“You are mistaken, Dmitry; they know nothing of August 14’s lineage or its true purpose. Together, we five can create a government the Russian people truly deserve. Together, Dmitry,” Valentin emphasised. “Let’s not waste the sacrifices of the past few months with pointless accusations, which at best can only help those that would destabilise Russia.”
Grebeshkov took his time replying, choosing his words carefully, “A pretty speech, Arkady; but I cannot do as you ask. Little is achieved without risk, and I have given too much to accept some comfortable sinecure. I would demand that you step down, but I imagine that is pointless.”
Valentin inclined his head in acknowledgement, “What now, Dmitry? You know more than I am comfortable with.”
From the outer lobby came raised voices, and once again Markova entered, this time pushing Grebeshkov’s wheelchair.
“If you’re ready, General?” she enquired, her tone more insistent than polite.
It was Valentin who spoke first, “That would be a mistake, Dmitry,” he said quietly. “We still have important matters to resolve.”
“It would be a greater mistake to stay and be part of this folly.” Grebeshkov forced himself upright, spurning the waiting wheelchair and determined to leave with some semblance of dignity. Self-control helped him to turn his usual shuffle into a more rapid stiff-legged walk. In the adjacent lobby, two more Alpha Group waited impatiently, warily eyeing their opposite numbers from the SVR.
Valentin waited a few seconds, then with a resigned shake of his head issued new orders to the waiting spetsnaz. Grebeshkov had made his choice and there was little point in delaying the inevitable – truth could often be a confusing concept, and some truths were better left unsaid.
* * *
Gennadi and Nikolai had totally ignored Anderson, and once the others had cleared the desk and departed, they had made themselves comfortable, chairs pulled around so as to face the door. It was then non-stop jokes and banter, with Anderson left to worry as to what was happening. He would have asked Nikolai to explain but he doubted he would get a positive response, neither Russian looking pleased at having to babysit some foreign spy-cum-traitor.
The two men could easily have been brothers, late-thirties, stocky, bald heads and weather-beaten faces. Anderson wasn’t sure whether they were there to guard or protect him – maybe it was a bit of both. The time dragged by, Anderson unsure why the three of them were just sitting, doing nothing. It was now well after nine, and the background noise of banging doors and footsteps had long since diminished to nothing, the Senate Building now presumably winding down for the night.
A sudden movement from Gennadi as he pressed his hand to his earpiece was the first sign that things were about to change. Gennadi spoke little, listening intently to his new orders, before giving a final word of confirmation into his radio-mic, gun freed from its holster. A quick-fire explanation to Nikolai, then he stood up and strode to the office door, motioning Anderson to follow him.
The long, narrow hallway outside was empty. Gennadi led the way, Nikolai walking half-backwards behind Anderson, both Russians with guns in hand and very wary of what lay ahead. Anderson too felt his nerves on edge, not knowing who or what they had to fear. Every few yards they passed another numbered door, a dozen or more already. Despite the ceiling lights and the gentle evening glow filtering through the windows to their right, the corridor still exuded a sense of gloom, Anderson having to suppress an unexpected shiver which ran across his shoulders.
Suddenly, there was the sound of gunfire, not close but definitely coming from somewhere within the Senate building. It grew rapidly in intensity before a strained silence returned. Neither of the two Russians made any comment, walking steadily along the corridor, Anderson growing ever more nervous.
The hallway turned sharply right. Gennadi disappeared from view, then immediately stepped back, speaking briefly to his colleague.
Nikolai grabbed Anderson’s arm and gestured back the way they had come. “Change of plan. There’s more stairs at the far end; wait for us there. Give it fifteen minutes and then you’re on your own.” He pinched the insignia on the arm of his uniform, “Blue good, red not so good.”
Anderson nodded his understanding, thinking if he got close enough to study the badge colour on someone’s sleeve then it was probably a bit late to do much about it. Within seconds of starting to retrace his steps, there was the double crack from Gennadi’s handgun, followed instantly by the rapid chatter of automatic weapons.
