“Went out where?”
Charlotte shrugged and attempted to add a tone of annoyance to her answer. “He had a phone call and had to go out; said he’d be back about twelve. I’m afraid I don’t know who the call was from or where he was going: journalists like Mike tend to keep their sources to themselves.”
“And where exactly have you been?” The agent’s tone was firm but not impolite.
Charlotte upped the annoyance level, “I’m not sure why you’re asking such questions, or what right you have to break into my room.”
This time it was the second agent who responded, moving from the window to stand closer to Charlotte. “A man was murdered earlier this evening; it’s possible Mr Anderson might have relevant information.”
The blood drained from Charlotte’s face: Anderson had said he’d grabbed a gun and wounded one of his captors, but he hadn’t mentioned killing anyone.
The agent noticed her reaction, waiting a few seconds before speaking. “Let me ask again, Miss Saunders – where were you this evening?”
“I got bored being on my own,” replied Charlotte softly. “So I went for a drive; nowhere special – just Washington and back. I didn’t even stop anywhere.”
The questions continued, Charlotte sticking to the truth where she could. Pat McDowell? Yes, she knew him, but wasn’t he dead? Anderson had certainly never told her otherwise. And, no, this was a holiday and not some quest for an exclusive on terrorism in the U.S…
Charlotte didn’t want to lie but she shared Anderson’s concerns as to whether they could really trust the FBI to keep them safe. If McDowell had friends in Russia’s Intelligence Agencies and America’s ONI, what made the FBI so different?
It was close to an hour before the two agents left her alone, Charlotte’s passport disappearing with them. She gave it a minute and then flung herself on the bed, almost shrieking aloud, close to tears. Anderson was alone and under threat and she had willingly turned away the one organisation that might be able to help him. The FBI seemed determined to pin some murder on him, but she was certain Anderson would have only acted in self-defence.
The TV news was able to add a little more detail: man murdered at his home outside Centreville; next-of-kin not yet informed; police hunting a male suspect; early-forties, six foot-one, a hundred and seventy-five pounds. It was Anderson to a tee.
Charlotte forced herself to calm down, needing a clear head to work out what she needed to do. Anderson had more or less pleaded that she return home, wanting her safe, but that had just seemed such a negative option. When Anderson didn’t return, there’d be yet more questions to answer, but if she left the Jackson Inn where could she sensibly go? Without a passport, her options were severely limited.
Charlotte simply couldn’t decide what was best, eventually drifting off to sleep, hand clutched around Anderson’s phone, waiting for him to give some sign that all was well.
Khabarovsk, Russia – 16:40 Local Time; 06:40 UTC
Khabarovsk was like many other Russia cities, modern vibrant buildings slowly replacing the drab legacy of the Communist era. Well used to tourists, there was plenty to keep visitors entertained, although for Markova the lure was more to the east of the city than its centre.
Some 700 kilometres north of Vladivostok, and just 30 kilometres from the Chinese border, the region had been ceded by China in 1858. Subsequent border disputes had taken a hundred and fifty years to resolve, small tracts of land along the Manchurian border returned to China.
Moscow might believe Beijing’s grievances had been assuaged but many in China wanted far more. Khabarovsk, Vladivostok, the island of Sakhalin north of Japan: it was a vast area with substantial economic resources, old maps naming it Outer Manchuria, its Chinese heritage difficult to ignore. Successive governments in Moscow had failed to halt the region’s population imbalance, with ethnic Russians – subject to high rates of mortality and socio-economic emigration – effectively being replaced by illegal immigrants from China. Out of the population of six million, official figures gave the number of ethnic Chinese as 30,000; independent estimates put it at more like 600,000.
It wasn’t just Outer Manchuria where Russian and Chinese interests overlapped or conflicted: Mongolia, North Korea, Japan, India and even Vietnam – South-East Asia had become a key area for both countries, with almost forty percent of Russia’s yearly arms sales going to China’s potential enemies.
