THE TRUST OF
THE PEOPLE
By
Christopher Read
THE TRUST OF THE PEOPLE
Copyright © 2015 by Christopher Read
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, other entities, places and incidents portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, real-life entities, past or present, or actual incidents, is entirely coincidental.
1.1
The South China Sea
Map illustrating the various territorial claims, courtesy of www.southchinasea.org
Contents
Prologue – Monday, October 17th
Chapter 1 – Friday, October 21st
Chapter 2 – Saturday, October 22nd
Chapter 3 – Sunday, October 23rd
Chapter 4 – Monday, October 24th
Chapter 5 – Tuesday, October 25th
Chapter 6 – Wednesday, October 26th
Chapter 7 – Thursday, October 27th
Chapter 8 – Friday, October 28th
Chapter 9 – Saturday, October 29th
Chapter 10 – Sunday, October 30th
Chapter 11 – Monday, October 31st
Chapter 12 – Tuesday, November 1st
Chapter 13 – Wednesday, November 2nd
Chapter 14 – Thursday, November 3rd
Chapter 15 – Friday, November 4th
Chapter 16 – Saturday, November 5th
Chapter 17 – Sunday, November 6th
Chapter 18 – Monday, November 7th
Chapter 19 – Tuesday, November 8th
Chapter 20 – Wednesday, November 9th
Chapter 21 – Thursday, November 10th
Map of the South China Sea
Acronyms
Prologue – Monday, October 17th, 2022
Moscow – 10:14 Local Time; 07:14 UTC
Apartment block, bookstore, prison and secret police headquarters: the infamous Lubyanka had been all of those things, the parquet floors trodden by future presidents and condemned traitors, the fate of thousands of Russia’s citizens determined within its walls. Its offices and dark corners were a haven for the suspicious and the intrusive, the building’s sole purpose that of searching out secrets. Despite the various changes as to its parent agency, that one goal hadn’t altered in over a hundred years and the Lubyanka still remained the key to Russia’s internal security.
The Moscow headquarters of Russia’s Federal Security Service (FSB) wasn’t in fact a single structure, and over the years the two original buildings had been joined together and then extended. Yet, despite its impressive yellow-brick façade and the best efforts of half-a-dozen architects, to many in Moscow the Lubyanka still managed to exude an air of despondency, the walls somehow tainted by the tears of its many victims.
The Lubyanka had been Georgiy Alekseyev’s second home for some eleven years, it watching impassively as he had literally worked his way up from the ground floor. Now the building would be a silent witness to his final act, a moment of madness that could well be the most selfless thing he’d ever done or potentially the most desperate. Either way, Alekseyev knew he couldn’t back down – the alternatives were simply unacceptable. His daughter would never be likely to understand, but he prayed that one day she might find it in her heart to forgive him.
Alekseyev was a man burdened by regret and ashamed at the selfishness he had shown his family over so many years. Twenty-four years he had been married, his wife asking for little but giving so much, Alekseyev only realising how much he relied on her once she had gone. Perhaps it would have been easier if her death had been someone’s fault, but it had all come out of nowhere, his wife collapsing while out walking. Alekseyev had arrived at the hospital to be told his wife had slipped into a coma; two days later she was dead, a brain haemorrhage the diagnosis, the doctors keen to explain that there was nothing anyone could have done to save her.
Outwardly, Alekseyev looked to have coped well; inside, the depression that had gripped him during those first months had seemed never-ending, and he had turned to gambling as a way to dull the misery. Then, after ten months of self-pity, his daughter had announced she was pregnant. The joy in her eyes after three years of trying for a baby was the jolt Alekseyev had needed to bring him to his senses, a final opportunity to make up for past mistakes. Baby Yelena’s christening three weeks ago had brought family and friends together in an emotional celebration, Alekseyev not the only one struggling to hold back the tears.
He smiled again at the memory of that day, focusing for a moment on how his wife and daughter had once combined to describe him: ‘steady and dependable, easy-going but not someone who found it easy to forgive’. Alekseyev certainly couldn’t disagree with their analysis, although he sensed the dependable part really meant predictable and boring. Well, now he would prove the lie to such judgements.
A couple of minutes, no longer, and the two people he loved the most in the world would be protected, his debt paid in full. No point in regret or self-admonishment; little enough time to recall more than just a handful of cherished memories. Would the final act produce a moment of unspeakable agony, or just nothing? Dare he even hope for some wondrous light to beckon him into a better world?
Alekseyev shook the thought aside, forcing himself to concentrate on his allotted task. A deep breath to steady his nerves; then he moved towards the closed office door. Colonel Trukhin first – he’d always hated the arrogant prick…
Trukhin sat staring at his computer screen, brow furrowed in concentration, the early morning light from the office window bathing the room in a warm golden glow. Trukhin glanced up as Alekseyev entered, eyes darkening with irritation.
