The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (12 page)

Charlotte
kicked off her shoes and knelt down beside Anderson, “I’m guessing
this is Mike’s idea?”

Again Jessica
answered for Anderson, “I’m encouraging Michael to continue his
interest in Mr McDowell, so please don’t give him a hard time. And
I must admit I’m quite intrigued by the mysterious Yuri and
Lara.”

“As are we
all”, said Charlotte. “Or at least until we discover McDowell’s
trying to widen Erdenheim’s appeal by offering language
courses.”

“There’s
always a cynic,” Jessica said unabashed. “Apparently, Michael’s
been upsetting important people, and not just you.”

Charlotte
ignored the jibe, “Are we talking about Erdenheim? How did it go?
Or is Mike not actually allowed to speak for himself?”

“Pat McDowell
was the perfect host,” said Anderson, pleased to finally get a word
in. “And there was nothing suspicious that I could see. It’s not
clear who I’ve upset but it’s another incentive to stick
around.”

“And how long
might that be for?”

“A few more
days,” said Anderson, trying not to smile. “A week maybe.”

Jessica again jumped in. “Charlotte, don’t forget I’m off to
Dublin on Saturday, then a few days with your Uncle John; back on
the 26th. I told Michael he could stay here – as a sort of
house-sitter – rather than some cramped room at the
Farriers
, but he
politely declined. Perhaps you could sort something better out for
him, dear; not tonight, of course, but maybe tomorrow or at least
before the weekend?”

Charlotte
ignored Anderson’s hint of a smirk and gave her mother a
daughterly-glare, “Of course, Mum; just leave it with me.”

* * *

Jessica set
great store by her instincts, and her instinct was telling her
Anderson was one of the good guys. Despite Charlotte’s outward
reserve, she clearly like him and Jessica wanted to help things
along if she could. If it all came to nothing, then at least she’d
tried; not that Anderson seemed the ideal suitor, his unclear job
description and vivid imagination perhaps indicating an uncertain
future. Jessica still couldn’t believe that her husband had been
murdered but that she was content to follow Anderson’s lead and see
how it all played out.

The search
through George’s many books had produced nothing related to
terrorism but it had resulted in an unexpected bonus when Jessica
came across a thin black notebook. She had recognised it
immediately even though she hadn’t seen it for years; it wasn’t
exactly hidden away, merely squashed between two bigger books on a
shelf in the study and George had used it for various work-related
contact details. No home addresses, just names, phone numbers and
perhaps an email address, together with a single letter above each
surname. It wasn’t even a particularly subtle code, just a silly
idea suggested by Jessica but taken up with enthusiasm by George;
the letter L used for Langley or CIA, T for Thames House or MI5,
and so on. In total, there were some hundred names in the book,
listed in a loose variation of alphabetical order, the results of
some twenty years working on the fringes of Britain’s intelligence
agencies.

Once Charlotte
and Anderson had left, Jessica retrieved the notebook, and more out
of curiosity than expectation, she thumbed through the second half,
gaze moving quickly down the list of names. No Patrick McDowell and
no Charles Zhilin. Having started along that particular train of
thought, Jessica turned somewhat hesitantly to the front pages; a
cautious search and she was relieved to see that there was also no
listing of anyone named Anderson. She delved deeper, not totally
surprised when she quickly found the final name she was looking
for: Adam Devereau, with work phone number and the letter V
alongside. V for Vauxhall Cross on the South Bank of the Thames,
home to the UK’s Secret Intelligence Service, more popularly known
as MI6.

Jessica shut
the book with a sigh, curious as to whether Anderson was aware of
Devereau’s past link with the security services. And, if not, would
it really be wise to tell him?

The MS
Mikhail Bulgakov
was the very latest addition to the ships
cruising back and forth between Moscow and St. Petersburg. A budget
version of the five-star vessels favoured by the foreign visitors,
the steady increase in domestic tourism ensured the
Bulgakov
had a full
complement of 442 passengers and crew. With four decks of relative
luxury, the ship had been designed to provide an entertaining but
relaxing experience for its passengers, the overwhelming majority
of whom were Russian.

