdynia temporarily closed to all flights.

  To Grebeshkov it looked to be more of a Russian concession than an equitable compromise, yet it was still far better than having warships throwing missiles at each other. Reaction on Moscow’s streets was universally negative, Russia’s right-wing media similarly unwilling to accept anything other than total victory – whatever that might mean. Grebeshkov’s own fears centred on a military coup, and he wondered whether to re-assign Markova to her earlier task. He quickly realised it was too late for that, and in any case his temporary home would hardly be the best place to counter Golubeva’s schemes.

  Even with generous use of the siren, the thirty kilometre journey to the dacha took well over an hour, Grebeshkov’s eventual transfer into bed made easier by the presence of both his wife and a nurse. Although not quite as sumptuous as some of the government’s many country houses, Grebeshkov had been allocated a dacha of two stories and a range of modern amenities. Surrounded on all sides by a forest of pine, the dacha’s faded wooden boards and antique furniture gave it a traditional feel, its many rooms and sombre decor offering an environment of tranquillity, a place to relax and forget the troubles of the world.

  However, relaxation was not high on Grebeshkov’s list of priorities. Within an hour, the first report arrived from the Lubyanka, Grebeshkov reading through the details with a frown of concentration. He had instructed an FSB team to review recent strikes and unrest to see if there was a pattern, and their initial findings left little room for doubt, duly confirming Grebeshkov’s worst fears. The team concluded that while many strikes were obviously spontaneous, others revealed a more organised approach, fermented by activists working in concert. It was even suggested that this too was a deliberate act by August 14, the terrorists’ bombs replaced by rhetoric.

  Three such activists had been identified, their recent movements checked. It quickly became clear August 14’s base in Poland provided a very different but equally effective form of training compared to Lithuania, one based on creating turmoil and disorder without th
e need for explosives, or even a single death. Such activists could well have been spreading their poisonous message for months, twisting the attacks on Moscow’s streets to their own advantage, continually emphasising the weakness of the Government while pushing home the need for change.

  A second difference with Lithuania was that none of the three agitators were from Eastern Europe: two were born in the Russian Republic of Komi, the third in the Republic of North Ossetia. The strategy seemed clear: first the bombs to create an environment of mistrust and fear, then the provocateurs to rip Russia apart. And the President’s actions in the Baltic had obligingly pushed Russia to the very edge, NATO conveniently acting as August 14’s unknowing allies. Or perhaps some in NATO weren’t quite so innocent, with Poland’s exact role still open to question.

  Grebeshkov thrust the report aside and turned on the TV for the latest on Moscow’s pain. He was met with a scene of chaos, angry protestors battering at metal railings with stone and concrete, while others fought with a cordon of riot police. The camera panned back, and Grebeshkov recognised the flattened grey modernist slab that was the Polish Embassy. The police were vastly outnumbered and as Grebeshkov watched, a set of railings split, opening up enough to let a group of protestors into the embassy grounds.

  The TV picture reverted to the newsroom, the anchorwoman explaining the scenes were from an hour earlier, prompting renewed fears the military might be brought in to stabilise Moscow and prevent further disruption; although quite how the army would defend Moscow against cyber-attacks, or even wildcat strikes, was left unanswered. The TV picture flipped back to a live image of the embassy. Now the camera position was from higher up and further back: somehow the police had managed to re-establish their cordon around the embassy walls, but the street was still filled with an angry and vociferous crowd. In the background, bright against the early evening light, flames danced upwards from the embassy entrance, smoke billowing out to obscure most of the upper floor. Heard above the noise of the protestors was the occasional rattle of gunfire, although Grebeshkov could see no evidence that any of the crowd near the embassy were armed.