Markova chose to consult further, eventually nodding in agreement. “Again, we would need to limit any such search to just three national passport databases. Accessing them could prove difficult…”
Despite Markova’s caution, Anderson was starting to sense nothing was beyond the FSB once it got its teeth into a problem. Their first task was to produce a target list of airlines, reducing the hundreds of flights arriving at Heathrow on the morning of April 25th, and those departing on the afternoon of the 28th, to more manageable proportions.
Anderson had become blasé about such tactics, willing to cut a generous swathe through the various possibilities. Markova was rather more judicious, their final compromise eliminating those flight arrivals without a corresponding return departure, plus flights arriving at Heathrow from west of Brussels, east of Moscow, or south of Milan.
Anderson waited patiently, making good use of the contents of the mini-bar as an alternative to the regularly proffered tea. On Markova’s laptop, the flights’ spreadsheet flickered erratically as rows were deleted, until just over a hundred remained – still far more than Anderson would have liked. And still far too many airlines, even if they just picked out the flag carriers. And was it even safe to assume that the terrorists would always ignore Russia’s Aeroflot? Anderson had asked if Aeroflot could be added as an extra to the choice of three airlines, but apparently not; it was the same with the passport data, Russia’s data centre having to count as one of the magic three.
Anderson knew they were already restricting the search far too rigidly, but under the present limitations there seemed little choice. He studied the list of flights, worrying that the more popular airlines might not necessarily be the right ones to check.
Markova was first to speak, “BA and Lufthansa, plus one other? Finnair?”
“The Polish Airline, LOT,” Anderson said positively.
Markova shrugged but didn’t disagree. A quick consultation with her colleagues, and then their computer skills were finally put to a more stringent test, the booking databases hacked for passenger name records covering the relevant arrivals and corresponding departures. Anderson hoped he wasn’t expecting the impossible: even if they could have checked every return flight, Yuri or Lara might simply have chosen a different way home, such as flying indirect via somewhere like Spain or the more convoluted option of Eurostar.
The minutes dragged by, Anderson’s hopes resting on a virtual tug of war between the FSB and the airlines. One of August 14’s most potent weapons was being turned against it, the hacking skills of Markova’s team hopefully comparable to Jonathan Carter’s.
A meal of cold meat, boiled potatoes, eggs and salad eventually arrived, together with tea and coffee. Despite the half-empty mini-bar Anderson tucked in, not quite knowing when or where his next meal might be.
It took the team just over an hour to complete the Heathrow task. The lists were then compared, matching names extracted, the PNR used to filter out anyone who didn’t book online less than four days in advance and pay by credit card.
“Still over eighty matches,” Markova announced. “Mostly British, Dutch and German.” She kept tapping away, talking as she did so, “Ignoring the cancellations and no-shows, there are eighteen men of the right age; ten women; twelve different nationalities. Taking out economy class would help.”
Anderson nodded his agreement, despite worrying that they were already well over-loaded on assumptions.
The updated listing appeared on Markova’s laptop: five men, three women; six nationalities.
Anderson felt they were getting somewhere, although Markova’s body language suggested she was far from convinced. It was still too many nationalities for a passport check, and they went through the whole process a second time, looking to find a logical way to reduce the numbers still further.
The number of possibilities remained fixed at eight...
Anderson decided it was time for a leap of faith. “The man’s native language is either Russian or Polish; so forget the British, Dutch and Czech options. That would leave us with Polish or Ukrainian. Again, ignore the Dutch woman and we have German or Polish. We could check the national passport centres for Germany, Poland and the Ukraine, and pray we’ve got it right. It’s either that or nothing.”
Markova frowned, trying not to let Anderson’s cavalier approach rush her into making a decision. “It seems reasonable,” she said finally. “And, as you say, we have nothing else.”
