From the top of the gangway, Charlotte caught a glimpse of two more ships berthed on the opposite side of the dock, cargo vessels similar to the Princess Eloise. Then the view was blocked as McDowell shoved them through a watertight hatch.
Once the van driver had followed them inside and pulled the hatch shut, McDowell grabbed Charlotte’s wrist and undid the handcuffs, gesturing at her to go up the angled ladder to their right. Once she had reached the top, McDowell repeated the exercise with Anderson, reinforcing his orders with an unnecessary shove towards the ladder. Charlotte waited impotently, noting with concern Anderson’s wince of pain at every other step, despite trying to keep his weight on his left side. Finally, it was through into a surprisingly large and pleasant-looking twin-bedded inside cabin.
Without comment, the van driver barged past and half flung the two suitcases onto one of the beds, obviously annoyed at being a porter without even the prospect of a juicy tip. McDowell waited at the threshold, looking relaxed now he had successfully transferred his two charges.
“All the comforts of home,” he said with a grin. “And far better this than a bullet in the head.”
Charlotte asked, “Where exactly are we headed? Or is that a state secret?”
“You should reach Gdansk sometime Sunday morning, Russian blockade permitting. The Captain’s name is Koval – he’s Ukrainian but his English is excellent. Have a nice trip...”
“We will,” Anderson said. “I don’t suppose you know the weather forecast?”
McDowell ignored the comment, and without a backward glance he thrust the cabin door shut, the handle trembling slightly as something was affixed to it.
Charlotte gave it a few seconds before trying first to turn the handle, then the lock; sadly, neither would budge. She turned back and gestured at their surroundings, “It could be far worse.”
“True enough... two single cabins would have been a complete disaster.”
“How are you feeling?” Charlotte enquired, still worried that Anderson was suffering rather more than he indicated.
“Pretty sore, but better than earlier. Give me twenty-four hours on the high seas and I’ll be throwing up like any healthy person. There’s just one problem...”
“Only one?”
“I’m sure I ordered a double not a twin room and the brochure definitely showed a balcony.”
“Would you like me to scream loudly for McDowell and tell him you’re not happy? I’m sure he can have a quiet word with Captain Koval and sort something out; perhaps a nice room in the hold or even the bilge.”
“No need; three days, alone with you in small cabin, and nothing to do – I should really be writing him a thank-you note.”
“And I thought you were poorly.”
“Not that poorly. I’m just hoping it wasn’t McDowell that packed your case.”
Charlotte pulled a face at the thought and started to rummage through the first of the suitcases. “It’s just clothes and all neatly folded, so I’m being positive as to who packed it. You get some sleep, Mike; you look like you need it. I’ll sort this lot out.”
Anderson knew he was taking the chauvinistic option but he was too exhausted to argue, “Just yell if anything exciting happens...”
Anderson lay back on the free bed and closed his eyes. Within minutes he lapsed into a fitful sleep. Charlotte quickly sorted out the two cases, then sat on the other bed, knees pulled up to her chin while studying their new domain.
McDowell hadn’t been exaggerating: the cabin was en-suite, with table, two chairs, desk, wardrobe and drawers, even a wall-mounted TV and a small fridge. The fridge was in fact part of a well-stocked mini-bar, with wine, soft drinks, snacks and chocolate. The hotel theme continued into the en-suite shower room with its range of luxury toiletries. Overall, there was ample room to swing several cats, while the quality furnishings and dark blue wall-to-wall carpet gave the cabin a luxurious feel. It was not at all what Charlotte expected of a small cargo ship. Sadly, being an internal cabin, there was no porthole, so the traditional message in a bottle option was a definite non-starter.
Charlotte’s thoughts turned to her mother, concerned her earlier phone call might not have been convincing enough for Rebane. She was certain Jessica had no suspicions there was any sort of a problem, and her mother had seemed delighted Charlotte was off to Warsaw to meet up with Anderson. Jessica had even promised to restrain her curiosity and only interrogate Charlotte more fully once she’d returned.
Charlotte could only hope that events would allow Jessica to keep to her promise, preferably the sooner the better. Still, as McDowell had said, things could be far worse, and even though Anderson was a bit under the weather, his bruises would heal. He had tried apologising, blaming himself for the mess they were in, but Charlotte would have none of it – she had free will, which combined with her stubborn streak, meant that her active involvement in Anderson’s quest was never really in doubt. Poland was days away and a lot could happen before then; she certainly had no intention of brooding on what might be their fate once they arrived – at least not until Saturday night.
Of more immediate concern was the fear Anderson might possibly have a fractured rib or two, and Charlotte made a mental note to try and find out if any of the ship’s crew had medical training. Assuming, of course, the Captain didn’t decide to cut his losses and throw them both overboard.
* * *
McDowell moved away along the dock to make sure Fisher would be unable to hear his cell phone conversation: it wouldn’t do for his colleague to be confused as to where McDowell’s loyalties lay. McDowell had long since given up trying to make sense of who worked for whom and why. In his present line of work, the deeper you dug the more shit you came across, and it never helped make anything any clearer. Rebane might believe his paymasters were a group of like-minded benefactors, with their roots based in Eastern Europe, but that was just a naïve hope or more simply blind faith, the reality far different.
