The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (14 page)

“I wondered if
it might be rented, not that’s it on any list, but I believe the
Management Centre at Graythorp bought it.” Charlotte knew very well
who had bought it, precisely when, and for exactly how much; what
she didn’t know was who lived in it. Not Carter, and not McDowell,
unless he wanted a second home to add to his three-bedroom house in
Marshwick.

“I don’t think
it’s rented,” Sarah replied. “It wasn’t on the market for long.
Chap moved in middle of February but he seems to be away a lot of
the time; not that I’m deliberately nosy, I just don’t like it when
a house is empty.” Sarah had finally found a suitable TV channel to
keep her son occupied and her full attention moved back towards
Charlotte. “Management Centre... is that Erdenheim? Weren’t they in
trouble for something?”

“There was a
car crash and a young man was killed; an Erdenheim van was involved
but it was just an unfortunate accident... It’s a big house for
just one person.” Charlotte said, working hard to get the
conversation back on track.

“Not fair, is
it; I’ve certainly not seen a wife. Ray’s met him but I’ve just
gazed wantonly – he’s very handsome...” Sarah’s eyes started to
glaze over then she gave a broad smile, “Too rich and too old for
me; must be in his fifties. American, I think Ray said. I drool
over him, and Ray drools over his car, what a sad couple we
are.”

“Fast and
sporty? I mean the car not the man,” Charlotte asked, matching
Sarah’s smile.

“Very sporty
and very fast; white Ferrari... well something Italian anyway.”

“And he’s
there now?”

Charlotte had
finally gone too far. “I think someone is hiding something,” Sarah
said sharply. “What do you know that I don’t, Charlie?”

“Oh, nothing
really; I’d heard that a well-known writer was working at Erdenheim
and I just wondered who it was.” It was the best Charlotte could
come up with on the spur of the moment, and it was worrying that
Sarah’s description was edging far more towards the late Charles
Zhilin than the mysterious Yuri.

“Are you
telling me this visit has an ulterior motive?” Sarah asked
curiously. “Should I be upset that we’re only a means to an
end?”

Sarah didn’t
sound upset, but Charlotte was already regretting her high-handed
use of a friend. “I’m sorry, Sarah; I guess I’m the one who’s being
nosy.”

“Don’t worry
about it; I’m all for killing two birds with one stone as the
saying goes. I sense you’re not telling me everything but I’m far
too polite to pry.” Sarah’s brow furrowed, “I think I saw his car
earlier, or maybe it was yesterday; in any case, I’m fairly sure
he’s about somewhere.”

“I don’t
suppose you know his name?” Charlotte asked, pushing her luck as
far as she dared.

“Sorry, no,”
Sarah said immediately. “Ray might have an idea though. Now,
Charlie, what other intrigue have you got for me – whatever it is,
it’s got to be better than a diet of Mickey Mouse and Curious
George...”

It was another
fifteen minutes before Ray breezed in through the lounge door, eyes
widening appreciatively as he recognised Charlotte.

“Down tiger,”
Sarah said mockingly, “Charlie’s got herself a boyfriend, so hands
off.”

“He’s just a
friend,” Charlotte said quickly. “I didn’t say boyfriend.”

“That’s how it
all starts,” Sarah said, “There’s no such thing as a male friend
for someone as attractive as you; trust me, I know.” She turned
back to her husband, “Ray, what’s the man opposite called?”

“You mean
DeLorean?” Ray replied, fending off his son as they began a ritual
pre-bedtime play fight.

“DeLorean? Are
you talking about his car? I thought it was a Ferrari?”

“No, it’s a
Lamborghini,” Ray said, distracted.

“DeLorean,
Lamborghini, Ferrari… You talk to him, Charlie; just remember what
I said about not having an adult conversation.”

“It’s how I remember his name,” Ray said defensively.
“DeLorean as in
Back to the
Future
.”

“That makes
sense,” Charlotte said equally confused.