“What is it Alekseyev, I’m busy? If it’s important…” Trukhin froze as he saw the gun in Alekseyev’s hand. His body seemed to arch back slightly, as though trying to prepare himself for the first bullet; then abruptly he relaxed, common-sense overriding his initial shock. “What the fuck, Alekseyev! Get that fucking gun out of my face now!”
Despite his fears Alekseyev took time to savour the moment. “You’ve always been an asshole Trukhin; this is no more than you deserve.”
Some angry protest started to form on Trukhin’s lips, the words forever stilled as Alekseyev shot him once through the heart, the crack of the gunshot echoing loudly around the room.
Alekseyev pivoted quickly, turning left out of the office and striding towards his true target. Two young aides stood talking together further along the corridor, their expressions a mix of concern and puzzlement, one of them shouting out a warning as he noticed the gun. Alekseyev fired twice more, not aiming at them exactly, but uncaring as to whether they might be hit.
Standing orders meant that neither man was armed and they instantly retreated, the nearest door a quick route to safety. Alekseyev took a deep breath and then barged through into the General’s outer office. Sofia, his assistant, was already on her feet, backing away towards the left-hand wall, hands held out in front of her in silent pleading. Suddenly, the strident howl of the security alarm cut through the background hum of the building, a signal to Alekseyev that his time was limited.
Alekseyev had always had a soft spot for Sofia, almost jealous that she was at the General’s beck and call. Not that General
Grebeshkov would ever take advantage – he was far too honourable and focused on his work to risk it all on an extra-marital affair. A hero the people called him, Grebeshkov seen by many in Moscow as the man who had led the fight-back against the terrorists of August 14 and so saved Russia. Alekseyev even half-believed it himself. In the seventeen months since Russia’s coup d’état, the new government had managed to gain a certain legitimacy despite its origins. A good part of that was down to Grebeshkov, his judgement, honesty and diplomatic skills impressing even the most cynical of Russia’s neighbours.
Alekseyev forced his genuine admiration for the General to one side, determined not to bail out now he had come so far. He raised the gun, arm wavering as Sofia closed her eyes. Abruptly, he changed aim and shot her once in the shoulder, angry with everyone – however innocent – for what he was being forced to do. It was hardly rational, but Alekseyev’s mind was already a swirling fog of guilt and self-contempt.
Sofia stumbled backwards, a half-scream of pain and shock dragged from her lips. The inner office door was unlocked and Alekseyev thrust it open, part of his brain separating out the far-off sound of voices from the insistent call of the alarm. He had thirty seconds, no more.
General Grebeshkov sat at his desk, managing to look composed and somehow defiant. No attempt to defend himself; no angry words, not even a frown of confusion. Alekseyev stood uncertain: he’d done as much as he dared to try and forewarn Grebeshkov, and in imagining this moment, he had always assumed it would simply end in a burst of gunfire, the final outcome unpredictable. Now it was to be in cold-blood, every action having to be deliberate rather than an instinctive fight for survival, Grebeshkov a far more emotive proposition than Colonel Trukhin.
A belated sense of duty forced Alekseyev to offer some explanation, a feeble justification for the murder of his superior. “I’m sorry, General; they left me with no choice.”
“There’s always a choice, Georgiy,” Grebeshkov said calmly, maintaining his air of composure. “We can talk this through and come up with a solution; think of your family.”
“I am, General; I truly am.” It was far too late for second thoughts and Alekseyev fired twice, watching with sad eyes as the elder man was knocked backwards, his head slowly slumping down onto his chest.
Alekseyev stepped forward, right arm reaching stiffly out to fire a single bullet into the General’s brain. Although there was some element of shock and terror at what he had done, there was also relief that he’d actually had the guts to carry it through. Over the years, the lofty ambitions of his youth had slowly been replaced by false starts and dashed hopes, but that was primarily down to his own failings, and there were many in the Lubyanka who would have considered him a friend. That might well have included Grebeshkov, a man who had deserved infinitely more loyalty than Alekseyev had been able to give.
Almost in slow motion Alekseyev brought the gun up to the side of his head. Without warning, tears began to stream down his face, Alekseyev ashamed for what he was about to put his daughter through, wishing to could have at least told her why – but that too was not part of the bargain he had struck.
As his finger tightened on the trigger, his last thoughts were of his granddaughter, a wordless prayer asking her forgiveness...
* * *
Major Natasha Markova sat alone in the semi-darkness of her Lubyanka office, struggling to cope with the flood of emotion than coursed through her body. She had known General Grebeshkov for most of her adult life; he had been her mentor and friend, someone she thought of almost as a second father, one of the few men she truly looked up to.
Now he was just a bloodied corpse, one of three lying in the Lubyanka’s own morgue. The initial turmoil had affected the whole building, and it was late afternoon before a sombre form of normality reached up beyond the lower floors. The FSB’s own team of investigators – most of them having learnt their skills under Grebeshkov’s gaze – had already taken charge, although it was the Kremlin’s unique slant on reality that became the official version of the morning’s events.
