The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (13 page)

The boxes contained enough processed food to last the
terrorists several weeks; there were also work clothes and various
uniforms – nothing of any interest to Nabiyev. He padded back
across to the large table, and one-handed casually sorted through
the topping of domestic clutter, mostly magazines. Nabiyev moved
on, past the sofa-bed and into the bedroom. To his surprise, there
was space enough for a large wardrobe, plus two single beds
separated by a chest of drawers. He was more thorough now, although
still unsure what he was looking for – his visit more one of idle
curiosity than fear there would be something to implicate him. In
fact, it had taken an internal FSB report for him to even know the
three men’s names. In this sad world of terror and deceit,
ignorance was a form of security, and the terrorists had given
their lives without ever learning the identity of
August 14’s
leader or
its backers, probably not even aware of allies within Russia such
as Nabiyev.

Nabiyev
himself was somewhat more knowledgeable, his understanding gained
at the expense of his life becoming significantly more complex.
Once there had been a happy marriage, two young children, a
comfortable house in Moscow’s western suburbs. Everything had been
just a little too cosy, and Nabiyev had followed a selfish path,
allowing career and personal ambition to dominate his every waking
hour.

Eventually,
his wife had walked out, taking the children with her to live close
to her family in Tatarstan. Nabiyev had been first bewildered and
then distraught, falsely assuming his wife was having an affair.
Too late he had finally come to understand that by satisfying the
demands of the FSB he had completely ignored the needs of his own
family.

The torment
and despondency of those early weeks had eventually dulled, Nabiyev
slowly coming to terms with his own mistakes, realising that his
wife had had little choice. He started to look afresh at his life,
concerned as to how easily he had been seduced by Russian
arrogance, seeing himself almost as a collaborator. Evidence of the
authoritarian and repressive nature of Russian federalism was all
around him, the FSB an efficient custodian of Moscow’s will. Now,
for the first time since his teenage years, Nabiyev actively sought
to satisfy the needs of his conscience rather than his pocket.

Nabiyev’s profession gave him a unique – if dangerous –
insight into finding fellow activists. In turn that had led to
contacts from Eastern Europe. Lacking unity, their proposed
strategy had initially been one of non-violent resistance and civil
disobedience – that was until they had come to the attention
of
August 14
.
Nabiyev had met its leader just the once, a rushed ninety minutes
at a Saint Petersburg hotel last September, and had immediately
been impressed by the elder man’s passion and vision.

By the start of February, all the required elements had been
put in place, Nabiyev having to tread a delicate path to
keep
August 14
informed as to where the various dangers lay, the FSB’s
recent successes more down to basic mistakes by the terrorists
themselves.
August 14’
s more subtle offensive, focusing now on media manipulation
and cyber-attacks, was already proving to be particularly
effective, the personal risks to those involved significantly less.
Russia’s Government had worked hard over the previous decade to
improve computer security, anticipating an attack from amateur
hackers or perhaps China; consequently, it was the more vulnerable
alternatives such as energy supplies, transport centres, and
communications that were presently being targeted. Life in Moscow
was becoming intolerable with the roads often gridlocked, other
transport links cut, and phones – even landlines – subject to
frequent outages.

Nabiyev turned
his thoughts back to more immediate problems: the apartment’s
secrets would shortly be added to those dragged from Nazarenko, and
he was growing nervous that soon there were be no secrets left.
Quickly he checked the rest of the bedroom, before moving on to the
kitchen and bathroom. To keep up the pretence, he made written
notes of anything of interest, and would later prepare a detailed
report on his visit, a paper copy duly filed away.

It was another
ten minutes before Nabiyev left having found nothing to worry him.
As he signalled for his car, an FSB guard spoke briefly into his
radio; moments later, a record of Nabiyev’s visit was automatically
assigned for processing, Nabiyev’s rank ensuring it was one of the
few to land in General Grebeshkov’s personal inbox.

The briefing-room was small but functional, a video camera
passing on the Captain’s words to a far wider audience than the
fourteen officers presently seated in front of him. Commander Jack
Young stood at the podium, both elbows resting on its sloping
surface. Even after almost two years as captain of the
John Finn
, Young still
felt the pressure of command; he knew that others regarded him as
fastidious, even a perfectionist, but he could only relax when
every problem and difficulty had found a solution.

A guided missile destroyer of the
Arleigh Burke
class, the USS
John Finn
was a
well-armed multi-role workhorse, capable of dealing with
simultaneous air, surface and anti-submarine targets. Reasonable
cost plus versatility – the designers had achieved the first of
their two main objectives, while struggling with the second. In
part because of this design conflict the
John Finn
was hardly the most
stylish of vessels, the line of her hull spoilt by a misshapen
topping of grey-metal boxes and a spike-encrusted central mast. The
advanced design tried to ensure the superstructure was relatively
free of vertical and horizontal surfaces which, in combination with
its covering of radar absorbent tiles, helped to keep the
destroyer’s radar signature to a minimum. With her Tomahawk cruise
missiles and Ballistic Missile Defence System, the open expanse of
the North Atlantic or the Pacific was the
John Finn’s
natural environment,
most certainly not the busy waterway that was the Baltic
Sea.

The
John Finn’s
deployment to the Baltic had originally been planned for the
start of the BALTOPS training exercise in June, a U.S. sponsored
event involving well over a dozen nations, even Russia up until
2014. Now the crisis in Russia and the murder of American citizens
at Domodedovo had accelerated the destroyer’s placement, the
John Finn
a gentle
reminder of American power, and a symbol to steady the nerves of
Russia’s Baltic neighbours.