Anderson sped up, jogging past the original starting point, the sustained gunfire from behind hurrying him on, the jog becoming a run. The hallway took him past another long line of office doors and he desperately looked for some guide as to where exactly might lie some stairs. Short side corridors projected off at regular intervals but invariably led only to another numbered office. There was no sign of anyone else, most of those still in the Senate wisely deciding it was best to keep a low profile.
Anderson kept moving, adrenalin adding a nervous edge to his unease. He was totally confused as to what was happening and it was bad enough worrying about being able to distinguish friend from foe, without the added fear that the bad guys might actually shoot you.
Ahead to the left was a double door, offering the hope of stairs beyond. As Anderson strode forwards, two uniformed figures stepped through from the stairway beyond and out into the hall, submachine guns held double-handed. Even as they noticed Anderson, he instinctively launched himself at the first man, no doubt in his mind they were the enemy. The Russian was smashed back against his colleague, the latter crashing upright against the door frame. An unwanted burst from one of the SMG’s splattered the floor, then Anderson waded in once more, wrenching the first man’s gun around and smashing the butt against his chin. The man collapsed unconscious to the floor, his colleague struggling to refocus with blood running down past his right ear.
Anderson grabbed at the second gun, his only wish to end the fight whatever it took. Some out-of-body calculation argued that the two of them were pretty evenly matched: the Russian was younger, fitter and far more experienced, but Anderson weighed an extra twenty pounds, and he was a good four inches taller. Desperation, surprise, anger, wounds – old and new – each added an extra dimension to the contest.
The force of Anderson’s assault pushed the man back against the wall, the two of them wrestling for the gun. Abruptly the Russian lost his footing, and he dragged Anderson with him to the floor, the SMG twisting to one side. The two of them fell heavily, Anderson on top, both hands knocked from their grip on the gun. Instinctively, he clawed at the Russian’s neck, thumbs and fingers locking around the man’s throat, his legs and elbows squeezing tight, the gun sandwiched impotently between them. The Russian abruptly let go of the weapon and reached out to drag Anderson’s hands away, but their grip was already secure; Anderson pressed his face to the floor, protecting it, the Russian’s body threshing wildly as he struggled to free himself, hands finally managing to grasp Anderson’s throat.
In a macabre version of two lovers entwined, they fought out their personal battle. Another distant part of Anderson’s mind analysed and accepted the pain his body was going through, the warning messages ignored – Anderson sensed victory and everything else was an unwanted distraction. His strength was ebbing fast, yet he didn’t relax, his body fighting against the black curtain closing over his eyes, fighting to stay alive.
The Russian’s body suddenly went limp. Anderson kept squeezing, fearful that it was merely a ruse, and only gradually did he begin to relax.
Strong hands pulled him free, Nikolai saying nothing but giving him a broad wink as he dragged Anderson to his feet. Anderson stared down at his motionless adversary, worried now that he killed him, and noticing for the first time the red dagger insignia on the man’s sleeve.
Nikolai pushed him through the door onto the landing and Anderson stood unsteadily, trying to gather his senses, the muted crack of two gunshots a warning
as to the penalty for failure. Anderson found he was shaking all over, angry at himself for getting involved in someone else’s war.
Nikolai then Gennadi joined him, the latter talking softly into his radio. A brief check as to his new orders, then Gennadi spoke rapidly in Russian to his colleague.
“The Presidential Regiment are staying neutral,” Nikolai explained. “As is General Morozov. His troops have cordoned off the Senate Building while waiting to see who wins. It’s turned into a straight fight between Grebeshkov and Valentin, Alpha versus the SVR’s Zaslon.”
Anderson didn’t fully understand but he got the gist. “So now what?” he muttered warily.
“Grebeshkov’s pinned down and needs our help. I suggest you keep out the way until this is all over.”
A moment’s indecision then Anderson slowly shook his head, “I somehow doubt the other lot have my best interests at heart, and I think I’ll tag along and see what happens… A gun would be useful.”