“His Lamborghini is a supercar, like the DeLorean in
Back to the Future
.
DeLorean equals
Back to the Future
equals Marty McFly; so it’s Marty from across the
road. Makes perfect sense to me. Didn’t get the guy’s
surname.”

Marty McFly,
Martin
McFly… Charlotte was just thankful it wasn’t
Charles.

She left after
another fifteen minutes, pleased but also a little confused. It had
obviously been naïve to assume the Erdenheim house was for the
convenience of guest speakers, and it made far more sense for it to
be occupied on a more permanent basis. Yet this was an expensive
and extravagant resource, a half a million plus house bought not
for one of Erdenheim’s directors but for an American with a love of
fast cars.

It was just a
little odd, and for a brief moment Charlotte worried that
Anderson’s intuition might actually be proving superior to her
scepticism – then reason prevailed. Quite who Marty might actually
be wasn’t important at the moment, Charlotte content to savour her
success as a part-time private eye.

Markova’s
perch beside the tree was at best uncomfortable and – at three
hundred metres – further away than she would have liked but at
least it gave her an unrestricted view of the rear of Golubeva’s
house, down past the walled garden and along to the wide veranda.
The modern three-storey house in Moscow’s western suburbs was
something for Markova to aspire to, although she had no idea why
anyone needed so many rooms, especially when you were just an
ageing woman with no husband, nor any children to nurture or
support.

The National Security Advisor was Markova’s second
high-profile target in five days, Moscow’s Police Commissioner
having proved somewhat easier to study. It would take a month or
more to check every member of the Security Committee, Grebeshkov
pushing his authority to the limit in the vain hope that the
spetsnaz
would discover
something of interest. With no-one seemingly immune from
Grebeshkov’s suspicions, a second surveillance unit matched Markova
some ten kilometres to the north, their latest target the general’s
own deputy, a Colonel Nabiyev.

Golubeva’s
house was one of a dozen which formed its own gated community, the
swathe of trees on the higher ground to the rear of the properties
helping ensure Markova’s presence remained undetected. Apart from
two guards permanently stationed beside the wide metal gates,
community security was mainly electronic, CCTV watching every
possible access route. Golubeva was also honoured with two live-in
bodyguards, and soon after she had arrived home an irregular police
patrol had started to keep a protective eye on developments.

Markova’s
orders from Grebeshkov had been simple enough: tail each Committee
member in turn and make a note of anything unusual – not easy with
just a team of six when twenty-four was the norm. The unofficial
nature of Markova’s task meant she was effectively working with one
hand tied behind her back, conscious that Golubeva likely had
enough authority to finish her career for good.

There was
sudden movement from behind a window on the second floor. Markova
adjusted her headphones, realigning the laser microphone for the
best possible sound quality, the device close to its maximum range.
The voices were still too distorted to pick out anything meaningful
and it would be an hour or more before she could check the
computer-enhanced version. Like many assignments, it was an
exasperating experience, just a few minutes activity every hour but
with the constant fear you would be the one to miss something
vital.

Irina Golubeva
was a very popular lady, visitors – mostly middle-aged males –
arriving each evening and staying for between one and three hours;
never the same person, a total of eight in just three nights. The
informal nature of Markova’s task meant she was having to analyse
the various photographs and sound recordings herself; even so, the
FSB’s facial-recognition software made identifying Golubeva’s
callers a relatively simple task. Most were minor government
officials, covering a range of departments, but there was also a
high-powered executive from Channel One Russia. So far, the sound
recordings had proved unhelpful, with half completely
unintelligible, the rest revealing nothing out of the ordinary.

And what
exactly should Markova regard as unusual? Earlier that evening two
male visitors had joined Golubeva at a friendly dinner for three,
followed by drinks on the veranda, then several phone calls all
made from behind closed doors – was any of that supposed to be
unusual? Markova hadn’t recognised either of the men, and having
arrived within ten minutes of each other, they had left after some
two hours, one having his own bodyguard and driver. Markova had no
real idea what the President’s National Security Advisor’s role
actually involved, so it was quite possible such meetings were
nothing more than routine.