With a casual
nod and a brief, “Thank you, gentlemen,” Young brought the meeting
to order. A chart of the Baltic Sea flashed into focus on the large
touch screen behind him, specifically the region known as the
Gotland basin: Poland and Kaliningrad to the south, Sweden to the
west, the three Baltic States to the east. The overhead lights
dimmed in response, and a moment later a cluster of coloured lights
appeared across both land and sea.

Young continued, “We will be passing the Russian enclave of
Kaliningrad, headquarters to their Baltic Fleet, early tomorrow
morning. Their main base is at Baltiysk, with a second at Kronstadt
on the approach to Saint Petersburg. As a courtesy, the Russians
have been informed of our deployment, so expect a chaperone once we
pass the Danish island of Bornholm.” With each name, the relevant
location flashed briefly, the
John
Finn
’s predicted course showing as a blue
line, a cluster of Russian red to the south and east.

Young paused, gaze sweeping along the three rows of his
audience. “Every country has a right to defend itself and remember
the terrorists of
August 14
have taken American lives as well as Russian.
Unfortunately, intelligence indicates that
August 14
has strong links with
Poland and the Baltic States, and they of course are part of NATO.
There are other countries in the mix as well, notably the Ukraine
and possibly Georgia. Retaliation by Russia against any of these
countries would be regarded as an over-reaction, and whilst such an
event is extremely unlikely, the U.S. feels it prudent to take
sensible precautions. The USS
John
Finn
is one such precaution. Diplomacy
needs time to work its magic, so that everyone at home can sleep
easy in their beds.”

Again Young
paused, making sure he had everyone’s full attention. “We’re here
to fly the flag, not to upset or bully anyone, and not to create an
international incident. Everyone needs to stay sharp... no
mistakes... no miscalculations... no close shaves.”

Young
straightened his back and took two paces forward, bringing him up
to the edge of the front row, “Questions?”

Charlotte was
in two minds as to how to react to Anderson’s chosen quest. Whilst
she remained unconvinced by his implausible ideas, there was enough
to suggest her father had indeed found something unexpected. That
didn’t mean he had been murdered to keep it secret but nor could
Charlotte blame Anderson for taking up the challenge. In any case,
she enjoyed their repartee and was content to see how the
relationship would progress. The one difficultly was that
Anderson’s actions were denying her mother closure as to the events
surrounding her father’s death, and that was at best unhelpful.

So unhelpful
in fact that Charlotte felt the need to find her own answers, and
the sooner the better. If she had to dismantle Anderson’s ideas one
slow step at a time, then that was fine with her. And if he thought
Lara and Yuri were important, then step one was to find a little
more about McDowell’s two associates.

The pursuit of
the Russian/Polish duo provided an intriguing diversion during
work’s quieter periods, although progress proved significantly more
elusive. Her plan was first to try and pin down where Erdenheim’s
guest speakers might stay: presumably some would need overnight
accommodation and the Centre itself hardly offered five-star
comfort.

It was awkward
at best, her prying phone calls proving that hotel receptionists
were universally immune to Charlotte’s charms. And there were so
many unknowns: Lara and Yuri could have been at Erdenheim for a
day, or a week; and with only one of them speaking good English,
they might not even be guest speakers, just potential clients or
acquaintances of McDowell.

More in hope
than expectation, Charlotte moved on to holiday lets and rental
properties, her expertise allowing a more direct strategy. It
wasn’t until late afternoon that some lateral thinking combined
with inside knowledge resulted in something productive, if not
exactly ground-breaking. And for once, being an estate agent had
proved to be a distinct advantage.

* * *

Set back like
most of its neighbours some forty yards from the road, the
Fletcher’s home was one of a long line of country houses which
formed a lonely but exclusive outpost on Boston’s north-eastern
edge. Charlotte parked at the front, walking up the block-paved
drive to the elegant entrance door, brain automatically reassessing
the house’s relative pros and cons while adjusting her instinctive
valuation.

The door was
opened on Charlotte’s second ring, Sarah Fletcher looking tired and
a little flustered, the small toddler in tow shyly half-hiding
behind his mother’s skirt.

“Charlie, how
lovely to see you,” said Sarah with a weary but welcoming smile.
“It’s been too long and I need someone adult to talk to – and that
includes Ray. As I said on the phone, he won’t be back from golf
until after seven, so we’ve got ages before he starts chatting you
up.”

Charlotte was
ushered in to the front room, Sarah sweeping toys and books aside
to create a space on the settee for Charlotte. The next half-hour
was spent jumping from one random topic to another, covering
everything from the complex welfare of babies and toddlers, to
updates on mutual friends. Sarah couldn’t be classed as a close
friend of Charlotte’s, but they had known each other for some
twenty years, their senior-school acquaintance renewed once
Charlotte had returned to Boston. A conversation centred around
children was one Charlotte was happy to accept, as virtually all of
her friends had at least one child, and sometimes at least one
husband.

It was almost
seven before Charlotte chose to move the conversation on to
something a little different. Taking advantage of Sarah being
distracted by her young son, she drifted towards the bay window,
staring out across the front lawn to the house opposite. “How long
have you been in this house now, Sarah, is it a year yet?”
Charlotte tried to make her tone one of idle curiosity.

“Just over;
it’s been wonderful here, I’m so pleased we bought it. The old
house was always too small and we moved just before the prices went
up – well, you’ll know that better than most. How is business,
Charlie; there always seems plenty of ‘For Sale’ signs?”

“Business is
pretty good... The house opposite, am I right in thinking it was
sold a few months ago?” Charlotte hoped she wasn’t being too
obvious, and for a second she wondered whether it would be easier
just to tell Sarah the reason for her sudden interest.

“That’s right,
went for well over half a million. It’s a beautiful house, and the
plot must be at least an acre; five bedrooms, swimming pool at the
back, south-west facing of course...”