Again it was sit and wait. Even with a passport photo, there was still no guarantee the FSB’s facial-recognition software would come up with a suitable match. Anderson tried to remain positive, wandering around the office, peering at every picture for what seemed the hundredth time, before sitting down once more to think about what tomorrow might bring – at least it would be summer in Siberia.
Markova suddenly leant back in her chair to give Anderson a winning smile, “Klaudia Woroniecki flew with Lufthansa from Hamburg under the name of Lena Brandt, returning the same way; German rather than Polish passport.”
Anderson was pleased but hardly ecstatic – it was an awful lot of effort to prove something Charlotte had suggested a week ago.
Markova glanced down again at the screen, eyes confused.
Eventually Anderson was forced into asking the obvious, “You have the man?”
“It would seem so. Maxim Demanov; Ukrainian passport; age 42; flew with Lufthansa from Kiev.”
Anderson persisted, “I presume that’s not his real name?”
Markova stood up, snapping the laptop shut, face revealing nothing. Ignoring Anderson, she keyed the radio microphone attached to her lapel, speaking briefly, before rapping out new orders to her three associates.
Anderson sat in confusion, watching silently as the others began to pack up their equipment. He instantly reverted to feeling insecure, not knowing what new secret had been revealed, Markova’s apparent irritation suggesting it wasn’t good news.
Abruptly the office door was opened, two more uniformed figures entering to stand behind Markova.
“Gennadi and Nikolai will take care of you,” Markova said dismissively. She gestured at the taller of the two men, “Nikolai spent two years in the United States, so you’ll find his English is acceptable if a little rusty. Thank you, Mr Anderson, for all your help.” A final word of command, then she strode out of the office, closing the door firmly behind her.
Anderson looked from one large Russian soldier to the other, heart sinking, thoughts racing through a half-dozen differing interpretations of ‘will take care of you’.
* * *
The evening meeting of the Committee had been moved from the formal extravagance of the Security Council Meeting Hall to a room on the top floor of the Senate Building, the new venue offering a more relaxed and intimate environment. The fact that the room was also the Kremlin office of the President of the Russian Federation was merely a convenience – or so Valentin had insisted.
A few metres from the imposing central desk, running alongside two of the three windows, was a table with just enough space for seven chairs. Grebeshkov sat next to General Morozov, listening intently as Irina Golubeva detailed the latest status reports concerning the various internal threats.
Despite Grebeshkov’s earlier doubts, Golubeva had been a revelation, someone able to produce resources seemingly from nowhere to shore up Russia’s drive against the separatists. She had also been supportive of Grebeshkov’s raft of suggested second-tier appointments, Grebeshkov determined to bring in like-minded associates able to drive Russia forward, corruption-free, strong and vibrant. Their present form of government might not be as equitable as Western-style democracy, but to his mind it was one better-suited to Russia’s needs.
Valentin appeared to share Grebeshkov’s hopes for a better Russia, the younger man’s influence on the Committee far greater than Grebeshkov had expected. It was only now that Grebeshkov sensed the naked ambition driving Valentin forward. There was a hard edge to his
every statement that made others pay attention, and Grebeshkov was seeing a very different side to the man who had seemed to be everyone’s friend and confidante. It was clear that it was Valentin who had schemed and manipulated, Golubeva working all along under his direction, the two of them taking full advantage of a weak government.
General Morozov certainly seemed to regard Valentin as the de facto President, the elder man restricting his contribution purely to military matters. It seemed natural, therefore, that it was Valentin who acted as the meeting’s chairman. The fifth member of the Committee, Alexander Cherenkov, was elsewhere, meeting with other politicians in an attempt to counter dissent and smooth the way forward, a new Constitution high on his list of priorities.
“With the exception of Yakutsk,” Golubeva said in conclusion, “most cities should return to normal within a few days, and all are now back under our control. The data retrieved from Erdenheim has led to the identification of all the remaining activists, the total being rather less than the sixty we feared, and presently only five remain unaccounted for. Consequently, the curfew in Moscow can be relaxed at any time.”
