The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (11 page)

“Concerned? Or
is it something more definite?”

Valentin was quick to explain, “Simple maths, Sir. Nazarenko
spent three months in Lithuania, arriving here in December; that
easily gives
August 14
time to train at least one more group, even if they took a
couple of months off for a winter break. Of course, it’s also
possible these sixteen presently in Lithuania have been there since
December, rather than being brand-new recruits, or even that they
have nothing at all to do with
August
14
.”

The Prime
Minister gave a deep sigh of frustration, fingers tapping absently,
trying to work out the best way forward. “We have to assume the
worst-case scenario. If you’re right, we could easily be looking at
eight or more terrorist cells already inside Russia, with several
more preparing to join them.”

“Lithuania,”
Valentin said, “could supply all of the answers we so desperately
need: who finances them, how many of their people are actually
here, names, faces... perhaps even the identity of their leaders.
Evidence we could then use to justify such an attack. Conversely,
there are significant risks, and the diplomatic repercussions of
any action must be carefully weighed against the potential
rewards.”

There was a long silence while the Prime Minister made up his
mind. “Let’s be very clear,” he said, emphasising each word. “Are
you both agreed that this site in Lithuania has been, or indeed
still is, a training camp for terrorists; specifically for those
of
August 14
.”

Valentin’s
response was immediate, “Yes, Sir.”

Grebeshkov
knew it was too late to have second thoughts and what happened next
wasn’t down to him. “I agree, Sir. However, I must formally advise
that the consequences of military action on Lithuanian soil could
be disastrous.”

“We
must
tread carefully, Sir,” Valentin reaffirmed.

The Prime
Minister slammed his hand down onto the table, irritated by their
lukewarm support, “How many more terrorists can we allow Lithuania
to train before we react – ten, twenty, a hundred... They abuse our
friendship and you expect us to do nothing?” Abruptly, he waved his
hand in a gesture of dismissal, “Your opinions are duly noted,
gentlemen; however, we must act decisively, the Russian people
expect nothing less.”

* * *

Kolomenskoe
Park is one of Moscow’s more popular attractions, serving up a
different architectural wonder around every turn, from magic stones
for health and happiness to the beautiful Church of the Ascension
of the Lord on the bank of the Moskva. Despite the many tourists,
there are still vast areas of relative peace and tranquillity well
away from the security cameras where privacy is assured.

Eglitis sat on
a wooden bench, listening to the church bells and soaking up the
beauty of the scores of apple trees just coming into blossom.
Couples and family groups were spread out across the orchard,
sitting haphazardly amongst the trees, enjoying each other’s
company. It was a truly harmonious scene but Eglitis still found it
difficult to relax, there always that small doubt some observant
policeman would see through his disguise or decide his ID was
worthy of a more detailed check. Today’s meeting was important but
hardly essential; nevertheless, they both believed such risks were
justified, it perhaps being their final opportunity to exchange
essential information and review progress.

Nabiyev was
late, a fact which hardly helped Eglitis’ mood. To sit too long
would draw unwanted attention: to many in these suspicious times,
an old man sitting alone watching children at play was obviously a
kidnapper or a paedophile, not a grandfather missing the love and
laughter of his own family.

Eglitis rose stiffly, hunching over his walking stick, trying
not to over-play his part. On cue, Nabiyev immediately appeared in
the distance, striding purposefully along the path. Eglitis quickly
sat back down, annoyed with himself for his own impatience, and
annoyed with Nabiyev for lacking the good sense to be on time. He
trusted Nabiyev – as much as he trusted anyone – yet he always felt
the younger man was far too relaxed over the potential dangers.
Eglitis had no illusions as to his own fate, merely unsure whether
it would be a consequence of the demands of
August 14
or the fragility of his
failing heart.

Nabiyev gave a
smile of welcome, his hug and triple kiss suggesting to the casual
observer that Eglitis was at the very least an old friend, or more
likely the two of them were father and son. Nabiyev sat himself
beside Eglitis, a box of sushi offered as part-apology for his
being late.