Moscow’s news channels naturally had it as their top story, the scene of the attack cleverly shifting to the main Lubyanka entrance. The perpetrator too had also miraculously transformed into a much younger man: identified as a known Siberian separatist, he was said to have been shot dead by FSB agents. Alekseyev was named as an innocent victim of the attack, although his family and close friends would doubtless be confused as to the intimidating nature of the questions they were presently having to answer.
Grebeshkov’s murder had shocked Markova into a mental paralysis when the one thing she needed was clarity. Was this simply an attack against Grebeshkov or was it part of something wider, and was she too in danger? From whom exactly? Would running be wise or totally pointless? And why was she even thinking of such an extreme?
Alekseyev had been a conscientious and loyal member of the FSB, and it made no sense for him to murder anyone, let alone Grebeshkov, a man he respected, almost revered. Trukhin might be unyielding and autocratic, but like everyone else Alekseyev had learnt how to deal with him. Sofia never had a bad word to say about anyone, and treated generals and privates alike with equal respect. Whatever the reason for Alekseyev’s onslaught, it must have been something truly dramatic. Markova knew him to be easy-going and level-headed: certainly not someone to act irresponsibly or without good cause. The loss of his wife had hit him hard, but with the birth of his granddaughter he had seemed far more settled.
Markova was dismayed at her own emotional weakness, yet it took almost another hour for the cobwebs of despair to finally dissolve. Her team had every right to expect a show of leadership, not someone skulking alone in their office; they had even been considerate enough to leave her to grieve, with no impatient rap on the door or even the buzz of the phone to interrupt her reverie.
Markova switched on the desk light, gaze instantly drawn to the printouts and photographs strewn in front of her and pinned across the office wall. Paper records might be old-fashioned but Markova preferred to have something more tangible than a computer file, needing to physically move pages around in order to accurately gauge their relationship to one another. Not that it particularly mattered, as all she presently had was a tortuous paper trail leading absolutely nowhere.
For months now Markova and her small FSB team had ploughed their way through a mass of data, tracing and then eradicating the hidden links between the terrorists of August 14 and Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Agency, the SVR. It was just one element of a far wider purge of the SVR and not an assignment Markova had either expected or wanted; certainly, as an officer in Russia’s elite counter-terrorist Alpha Group, she had every right to anticipate a more appealing role. Sadly, the President had demanded someone well-versed in the subtle demands of such a challenge; hence Markova and her team of eight.
The President’s high expectations had extended into every aspect of government and the new regime remained far more popular than its democratic predecessor. The public also recognised the sacrifice made by those who had rescued Russia from chaos; two of the original five conspirators hadn’t even survived the first six months: one shot dead by terrorists, the other suffering a heart attack. Again, that had been the official line, the truth somewhat different: the first executed as a traitor, the second dying under mysterious circumstances, most probably poisoned.
The recent elections had been a dramatic confirmation of the regime’s favoured status, with the President picking up a healthy seventy-eight percent of votes. There were the usual claims of vote-rigging and intimidation, but even the International Observers had found it impossible to disagree with the outcome. Eastern Europe might still worry as to Russian expansion, but internally the country was relatively stable, the physical evidence for Russia’s late crisis all-but erased.
That success had been due to the impressive ability of the three remaining conspirators to work together as one. General Morozov maintained a tight rein on the military whil
st Grebeshkov had used the FSB’s power to stifle the secessionists, before turning his attention to the problem of government corruption. For such a male-dominated country, it was still difficult to realise that both men had freely given their allegiance to the final member of the coup, Irina Golubeva – President Golubeva. She was proving an able and resourceful leader, the inevitable comparisons with Britain’s Thatcher and Germany’s Merkel misguided and often inaccurate. Golubeva was relatively approachable and prepared to listen to opposing views, even willing on occasion to change her mind – an assessment freely given by Grebeshkov during one of his more verbose moments. And attitudes were slowly changing, the chauvinism of old still there, just less likely to be spoken out loud.
Yet Grebeshkov had never truly trusted Golubeva, sensing that she too might have had some loose connection with August 14. Much of the terror group’s infrastructure in Eastern Europe had barely been touched and the exact source of their funds had still to be resolved; a final puzzle that was proving difficult to crack. With the purge of the SVR effectively complete and the agency’s key positions now occupied by those loyal to the regime, Grebeshkov had ordered Markova and her team to expand and adapt their search, his renewed obsession with Golubeva motivated by the desire to have some form of insurance for when his own political usefulness finally came to an end. Such was the politics of Russia, with no-one truly secure, political allies invariably temporary in nature.
Golubeva might well have nothing to do with the terrorists but there were still some aspects that had seemed worth pursuing, Amongst the President’s swarm of junior aides and advisers, at least one seemed to have free and immediate access to his superior, while also being particularly well-travelled. In the past month alone, Evgeny Sukhov had visited London, New York and Hamburg, as well as military bases at Khabarovsk and Vladivostok in eastern Russia.
The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2) Page 1