The significant Chinese minority in Outer Manchuria was only now starting to exert nationalist pressure; nothing violent as yet, more a warning as to what might lie ahead – Markova had already noticed a dozen Russian signs altered to their original Chinese names. Russia’s annexation of Crimea had given other countries pause for thought, Beijing actively encouraging the influx of its citizens into Khabarovsk and Vladivostok. Another decade or two, and China might well be able to walk across the Russian border while justly claiming it was protecting the Chinese majority.
Khabarovsk was the headquarters of Russia’s Eastern Military District, but the military presence certainly wasn’t obvious. For the moment, she had followed Nikolai’s advice and had not yet approached their FSB contact, wanting to get a better feel for what might be happening in and around the city itself.
Markova had driven north and south, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, and if anything was a surprise it was the amount of new buildings that had sprung up since her last visit. She hadn’t been entirely honest with Nikolai, having an ulterior motive for traveling to Khabarovsk which had nothing to do with Sukhov, it being far more personal. Markova had grown up on her grandparents’ farm a few kilometres to the east, three girls and one boy brought up under what had seemed at the time a rigid set of rules, one of which was the unchallenging respect for authority.
Markova’s mother had spent much of her married life torn between love for her four children and loyalty to her husband, joining him for weeks at a time on his various diplomatic postings. Despite such obstacles, they were both loving parents, and her mother’s early death had hit her father hard, turning him ever-more into a recluse. Markova had left Khabarovsk for good when she was just sixteen, but the farm would always be the one place she considered home. She hadn’t been back to the city for some eight years, not since her grandmother had passed away, the farm now run by Markova’s brother-in-law. Early that afternoon she had driven past, slowly, and the good memories instantly came flooding back, Markova disconcerted by an unexpected surge of regret.
Returning to the city of her childhood had perhaps been a mistake, Markova still unsettled by thoughts of what might have been. A life as a wife and mother had never been for her, but there had been times over the past weeks where a less traumatic lifestyle would have been welcome. She had come close to death in the frozen embrace of the River Volga and those fighting against Golubeva seemed to be losing more ground every day. General Morozov had been forced to abandon Volgograd, his supporters melting into the countryside. Morozov’s exact status was now unclear, his latest refuge rumoured to be anywhere from the Caucasus Mountains to Astrakhan on the Caspian Sea. Unless Markova discovered the secret of Khabarovsk soon, such knowledge might well just be an irrelevancy.
Markova strode along the pedestrian boulevard running alongside the River Amur, searching out Nikolai, assuming he would either be eating or drinking. The walkway was still crowded despite the encroaching darkness and the cold, a fresh cover of snow forecast for the morning.
Nikolai stood leaning against the embankment, idly watching the ferry, a mug of tea cradled between his hands. Markova moved across to stand beside him, gently removing the steaming mug to take a warming gulp.
“Anything new?” asked Nikolai, watching his tea rapidly disappear with a concerned frown.
“Same story,” Markova reported, handing back the mug. “Nothing unusual in the city, but the highways to the west and south have been closed several times without warning – just for a few hours. Lots of rumours about military convoys heading south;
never anything that can actually be verified.”
Khabarovsk might seem normal but that obviously wasn’t quite the case. The local newspapers made no mention of road closures and the city seemed to be suffering from some form of communication malaise: cell-phone signals were intermittent, satellite phone reception regularly distorted by static, landlines simply not working. Markova’s new role as a journalist had so far proved useful, although she was careful whom she spoke to and took her time before judging whether to ask the more pertinent questions.
“Now what?” Nikolai prompted.
“We’ll check in with Major Yashkin and see what he has for us. Then a drive down to Vladivostok.”
Nikolai visibly winced: his body was still recovering from the ten-hour flight to Khabarovsk and another ten hours stuck in a hire car was not something to look forward to. “There’s always the train,” he suggested hopefully.
Markova was about to respond when there was the rising wail of a siren, the universal sound for some imminent disaster.