Polish, Ukrainian, Russian, American, politician, poet, banker or gangster – McDowell didn’t care whom he worked for as long as he was paid what he was due. And through some odd moral principle based loosely on honour, once McDowell had given his word then his allegiance was guaranteed – well at least for as long as the money kept coming. The fact he was presently being paid rather handsomely was merely an appropriate reward for his commitment and effort; he had worked hard to help make Erdenheim a success, and those first few months had been far more challenging, indeed far more enjoyable, than he had ever anticipated. Now the last few weeks were in sight he felt an unusual sense of regret and despite their differing personalities, the team of Rebane, Carter and McDowell had worked particularly well together.
Having reached the far corner of the dock, McDowell finally halted. A last check, just to be sure there was nobody in earshot, then he made the call.
The number was answered at the sixth ring. “Yes, Pat.” The voice was that of an elderly woman, her accent slight but still noticeable, and to McDowell’s ear not that dissimilar to Rebane’s.
“Anderson and his girlfriend are aboard the Eloise; due to set sail in just over an hour; destination Gdansk.”
“Arrival time?”
“Late Sunday morning. If the blockade is still operating, the Captain will divert to Szczecin. In either case, the plan is to then transfer them to a safe-house near Warsaw.”
There was a slight pause as the woman mulled over McDowell’s update. “I hope both are still in one piece? They’re no good to us dead.”
“You sound like Rebane; I had a bit of fun winding him up but once he can put a face to a victim he lacks the balls to do anything. Anderson’s gained a few bruises but nothing too serious. Koval’s reliable and unless they try something really stupid, they’ll both be fine.”
McDowell could almost sense the woman nodding her understanding. “On a related matter, I’ve been impressed with your choice of Jon Carter; he’s proved a crucial asset and I trust he’ll be i
nvolved in the second phase.”
“I’ve already been told to take good care of him,” confirmed McDowell softly. “You’ve no need to worry.”
“And how’s Rebane coping?”
“Not getting much sleep,” McDowell said. “But he’s keeping on top of things.”
“We need him to be fully focused in these final few days,” said the woman. “The pivotal moment could happen anytime soon, certainly less than a week, and I assume you have everything prepared.”
“Of course,” McDowell confirmed, thoughts briefly contemplating on how and where to spend his bonus. “One phone call is all it will take.”
Barvikha, Russia
Grebeshkov sat in an armchair, both feet raised, legs covered in a blanket, reflecting on how quickly he had gone from being a high-powered general in the FSB to an old man needing to be helped to the bathroom. Soon no doubt he would be feeble in mind as well as in body, remembering with clarity the events of his youth while forgetting his wife’s name, and even her face.
Still, old age had some advantages, and from the open-plan room he had a fine view of the forest, the glint of water just visible through the trees. And it was so peaceful, with the gentle tick-tock of the Swedish longcase clock often the only sound to break the silence. It was so perfect Grebeshkov had to restrain the urge to scream loudly or smash something in frustration, anything to stop himself from slowly going insane. His existence now seemed to consist of eating, drinking, sleeping and frequent visits to the bathroom; not that he felt in control over even those basic functions, his wife seemingly determined to treat him as a complete invalid. Grebeshkov could berate and bully anyone, male, female, colleague or civilian – anyone except for his wife.
Whilst technology was doing its very best to keep him informed of events elsewhere, he was forbidden from interfering. Grebeshkov had protested that he was fine, but the President’s version of recuperation was the one that counted – and that meant Grebeshkov was no longer fully in the loop, his wife even going so far as to limit his contact with the Lubyanka. He had tried taking his frustrations out on his nurse, a middle-aged woman who was far too polite to ever argue, but it had merely made him feel guilty. It was difficult but he had forced himself to read a book, listen to music, and even lose to his wife at chess. And still he felt resentful, irritated that no-one else appeared to share his sense of isolation.
So it was a relief when his wife announced he had visitors, Grebeshkov just hopeful it was someone from the FSB and not another doctor to tell him to take it easy. In fact it was a pairing he could never have guessed at – Markova’s smart uniform and good looks making Golubeva appear even more dowdy than usual.
Grebeshkov’s wife knew the routine from old, quickly organising tea and then leaving them alone, Golubeva pulling up a chair to sit opposite Grebeshkov, Markova taking station by the window yet not quite out of earshot.
“You’re looking tired, Dmitry,” Golubeva said matter-of-factly. “But still better than I expected. I understand you’ll be back with us in a few days.”
“Three more days,” Grebeshkov responded, rather more sharply than he’d intended. Whatever words Golubeva used and however she said it, there was always a hidden message, and Grebeshkov was already on his guard, unsure what she was after. And the reason for Markova’s presence was still unclear.
“The President has asked me to pass on his best wishes for a speedy recovery, and also his congratulations.”
“Congratulations?” Grebeshkov asked curiously. “For what?”
“Your promise to catch Eglitis and his associates. You did it in just four days. That’s a very impressive record, General; you ought to be proud.”
Grebeshkov frowned, “There’s still the remaining metro bomber – the Pole Bagiński.”