The
Bulgakov’
s tour along Russia’s scenic waterways took in the ancient
cities of the Golden Ring before moving slowly on to St.
Petersburg. Ahead was Uglich, home to the beautiful Church of Saint
Dimitry on the Blood, and so far the trip had fairly routine; one
crew member had failed to board before the
Bulgakov
had departed Moscow the
previous evening but the ship’s entertainment officer had quickly
rearranged the quotas to cope.

Four hundred kilometres to the north the
Bulgakov’s
sister-ship, the
MS
Konstantin Balmont
, cruised slowly along the River Svir. Again there was a
single crew-member missing; this time one of the kitchen
staff.

The first bomb exploded aboard the MS
Mikhail Bulgakov
shortly after 7
a.m. local time, then eighteen minutes later the second on the
MS
Konstantin Balmont
. Those sleeping aboard the
Balmont
were by far the luckier, the
bomb blast sweeping through part of the main restaurant but causing
no structural damage, and the subsequent fire was quickly
extinguished. On the
Bulgakov
, the bomb shattered one of
the lower-deck cabins, splitting the hull just below the waterline.
Within fifteen minutes the vessel began to list, adding to the
problems of the inexperienced crew struggling to launch the
lifeboats. Despite there being no real danger, several
panic-stricken passengers began to leap overboard, desperately
striking out to the shore some four hundred metres distant. The
hysteria and fear started to spread, people fighting each other to
board the life-boats. Overcrowded and unstable, two lifeboats
crashed into each other, spilling terrified passengers into the
chilly waters of the Volga.

Even as the first news reports flashed onto the TV screens, a
third explosion tore through the entrance chamber of the Mariinsky
Palace, the home of St. Petersburg’s City Council.
August 14
had chosen to
spread its wings, its actions once again emphasising to the world
the impotence of Russia’s security forces.

* * *

As the bomb
attacks became public knowledge, a wave of protests spread rapidly
through Moscow’s streets. In particular, a gathering at Arbat
Square began to suck in more and more people, the crowd’s numbers
swelled into the tens of thousands as even the most placid of
Muscovites was taken up with the passion of the moment. Activists
pushed themselves to the front and a group several thousand strong
broke away from the main body, streaming west along the New Arbat
and towards the Russian White House. Their placards revealed that
the crowd’s anger was primarily directed against the Prime
Minister, regarded by many as indecisive and weak, and thus the
main cause of Russia’s inability to stop the terrorists.

Two hundred
metres from the White House, a double line of riot police stood
shoulder-to-shoulder, shields and batons held ready, the extremists
in the crowd marked out for later attention by well-armed
snatch-squads. The shouts of the protestors were soon reinforced by
anything from chunks of concrete to petrol bombs, the two sides
becoming embroiled in a series of vicious confrontations.

With a
helicopter hovering overhead, hundreds more police began to advance
along the wide avenue, two water cannon punching a hole through the
front rank of demonstrators. People began to stumble and fall as
they tried to escape, but the police advance never slowed, batons,
shields and boots being used to club the protestors back. So far,
it was relatively routine; no need for tear-gas, rubber bullets or
stun-grenades, and no reason to deploy the armoured vehicles
presently held in reserve.

Two thousand
more riot police waited directly outside the White House, most of
them impatient to get to grips with the mob. Not that they felt any
personal animosity towards the protestors – in fact many agreed
wholeheartedly with their views – but Moscow’s Police Commissioner
had decreed that the White House be protected.

And protected
it was: six thousand security personnel policing Moscow’s streets,
one demonstrator killed, well over a hundred injured.

Anderson was feeling guilty, well aware that he should have
found a healthier lunchtime option than a ham sandwich at
the
Farriers
.
Still, the quiet corner of the bar was somewhere relaxing to review
progress and plan out his next move.