“A routine test?” questioned Nikolai, turning around. The city centre lay a kilometre to the east, their view blocked by a grassy bank rising up beyond the edge of the boulevard.
A second siren sounded and the scene around them seemed to become frozen in time, people stopping what they were doing, anxious faces lifted upward as though they might somehow be able to see what was happening.
The street lights flickered twice and as if in response there was a dull boom away to the east, a pall of dirty smoke rising up against the evening sky.
There were cries of shock, people watching transfixed, others deciding it was time to leave and no-one quite sure what was happening. Markova gestured at Nikolai and they followed the flow of people heading south towards the access road, Nikolai already struggling to keep up, his left leg numb and unresponsive.
A second explosion; a raucous crack which sounded as though it were almost on top of them, followed an instant later by the deep-throated rumble of falling masonry. Blind panic instantly swept through the crowded boulevard, everyone surging towards the road, desperate to escape, the frightened screams and cries only adding to the hysteria.
Markova grabbed Nikolai’s arm and half-walked, half-dragged him along the boulevard, almost having to fight to keep upright, people barging past them in a chaotic melee. Up ahead lay the pink ticket office for the ferry, their hire car parked further on. Nikolai was starting to labour, breath coming in gasps, left leg threatening to buckle at every painful step.
Markova forced herself to stop for a moment, elbowing some space. There was a sudden deafening roar as the ticket office disintegrated, the blast sweeping outwards, cutting a bloody swathe through the crowd. Nikolai was almost torn from Markova’s grasp and they staggered backwards, holding on to each other, ears deafened, eyes smarting.
Markova could barely see, a grey cloud of choking dust cloaking the area and reducing visibility to no more than a few metres. She pulled Nikolai in close, guiding him forward, the two of them stumbling over bodies and chunks of concrete, ears recovering to be bombarded by the panic-stricken cries of those around her. Markova felt people barging into her from all sides, hands clawing at her legs. She was struggling to stop herself from simply lashing out with a foot or a fist, a sense of claustrophobia threatening to overwhelm her, telling her to abandon Nikolai.
She shook such thoughts aside, the two of them shuffling along together as best they could. Their car was a wreck, the road blocked by debris anyway. Markova kept up the pace, determined to get to safety and she turned right, heading away from the city centre. The dust cloud was beginning to thin and breathing was now far easier, the crush of people no longer a problem.
Markova slowed to a halt. Nikolai disengaged himself to lean up against a lamp post, head bowed as he took in deep shuddering breaths.
Abruptly the street lights dimmed and then went out altogether, a ghostly darkness enveloping the surroundings. The explosions finally seemed to have stopped, the sirens of the emergency services cutting through the screams of the wounded and the dying.
Markova walked on a few metres, mind struggling to cope, knowing it was Chinese artillery but not understanding why. She turned back towards Nikolai; abruptly there was a crashing welter of noise and she was blown off her feet, her body smashing face-down onto the frozen earth.
She lay on the ground, tasting blood, eyes open but unable to focus. She tried moving her limbs but there was nothing, just a dull annoying ache. Her head felt as though it was being repeatedly squeezed in a massive vice and random thoughts started jumping around in her brain – fighting with her brother, her first day in Moscow, the pink ticket office melting before her eyes.
The blood in her mouth brought forth a cough and she winced sharply as needle-like fingers of pain lanced through her chest, the spasm gripping her whole body. The throbbing in her head suddenly seemed to intensify, a curtain of darkness sweeping down over her.
* * *
Markova drifted in and out of consciousness, sensing people around her and the wail of the ambulance’s siren; she thought she saw Nikolai but couldn’t be sure. She tried to speak but knew she was making no sense and then the drugs kicked in, the warm embrace of sleep a welcome release.
When she next awoke, Markova lay on a wheeled stretcher in a hospital corridor, one of a line of patients waiting to be seen. The trauma department at the end of the corridor looked to be overflowing with the injured, and Markova searched desperately for her triage tag, relieved to see it was coded yellow, disappointed it wasn’t green. Worse than a minor injury, but no need to be seen immediately – she was far luckier than many.