“Not so,” Golubeva announced. “His body has been in the morgue for over a week. He was pulled out of the Moskva near Gorky Park and the police assumed it was drug-related. He had no papers and had been shot in the face, so identification was difficult; more so as he’d been in the river for at least two days. Perhaps he and Eglitis fell out but I guess we’ll never know. Nine terrorists dead, four in custody: a job well done, General.” Golubeva gave a thin smile, “Making yourself a target was a brave if somewhat foolish move.”
“A calculated risk,” Grebeshkov said gruffly. Such praise always made him feel ill at ease, with mistakes by the terrorists themselves playing a significant part in the FSB’s success.
Golubeva said, “You’re definitely better off here than in Moscow. The State of Emergency has had little effect, and to add to the traffic jams and strikes, several government computer networks have been hacked. We’re in grave danger of losing complete control… For the record, Dmitry, no-one blames you for Lithuania; the Prime Minister ignored your advice and the spetsnaz attack was ill-judged with poor intelligence. It was always a very risky option.” Golubeva tried to give a winning smile, but it still came across as a scowl, “You have won the public’s respect, Dmitry; they recognise your achievements with August 14, and even the terrorists fear you enough to make you a target.”
An embarrassed Grebeshkov quickly chose to return the conversation to something less personal. “Are we getting anywhere with Poland?”
“The shipping quota is frustrating for everyone but there is little sign the President’s demands will be met. Our representatives have visited August 14’s base and apparently it is masquerading as some sort of religious sanctuary: there were no weapons, no explosives, nothing that could be described as a physical threat. We know now they are being trained to spread dissent and organise strikes, but to the world we look like idiots, seeing terrorists in every Polish village and home. August 14’s strategy of inciting worker unrest is proving particularly effective and from the hundreds arrested in Moscow we have identified five who were trained at Gdansk; we now estimate they have some sixty agents spread across Russia.”
“And all Russian?” Grebeshkov asked, shocked at the numbers.
“All Russian speaking, with perhaps one in ten from Eastern Europe. It seems they have been planning this for a year or more.” Golubeva leaned forward, her voice softening, “From your perspective, Dmitry, away from the stress of the Lubyanka, how do you assess the President’s handling of the crisis?”
The sudden change of emphasis and loaded question was typical of Golubeva, and Grebeshkov picked his words with care. “I am certainly not in the best position to judge: a diet of television news and the internet will always give a biased view. Sadly, I fear Moscow will have to undergo more pain before normality returns.”
“And the continuing blockade of Gdansk?”
Grebeshkov chose to give a more honest answer, “It will be difficult to extricate ourselves without loss of face. Even if Poland gives in to all of our demands, I doubt that will stop the terrorists already here. We should have taken up the offer of American help when August 14 attacked the British Airways’ flight. Now world opinion is against us, and I’m unclear what we can do to retrieve the situation.”
Golubeva nodded thoughtfully before bringing Markova into the conversation. “I was shocked to discover you had so few guards, Dmitry. You are still a target, and I felt Captain Markova would be best suited to provide the protection you require. I trust that is acceptable?”
Polite and helpful – Grebeshkov was starting to feel very uncomfortable. “Very acceptable, Irina; I am indebted to you.” Now he too was being ingratiating. Much more and he would throw up.
It was another twenty minutes before Golubeva took her leave, escorted out by Markova. The latter returned to stand a respectful distance from Grebeshkov’s chair, politely waiting for him to speak.
“Captain Markova,” Grebeshkov said. “Welcome to the countryside. I am curious to know what Golubeva told you.”
“Very little, Sir. I received new orders about three hours ago: gather a team of twelve and escort Golubeva’s car here; then assume responsibility for your personal securi
ty.” Markova gave a broad smile, “The orders were countersigned by the President himself. It seems he is very concerned as to your safety, Sir.”
“That’s what’s worrying me, Captain. Perhaps I have more enemies that even I suspected...”
The Princess Eloise
Charlotte woke from an exhausted sleep to hear the steady throb of the ship’s engine. Her watch told her it was less than three hours since they’d boarded, although lack of sleep made it feel like it was actually much later. The indoor cabin was slightly disorienting, but she sensed the Princess Eloise was moving at a good speed, so it was likely they were already well out into the North Sea.
Minutes later, there was the rattle of a key in the door. In the other bed, Anderson jerked awake, pushing himself upright.
A uniformed figure entered, the man looking to be at least as tall as Anderson, mid-forties, his black beard speckled with silver.
“Captain Koval?” Anderson asked, the exhaustion sounding in his voice.
“That’s correct. No more names, please; it’s better not to know.”
“Fair enough,” Anderson said without enthusiasm. “Anything to protect the guilty.”
Charlotte would have kicked him if he’d been closer and fully fit. “We understand, Captain,” she said, keen not to antagonise their jailor.
“Your anger is quite understandable,” Koval said pleasantly. “And I genuinely regret that we have to meet under such circumstances. I would still hope that we can treat each other with civility.”
“Of course, Captain,” Charlotte said, forcing a smile. If being polite was the worst she had to put up with, then that was fine.
The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) Page 21