“No sign of political repercussions or political opposition?” Grebeshkov asked, surprised that the President’s supporters weren’t being more vociferous in their condemnation of the coup and its leaders.
Valentin responded first, “In return for certain assurances, the President has agreed to formally resign. In a month or so, he will be free to spend an honourable retirement at his home in St. Petersburg. His former allies will soon understand that their political future is now totally in our hands.”
Grebeshkov said nothing, the answer confirmation that he was still being kept well outside of the decision-making process. Valentin had earlier given his version of what had happened at Erdenheim, claiming it was down to a falling-out between Rebane and McDowell, the latter ashamed at what August 14 had become. Grebeshkov had tried hard not to show his disbelief, conscious that Golubeva had been watching him carefully.
“Which leaves us,” Valentin continued, “with our remaining external problems, primarily Poland.”
“And the UK?” Grebeshkov’s tone was curious, intrigued as to how Valentin was planning to respond to the public revelation of Erdenheim; after all, Lithuania had ended the Prime Minister’s career, Poland the President’s.
Valentin was dismissive, “Their media is already on the warpath but not against us. The fallout for the British Government could be significant, and we would be well advised to do nothing. We have garnered all we can from Erdenheim – it is destroyed and Martin Rebane dead. I think we need to focus our thoughts elsewhere and try to find some compromise with NATO that will satisfy the people. We can only end the blockade if we have something positive to show for the loss of our comrades aboard the Nastoychivyy and the Gepard.”
“There is still a great deal we don’t know about August 14,” Grebeshkov said thoughtfully, “and I understand it will be several days before the latest intelligence has been fully evaluated. By then, we could be at war with NATO. Whatever the precise relationship between August 14 and the West, the terrorists are defeated, the separatist elements on the run; such achievements should ensure that an acceptable public victory need not necessarily be a military one. If we can gain some concessions from Poland – however modest – it might just be enough.”
Valentin nodded in agreement, “I suggest we open informal discussions with NATO to see if we can find some common ground; we can even re-negotiate allowing certain vessels safe transit. Let us not waste this opportunity by demanding more than our enemies are prepared to give. If future evidence requires a more forceful response, then we can do so on our terms without rushing into a war we cannot win.”
With no dissenting voices, Valentin’s proposals were quickly confirmed, Grebeshkov given the authority to approach the Swiss mediators. Their discussions continued, the meeting only ending once general agreement had been reached as to all of the remaining major issues. The overall mood was optimistic, everyone confident that some acceptable compromise could be negotiated with the Americans, and even with Poland. Grebeshkov kept his suspicions as to August 14 to himself, knowing that he needed something more tangible than just gut instinct.
Left alone with Valentin, Grebeshkov eased his chair back away from the table, waiting impatiently for his aide to arrive with his wheelchair – he could hobble a reasonable distance without help, but it seemed wise not to push his body too quickly.
Valentin stood up and walked across to the President’s desk where a large tray of food had been laid out, helping himself to some freshly-made apple and honey pastila. “Dmitry, can I get you something?” he asked, gesturing at the various delicacies.
Grebeshkov’s reply was cut short as the office door was thrust open; a stern-faced Markova entered, gaze searching out the General while pointedly ignoring Valentin. She walked quickly to stand beside a puzzled Grebeshkov, bending down to whisper a few words.
Grebeshkov nodded in affirmation and their private conversation continued, Markova eventually striding from the room, still without acknowledging Valentin.
Valentin had watched the interplay between Grebeshkov and Markova with a mixture of concern and curiosity, and he returned to sit at the table, a plate of pastila in front of him.
“Is there a problem, Dmitry?” Valentin asked, his tone one of friendly concern. “Something seems to have upset the good captain.”
“Reality can do that,” Grebeshkov said quietly. “I too tried to ignore the truth, hoping that I would be proved incorrect, or that a more palatable version would be revealed.”
“That sounds very profound and rather too deep for me.”