Nikolai sought a second opinion, Gennadi’s frown of concern finally turning into a nod of agreement. Seconds later, the Russian led the way up the stairs, both the spetsnaz now armed with SMGs; Anderson nervously took up the rear, pistol in his right hand and fully committed to playing his part, the irregular rattle of gunfire not the most encouraging of signs.
There route was more complex than a simple trek along half-lit corridors, Gennadi doing what he could to avoid another confrontation. Anderson seemed to have gained Nikolai’s respect and the Russian detailed more of what was happening: Grebeshkov had taken refuge in the Presidential Library, his bodyguards cut down from six to just four. The SVR numbered around twelve and while Anderson wasn’t enamoured by possible odds of almost two to one, it seemed a little late to chicken out. In Russia’s new and better world, there were no ballot papers or coloured balls to count, not even a simple show of hands, just a bloody fight to the finish. It threatened to be a modern version of an old-fashioned gunfight, with limited ammunition and basic weapons of submachine gun and pistol, the winner the side that took out the other’s leader.
It was several minutes before Gennadi signalled a halt. The hallway ahead wasn’t quite empty this time, three bodies resting untidily on the patterned carpet, spaced out over some fifteen yards. The sound of gunfire had been intermittent for some time; now there was only silence.
Gennadi paused beside the last body, focusing on elegant double doors further down the hallway to his right, one door slightly open. A few whispered words in his radio, then Gennadi spoke softly to Nikolai, motioning Anderson to stay where he was. Gennadi crept forward, hugging the right-hand wall; Nikolai matched him on the left, submachine gun aimed at the narrow gap between the two doors.
Anderson waited, not sure how he could help, but determined to do something useful – preferably without getting himself killed. Nikolai abruptly dropped to one knee to fire a rapid three-shot burst. The reply was almost instantaneous, Nikolai and Gennadi firing back as one, Anderson responding an instant later.
An ominous silence returned. Nikolai sat slumped against the wall, face distorted in pain, hand grasped to his left leg, blood oozing between his fingers, a second dark stain spreading down the side of his jacket. Gennadi quickly moved back into danger and Anderson edged across to try and aid Nikolai, the Russian merely shaking his head and gesturing at him to help Gennadi.
The right-hand door was now half open, a bloodied figure sprawled across the threshold. Gennadi stopped well short, body pressed tight against the wall. Opposite him, Anderson crouched down, eyes desperately searching the room beyond. A multitude of tall glass-fronted bookcases lined the library walls, surrounding a central round table; higher up there was some sort of semi-circular gallery or mezzanine. A second body laid face-down away to Anderson’s right, the bookcase alongside shredded, a veil of dust drifting lazily through the still air.
A whispered remark dragged Anderson’s attention back to Gennadi, the Russian glancing up at the ceiling, left hand tugging at his uniform. Anderson shook his head, confused, and a frustrated Gennadi looked back towards Nikolai before pointing towards the mezzanine floor. Anderson finally nodded his understanding, trusting that their non-verbal communication had successfully crossed the language barrier.
Gennadi gestured again at Anderson, hand signals detailing their next move, eyes daring him to disagree. Anderson thought he understood, the cut-throat gesture leaving little doubt as to their ultimate aim: basically charge in, Gennadi first, two bad guys to the right, the two to the left Anderson’s responsibility, expect support from above.
A brief word into his radio, then with bloodied fingers Gennadi began counting down from five...
Gennadi leapt through the opening, Anderson following a brief second later and almost tripping over its late protector; unbalanced, he managed to fling himself at the base of the table, before twisting around to spot his targets past table leg and chairs. He glimpsed sudden movement beside a curve in the wall and fired without even taking aim, desperate to cut the odds.
There was gunfire all around, bullets smashing into the table, splinters flying. Something tugged sharply at Anderson’s thigh, but he kept his focus, shooting at a second half-hidden shape, praying that Gennadi was doing his part.
Silence settled over the library. Ahead of Anderson two uniformed figures lay slumped against the mezzanine stairs, both all-too obviously dead. His gaze swept around to the opposite side, the bloodied scene repeated but now with three bodies, Gennadi lying prostate and unmoving across the ornate wooden floor.