The corridor quickly filled along one side, staff having to squeeze past. Markova’s head was still pounding and the left side of her body was a band of pain from breast to thigh. She tried to lever herself upright but gave up as soon as the nausea hit, lying back down and accepting she wasn’t going anywhere for now. Instead, she worked on remembering her cover story, struggling to recall her new name and date of birth, trusting that her confusion wasn’t some form of retrograde amnesia.
It was another hour before she was wheeled into the emergency suite, her body duly prodded and probed, pupils and blood pressure checked, referred for X-rays and brain scan. There were the expected questions, Markova’s own concerning Nikolai merely met with a shrug or a shake of the head.
Eventually, having been dosed up with painkillers, she was transferred onto a temporary ward, there to await the promised tests. Broken ribs, concussion, pulmonary contusion, traumatic brain injury – Markova felt the doctor’s concerns were unduly pessimistic, but simply getting up and seeing if she could physically walk without collapsing still seemed unwise.
She’d rethink her options tomorrow, once they’d worked out whether her brain was still fully functional or not.
The Koschei – 17:09 Local Time; 09:09 UTC
In Russia it was a public holiday, Unity Day supposed to encourage tolerance between Russia’s many diverse nationalities. Karenin had duly noted the fact at the mid-morning briefing, commenting in passing that the holiday’s origin had far more to do with Moscow’s liberation from Polish invaders in 1612. It was just one of the many useless facts Karenin could call upon. Another was that the Project-633 submarine was known in the West as the Romeo-class, the Soviet Union’s export version to China renamed the Type 6633 Romeo, before the same hull metamorphosed into the Chinese-built Ming-class, several of which had then found their way to North Korea. The design was now effectively an antique; however China had maintained several such boats, its tactical doctrine based on using the outdated Ming-class as bait for the expected U.S. enemy, with the more modern attack submarines waiting nearby to pounce.
The Koschei’s acoustic signature had theoretically been tailored to be an excellent match to one of China’s remaining Ming-class submarine, specifically pennant number 310. Personally, Karenin has his doubts, not helped by last-minute concerns involving an upg
rade to one of North Korea’s own Ming-class subs. The Americans had to believe they were tracking a Chinese submarine and not be confused into thinking it was North Korean.
It had been far too late to re-think or make changes, and in any case Karenin remained unconvinced as to the accuracy of the science. Not that it was for him to question the experts, he was simply there to ensure the Koschei got noticed.
Many of the crew were from Karenin’s previous command, the men adapting well to the peculiar mix of old and new: the Koschei was relatively slow and tricky to manoeuvre, but its passive sonar and torpedo countermeasures were based on the updated Kilo-class. The normal complement of fourteen torpedoes had been reduced to eleven due to the difficulty of acquiring suitable weapons – although China’s Yu-4B torpedo was a development of a Russian model, continuous upgrades had made it essential to obtain the Chinese versions. Despite its relative age, the torpedo was still a capable weapon, its greatest disadvantage a range of just 15 kilometres.
The sonar centre in the old Romeo had been separate from the control room – now it was part of a modern targeting console, Karenin able to keep a close eye on the submarine’s various systems without needing to walk more than a few metres. For five minutes now, Karenin had stood behind one of the two sonar technicians, watching a small red icon pulsing slowly on the monitor.
The South China Sea was a complex and relatively dangerous hunting ground for the Koschei: a deep basin lay to the east, dotted with steep-sided reefs, before the sea floor rose sharply to form the continental shelf. Home to a multitude of atolls, sandbars and shipwrecks, India’s winter monsoon dragged in colder air to add its unique influence to the ever-changing currents. The Sea was also a major artery for trade, its shipping lanes carrying almost half the world’s annual tonnage. Most of it passed close to the Spratly Islands, the northern route dominated by tankers transporting crude oil and liquefied natural gas to Japan and South Korea from the Persian Gulf.
The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2) Page 21