However, the
latest caller was rather different to the rest: arriving some
twenty minutes earlier, Markova’s team at the front of the house
had noted that although not in uniform he looked to be military;
mid-thirties, he hadn’t treated Golubeva with any obvious
deference, his Volkswagen hire car offering no clue as to the
identity of its driver.

To Markova
that seemed more than sufficient to be classed as unusual. Fifty
minutes later she was seated rather more comfortably than before in
a black Lada, following the VW as it turned west towards Vnukovo
International Airport. Markova stayed well back, the risk of being
spotted a worse alternative to losing contact.

The trip was
becoming more of a long-distance trek than she had anticipated but
Markova persevered, the Lada’s headlights struggling to pick out
the VW through the late-evening rain. The two cars sped past the
turn-off to Vnukovo, eventually joining the M3 Ukraine Highway as
it headed south-west.

Some seventy
kilometres from Moscow, the Volkswagen turned towards the town of
Naro-Fominsk, swinging right to pull up at the barrier guarding its
destination. Markova kept going, gaze straight ahead, no need to
read the large signs. The trend of Golubeva’s contacts was starting
to become disturbing: first government officials, then TV
executives, now the Russian military, or more specifically the 6th
Independent Tank Brigade, 20th Army.

Markova turned
back towards Moscow, working out whether to spoil Grebeshkov’s
evening by phone or in person.

Jester adjusted his night-goggles and checked his watch, then
motioned Eduard to take the lead. After thirty seconds, he followed
on, the remaining six
spetsnaz
strung out behind him at ten metre intervals.
Jester was enjoying this new style of anti-terrorism: gone was the
risky low-level parachute jump or abseil from a bucking helicopter,
now it seemed business-class flights and rides in a Land Rover were
the order of the day. The only awkward part had been the collection
of some additional baggage from a boathouse beside Lake Vištytis,
the guns and other equipment having been smuggled across a few
hours earlier from Kaliningrad.

The eight
spetsnaz
walked slowly through the pine forest, heading
towards the southern edge of the dacha complex, their initial
objective being two of the settlement’s four cottages; a second
eight-man team would attack from the north, while the four-man
headquarters section also acted as a reserve. Two hundred metres
above Jester a drone silently circled, its infra-red camera
forwarding real-time data via satellite direct to Moscow; a
simplified version was then streamed to the visual display attached
to Jester’s left forearm, red icons glowing dimly to reveal the
position of the two guards. Intelligence suggested an opposing
force of no more than sixteen, lightly armed, and of more concern
to Jester was their eventual extraction, the ten kilometre trek and
helicopter flight to the relative safety of Belarus a hazardous
venture into the unknown.

Jester slowed
as he caught up with Eduard, a hand-signal warning the others to
exercise caution. Thirty metres ahead the forest abruptly ended,
and some fifteen metres further on stood the first dacha. Two
storeys high, wooden steps led up to a large wrap-around deck where
a single guard leant against the rail, hands busying themselves
with lighting a cigarette. Apart from the gleam from the guard’s
lighter, there was little more than the soft glow of the moon to
brighten the darkness. The only sounds were the gentle rustle of
the breeze through the pine trees and the muted spatter of an
early-morning drizzle.

Jester
whispered a sitrep, words and image passed on to the HQ section and
the watchers in Moscow. Once the attack began, the low-tech
alternative of eyes and ears would often be a better guide that the
visual display, the drone’s sensors struggling with an
overabundance of information and multiple heat sources too close
together.

The guard was
Eduard’s responsibility, and other than a Kalashnikov he carried a
weapon with rather more ancient origins, the crossbow’s dual visual
and thermal sniper-sights making the shot all too easy. The bolt
was also a special design and as it plunged through the guard’s
chest, the sudden deceleration initiated the release of jagged
metal fins which literally ripped the man’s internal organs apart,
the guard crumpling down onto the wooden deck.

Moments later, two
spetsnaz
raced across the open ground, moving to either
side of the first dacha. The others quickly followed, four
targeting the second dacha, the visual display revealing the
northern patrol circling round to take out the other two
buildings.