Anderson heard footsteps from behind, and he wrenched himself around, pain lancing through his thigh.
“Rest easy, Mr Anderson,” said a familiar voice, Markova moving quickly to check the corridor outside. A second spetsnaz cautiously checked for survivors, a sad shake of his head his only comment as he knelt beside Gennadi.
Nikolai was still alive but in bad way, blood marking his uniform from stomach to knee. Markova was doing what she could to help but both knew he would be left to take his chances, Nikolai’s survival not the priority.
* * *
Grebeshkov rested against the wall, wheelchair long since abandoned with no-one spare to push it. They were just four now, including Anderson, their future more one of hope than expectation. The Presidential Library might have served them well as a temporary refuge but Grebeshkov had grown tired of hiding and with the odds now more evenly stacked, he was determined to take the fight to Valentin.
Ahead was the President’s office, a naïve arrogance convincing Grebeshkov that Valentin would still be there, but there were no guards, nothing to suggest Valentin had been so obvious, or indeed so vain. A shake of the head from Markova and Grebeshkov hobbled forward, walking slowly to the central desk and easing himself into the President’s leather chair, flanked by the Presidential Standard and the flag of the Russian Federation.
Valentin deserves it more, he thought dispiritedly. Grebeshkov knew he was far too old for such games and now even his intuition was playing him false. Idly, he picked up one of the phones to his left but there was no tone, only silence, and no response when Grebeshkov demanded an answer. He smiled at his own foolishness, saddened that others had to die because of his mistakes.
From beyond the door came the sound of automatic gunfire, growing in intensity, a harbinger of Valentin’s final victory.
Chapter 19 – Tuesday to Friday, May 25th to 28th
Moscow
The long table in the Security Council Meeting Hall was occupied along barely half its length, the new President’s inner circle gathering together for the first time. Grebeshkov sat directly opposite the President’s empty chair, unable to join in the small-talk of his new colleagues. The trauma of the previous evening was still taking its toll, twenty hours barely long enough for both mind and body to return to anything approaching normality.
The President had been sworn in early that morning, the Russian Constitution simply bypassed as being outdated and impractica
l. It was a move few in Russia had been brave enough to dispute, certainly in public, and for many it was confirmation of a more assertive leadership, even a return to the popular days of the Putin era. Grebeshkov had been informed in person that he was still an essential component in Russia’s fight against dissidents and separatists, and although far from convinced, under the circumstances it had seemed churlish to refuse.
There was a sudden hush as the President entered, Grebeshkov standing with the rest until the President was seated. The latter’s welcome to the hand-picked group of men and women who would now shape Russia’s future was brief and business-like, typical Golubeva. She might be Russia’s first woman president, but she was the one person able to match strength with stability, essential requirements after the turmoil of the past weeks, with leaders discarded seemingly every few days. Grebeshkov felt he owed Golubeva, if not perhaps his life, then at least some form of loyalty. It was Golubeva who had persuaded General Morozov to intervene, his troops storming the Senate building with orders to rescue Grebeshkov.
Quite why Golubeva had sided with Grebeshkov over Valentin was unclear, and despite Valentin’s denial, Grebeshkov wasn’t convinced that Golubeva was ignorant of the conspiracy behind August 14. With Valentin dead, it seemed best to leave such fears unsaid, Grebeshkov merely noting with interest that Valentin’s SVR was presently undergoing a good old-fashioned purge, various high-ranking officers arrested, others suspended from duty. Grebeshkov didn’t know what had happened to Reunkov or Purvukhin, but he sensed their life expectancy was likely to be relatively short.
“It is with sadness,” Golubeva continued, “that I have to confirm the terrorist attack on this very building resulted in thirty-one killed, including Arkady Valentin. August 14’s last desperate act has taken another of Russia’s finest, and I would ask that we stand in silence as a token of respect for our comrades murdered here yesterday.”
The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) Page 30