Devereau might
be busy in Bristol but he hadn’t entirely left Anderson to his own
devices and his initial inquiry into Erdenheim had found nothing
untoward, a trusted source with personal experience of the
Management Centre giving it a glowing review. The Erdenheim staff
had been friendly and knowledgeable, particularly Jon Carter;
McDowell had delivered the standard welcome speech but that was
about the limit of his contribution.

Amongst a
swathe of other information from Devereau was a chronological list
of Erdenheim’s courses and clients. Anderson had wondered if the
Centre might have run a workshop on counter-terrorism and invited
some expert as a guest speaker, but there was nothing even close.
Often the company names meant nothing, no specific links able to be
made, it impossible to verify whether the bookings were genuine or
not. Anderson had tried to confirm who had been at Erdenheim during
the visit of Anne Teacher’s brash Americans but got nowhere, it the
same for the date of Yuri and Lara’s likely visit; his quick
analysis of the photographs from his visit to Erdenheim had proved
equally unhelpful, there nothing that stood out as being odd or
unusual.

Throughout the morning the radio news had kept him up-to-date
with the continuing turmoil in Russia. Domodedovo was now relegated
to the briefest of mentions as details of the latest attacks were
revealed – seventeen killed or missing on the MS
Mikhail Bulgakov
, four
more deaths aboard the MS
Konstantin
Balmont,
and one killed in the St.
Petersburg bombing.

Yet, the Russian authorities were continuing to strike back,
their massive media campaign at long last producing results when a
Moscow shop assistant had recognised a man buying cigarettes. The
man was quickly traced to the third-floor of a nearby apartment
block, and in the chaos of the ensuing shoot-out, three had died,
all presumed to be members of
August
14
. There was no mention of any arrests,
although a cache of arms and explosives had reportedly been
seized.

It was clearly a world away from the tranquillity of
Marshwick and the relaxed surroundings of the
Farriers
. Coffee duly finished,
Anderson set himself the task of finding more about Erdenheim’s
foreign guests – preferably without upsetting anyone too
important.

Nabiyev
carefully slipped on gloves and shoe covers, always conscious of
the need to set the correct example. A nod that he was ready, and
one of the FSB guards thrust open the shattered remains of the
front door, simultaneously holding aside the police tape for
Nabiyev to duck through into the apartment’s main living area.
Nabiyev let the door swing half shut behind him before standing to
survey a dishevelled and crowded interior, his eyes drawn to the
blood-spattered sofa-bed. Just hours previously the apartment’s
three occupants had been living a meaningful if slightly chaotic
existence; now, thanks to one of them needing his half-hourly fix
of nicotine, all three were dead.

Less than
forty minutes after receiving the emergency call from the shop
assistant, a six-man unit from the FSB’s Alpha Group had blasted
their way through the apartment’s front door. Only one of the
terrorists had been immediately visible, the man confused and
barely conscious from the effects of two stun-grenades. A second
terrorist had suddenly appeared from the rear room, gun blazing,
joined a moment later by the third man. In the ensuing firefight,
all three terrorists had been killed. It wasn’t the Alpha Group’s
finest hour: despite their body armour, two of them had been
seriously injured, and questions were already being asked as to why
they had chosen to rush in rather than making a proper assessment.
Live terrorists were considered a useful commodity, dead ones
significantly less so.

The
apartment’s main room had the usual trappings of table, chairs, and
TV, but along two walls stood a line of large cardboard boxes,
sometimes up to three boxes high. Nabiyev began the onerous task of
looking through them, trying to disturb the contents as little as
possible. All weapons, explosives and phones had supposedly been
removed by the FSB’s investigators once Alpha had secured the
apartment, and it would be at least a half-hour before the main
forensic team arrived, leaving him time enough; in any case, as one
of Grebeshkov’s hated team of inspectors, he had every reason to be
there. And if nothing else, it made a welcome change from the
claustrophobia of the Lubyanka.