There was a long pause before Grebeshkov responded. “Senior Lieutenant Vadim Reunkov,” he said, sounding out each word slowly and carefully.
Valentin frowned, “The officer who identified the Princess Eloise? What of him?”
“Idle curiosity made me check his personnel file – I hadn’t realised he was a relative of yours; that was stupid of me.”
Valentin gave a thin smile, “My wife’s nephew. Is that important?”
“I was very impressed by Reunkov’s report. Now it seems that was also stupid of me.” Grebeshkov’s tone was one almost of sadness, although there was anger in his eyes. “It was all a little too clever, Arkady; so much so that the real nature of August 14 shines through with the utmost clarity. As does your part in this conspiracy to debase Russia.”
“I’m not sure I understand, Dmitry,” Valentin’s voice was casual, dangerous.
“Allow me to enlighten you. Every shred of evidence relating to August 14 has directed us to one very clear conclusion, the Eloise’s two passengers conveniently filling in any missing pieces. They even gave us Klaudia Woroniecki, thereby creating a direct link between the terrorists and the Polish Government. How could anyone doubt that August 14 was anything other than an agent of the West? We all ignored the coincidences, too focused on the need to destroy the terrorists. With time, the inconsistencies in such a simple tale will no doubt be revealed; we might even be able to trace the money trail back to its true source.”
“I’m still unsure what you’re implying, Dmitry. You’re suggesting that August 14 has nothing to with Poland?”
“I’m suggesting that it has nothing to do with their government or any in the West, and everything to do with Russia. Apparently Woroniecki visited Erdenheim accompanied by a Ukrainian man named Demanov. I imagine he was there to make sure everything was on schedule before the terrorists’ final push. Except as we both know, he’s not Ukrainian and Demanov isn’t his real name – Major Konstantin Purvukhin, formerly Special Forces, now a Kremlin Adviser, with an office just along the hallway.” Grebeshkov’s eyes narrowed in anger, “The SVR has always been adept at cloaking its activities in layers of deceit, but this sets a new standard in hypocrisy. Woroniecki doubtless convinced Martin Rebane that she represented some anti-Russian faction, but she in turn wa
s following your orders.” He looked at Valentin accusingly, “How long has Woroniecki been working for the SVR?”
Valentin eyed Grebeshkov thoughtfully; finally, he gave a shrug of resignation, knowing that it was too late for denials. “Thirty years or so; she had been a somewhat wasted resource, until now... Your anger is understandable, Dmitry, but August 14 was a necessary evil. The past shows us that Russia needs strong leadership to survive; leadership from men such as you and I. Surely you as much as anyone can understand that?”
“Hundreds killed, with Russia close to civil war. It’s too big a price.” The anger finally took control, Grebeshkov’s voice shaking with the strain, “You tried to have me killed, Arkady! And now because it suits your needs, you want me to endorse this madness...”
Valentin raised his hand in denial, “I had no control over day-to-day events, merely an off switch to use at the optimum moment. I am truly sorry for all that you have suffered but we were all potential targets.”
Grebeshkov tried to calm himself, ashamed as to his own part in Valentin’s conspiracy of lies. He had been sucked in far too easily, willing to accept the convenience of Valentin’s coup without questioning the reality.
“There were other ways,” Grebeshkov said simply. “You could have used your influence to change policy, or even stood against the President, rather than stabbing him in the back.”
Valentin gave Grebeshkov a pitying look, “Elections are always a long-term route to an uncertain victory. August 14’s success proved how weak the President really was, and we needed to act before Russia’s decline was irretrievable. Once we were a superpower; now we are a bear without claws, our military decaying away while billionaires defraud us to then play politics.” Valentin flung his arms wide in a gesture of frustration, “The President had so many chances, and by the time he showed some backbone it was already too late.”
“Your President; a man who deserved your loyalty.” Grebeshkov had his emotions back under control, “I assume Golubeva and Morozov are part of this? Surely not Cherenkov as well?”
The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) Page 29