With a wave of
his hand Eglitis declined, keen to keep their meeting short and to
the point. “I need information not food. Baranovskiy and
Nazarenko?”

“Baranovskiy’s
dead,” Nabiyev said dismissively, “but Nazarenko’s still talking.
We need to assume the FSB will extract everything he knows within
the next forty-eight hours.” He gave Eglitis a hard look, “The
attack on British Boeing was unfortunate; we cannot afford to
antagonise potential allies.”

Nabiyev’s
casual indifference as to the sacrifice of his fellow conspirators
instantly annoyed Eglitis but he knew it would be pointless to
speak his mind. “A regrettable mistake,” he said quietly. “One we
must learn to deal with. Has Nazarenko told the FSB where he was
trained?”

Nabiyev waved
his hand uncertainly, “I get to learn some of what the drugs and
beatings have revealed, but not all. As I said, it would be best to
assume they will eventually discover everything.”

Eglitis gave a
brief nod of agreement, “What else?”

“There’s to be
saturation security coverage of a random district, changing each
day. Tomorrow it’s Presnya in the centre, then Konkovo in the
south-west; I’ll try to update you when I know more...”

The briefing continued, Eglitis getting a feel for how the
search for
August 14
was progressing. Their survival depended on staying one step
ahead of the police and the FSB, and it was ironic that Nabiyev had
been pulled from his role in counterintelligence to help monitor
the FSB’s own investigation into
August
14
. Paradoxically, that had severely
limited his usefulness, information often trickling down to him far
too late to be of any real benefit.

After some twenty minutes, they parted as they had met,
Eglitis waiting a further five minutes before shuffling his way
along the path, heading south towards the Kashirskaya Metro. It was
time to prove that the FSB’s recent success would do little to stop
the terrorist attacks,
August
14
’s reach extending far beyond the
confines of just Moscow.

“Michael, I’m
so pleased you’ve called; come in and sit down, and I’ll put the
coffee on.”

Jessica’s
welcome was one not to be denied and Anderson took his usual seat
on the sofa, placing the Commander’s book on the coffee table in
front of him. He knew he wouldn’t be allowed to depart Marshwick
with nothing more than a thank you and a simple goodbye, just
hoping that he could persuade Jessica to leave McDowell and
Erdenheim well alone.

“Coffee will be ready in a minute,” Jessica said, returning
from the kitchen. “Now, how are you? What about a bite to eat? You
can’t go back to London without something inside you. Or did you
eat at the
Farriers
? Is it London, or did Charlotte tell me you were heading off
somewhere else?”

Anderson
randomly picked which questions to answer, “I’m fine, Mrs Saunders;
I’ll have something to eat later, and it’s Bristol.”

“Jessica,
please... Bristol, of course; now I remember.” She gestured towards
the book, “Did it help after all?”

“I’m afraid
not; certainly nothing leapt out at me.”

“It could have
been an impulse buy, I suppose, unlikely as that seems. It took my
husband three years to propose and another two to actually walk
down the aisle. George being impulsive meant having to plan less
than a month ahead.”

Anderson tried
to match Jessica’s smile, but he needed first to apologise. “I got
carried away with the idea that your husband’s death might not be
an accident. I’m sorry; it was just a foolish notion.”

Jessica’s
reaction was to give Anderson an even wider smile and he feared she
was actually going to hug him.

“Thank you,
Michael,” Jessica said warmly, “for such a gracious apology. I
assure you, such concerns are totally unnecessary. I actively
encouraged you and we must both share any fault. I still believe
there’s some mystery here and these books are not something George
would normally buy: he’s much more Bernard Cornwell than Tom
Clancy. With non-fiction, it’s virtually all antiques and naval
history. I can’t imagine there’s even a single book on terrorists
or terrorism.”

She paused, as
though making up her mind about something. “I always find a strong
coffee and a good lunch helps focus one’s thoughts; let’s see if we
can solve this conundrum together.”

He’d been
through the front door barely a minute and Jessica was already
taking charge, Anderson not yet off the hook. There seemed little
harm in giving it one more go, past assumptions put aside at least
for the moment.

Anderson still
wanted to check the ground-rules. “If there’s no ulterior motive
for the Commander to order Zhilin’s books, then we’re simply
wasting our time with a lot of pointless conjecture. Are you sure
you want to do that?”

Jessica’s
response was immediate, “Most definitely, Michael; we’ve gone this
far, and I’m looking forward to a bit more outrageous speculation.
Don’t worry, I promise not to be shocked or upset by any of your
more outlandish ideas.”

“Sadly,”
Anderson said, “ideas are a bit lacking at the moment, outlandish
or otherwise.”

“In which
case, do we need to bite the bullet and read all three books? It’s
only one each if I volunteer Charlotte.”

Anderson’s pained look was enough to veto such an idea. The
events described in
Red Terror
were decades old, the youngest of those involved
well into their seventies; the other two books covered more recent
times but that merely opened up scores of lines of inquiry. Somehow
there had to be a simpler way.

It became a
working lunch, Anderson wasting five minutes in a search for other
editions of Zhilin’s books but there was only ever the one, not
even a paperback or eBook alternative – an indication as to
Zhilin’s rather limited appeal. The ridiculous was discussed along
with the feasible, the Russian links argued over, nothing ignored,
but it was again proving a fruitless exercise in conjecture, there
too many unknowns to come close to something that made reasonable
sense.

Eventually the
tone from Anderson’s phone provided an essential distraction,
Devereau the caller. “Mike, where are you exactly?” he asked,
sounding impatient.

Anderson lied,
“About halfway to Bristol; just stopped for something to eat.
Shouldn’t you be getting on a plane or something?”

Devereau
ignored the question, “Did you finish pursuing whatever it was you
were after?”

“Yes and no;
could be something but it’s proving difficult to get anywhere.”

“And it has to
do with George Saunders? How he died?”

Anderson might
not have mentioned his inquiry was related to Saunders but Devereau
had no problem reading between the lines. “There are certain
aspects that needed following up.” He didn’t want to get into
specifics, not without something concrete.

“Forget
Bristol,” said Devereau. “I’ll deal with it. Get yourself back to
Marshwick. You seem to have upset someone with influence and
they’re rather keen to find out more about you. Fortunately, I too
have friends in high places, but no-one’s telling me who’s asking
questions or why. Upsetting important people is always a good sign,
so you must be doing something right. Phone me tonight with an
update…”

Things were
looking up thought Anderson wryly; his leads might be so thin as to
be virtually invisible but the number of his allies was growing
almost daily.

* * *

“Anyone home?”
Charlotte asked loudly, shutting the front door behind her.

“We’re in the
study...”

We
– Charlotte was first confused
then intrigued, half suspecting – or was it half-hoping – it might
be Anderson. The study was awash with boxes and books; books in
boxes, books in waist-high piles, books strewn across her father’s
desk. Anderson and her mother were on their knees searching through
a box each, discarded books seemingly being added to any random
pile.

“I assume
you’re looking for something?” Charlotte said flippantly.

“I never
realised your father had so many books,” responded Jessica,
struggling to her feet. “We’ve emptied the garage and the loft;
there are just hundreds of them, certainly enough for our own
library.”

“I’ll ask
again,” Charlotte said. “What exactly are you looking for? And,
Mike, why aren’t you photographing the Avon Gorge or something a
little further west than Dad’s study?”

It was Jessica
who answered first, “We’re looking to see if your father’s liking
for four-hundred page narratives on terrorism was purely a one-off
and so far there’s nothing even close. They really needed sorting
out anyway and it’s nice to have a helper. Now you’re here,
Charlotte, make yourself useful; my knees are getting too old for
such work.”