The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

Some
thirty-five metres below Eglitis, a teenage boy stood and watched
in surprise as a smartly-dressed woman literally fought her way out
of the metro car and onto the platform, her briefcase seemingly
forgotten in her haste to get off at the correct stop. To the
teenager, there was now the offer of an intriguing prize: even if
its contents should prove worthless, the case itself looked
expensive, and in Moscow’s markets you could sell just about
anything – even people, if the rumours were to be believed. The
carriage doors began to close, providing just the distraction the
teenager needed.

His hand was
still in mid-air when an electronic relay clicked shut, detonating
the briefcase’s kilogram of plastic explosive. In an instant the
blast swept outwards through the carriage. Flesh and blood offered
little more than token resistance, and even metal buckled and split
before the onslaught. The metro car leapt into the air, the two
adjacent carriages shuddering in sympathy as the explosion ripped
through the adjoining doors. Along the platform bodies were
carelessly cast aside, a storm of glass and metal sweeping
everything from its path.

The floor under Eglitis trembled momentarily before an
accelerating roar engulfed him; a brief hesitation then with finger
and thumb he rotated the arming mechanism hidden in the briefcase’s
handle, sliding the case with his right foot flat against the
wall.
Thirty seconds and
counting..
.

Around Eglitis
there was surge of movement, people shouting, screaming, a few
standing transfixed in shock as a rolling cloud of smoke and dust
billowed out from the platform below, scores of panic-stricken
passengers following in its wake.

Eglitis’
silent countdown had barely reached twenty when his legs ignored
the dangerous pounding of his heart, responding instead to his
brain’s urgent order to flee. Six steps and in one bound he leapt
over the ticket barrier, ageing knees threatening to buckle as he
desperately tried to increase the distance between himself and
certain death. His countdown was still three shy of zero when an
explosion tore through the vestibule, the two massive glass arches
that framed the Lubyanka exit disintegrating into a million lethal
pieces.

* * *

Within minutes
the tragedy at the Lubyanka Metro was headline news around the
world. The following day became a National Day of Mourning, with a
two-minute silence observed across Russia, the public mood both
sombre and angry when the latest casualty figures gave some measure
of the human cost: at least 90 killed, almost 400 hospitalised.

Of the terrorist groups that had quickly claimed
responsibility, only one, signing itself simply as
August 14
, offered
definitive proof. In an aggressively-worded media statement written
first in Russian, and then repeated in English, it condemned the
Government’s failure to renounce Russia’s imperialist past. Moscow
still controlled its own vast empire, a hundred diverse
nationalities subjugated in the cause of Russian colonialism. To
the terrorists, Lubyanka was just the start, their ultimate – if
unlikely – aim the complete and irrevocable fragmentation of the
Russian Federation.

Exactly a week
after Lubyanka, a parcel bomb killed its innocent courier and six
bystanders at the entrance to the Kazansky Rail Terminal, a day
later the National Security Advisor was murdered, together with his
driver and two bodyguards. The next week two car bombs exploded
close to the Bolshoi Theatre – sixteen dead. Then on successive
days more car bombs killed another twenty-three. The spring thaw
saw the terrorists’ target shift to city-centre stores, nightclubs
and restaurants, a deadly mix of bombs and incendiaries resulting
in another ninety-three deaths and insurance claims close to three
billion U.S. dollars.

The
authorities’ response was rapid and determined. Within 48 hours of
the Lubyanka attack, they had identified, but not named, all four
bombers: the only female, a 21-year-old student from Poland had
died at the scene, but despite a massive police hunt the other
three terrorists remained at large. With few other leads to work
with, the police soon concentrated on thwarting further attacks;
hundreds of known activists and dissidents were detained and
interrogated, the movements of others closely monitored, their
phones tapped, homes searched. An intensive media campaign urged
the public to stay vigilant, and a security cordon was thrown
around central Moscow with all vehicles subject to random checks.
Security on the Metro became oppressive, armed guards patrolling
every station and platform; yet passenger numbers still plummeted
by almost a third.

In spite of
such extreme measures, support for the Government’s response was
generally positive. The images from Lubyanka had left an indelible
public memory and many in Moscow could still recall the bloody
scenes from the apartment bombings of ‘99, when almost 300 were
murdered during a two-week killing spree. If lives could be saved
and the terrorists stopped by abandoning the rights of a few
dissidents or by adding a few minutes to the daily commute – then
so be it.

And by the
beginning of May the terrorist attacks had seemingly stuttered to a
halt, the high-profile police action provoking a renewed sense of
optimism. For Eglitis and his paymasters, however, it was merely a
lull before the crescendo of the next phase.

A chill wind
swept in off the North Sea, driving across the flat Lincolnshire
landscape to buffer against the sombre group gathered around the
grave and Anderson hunched his shoulders over even more, trying to
bury his face into the collar of his coat. He had deliberately
detached himself from the other mourners and he could barely hear
the vicar’s words, but it seemed impolite to intrude yet further
upon the grief of family and friends. It wasn’t as if he even knew
the dead man and he was only there because Devereau had needed a
favour, one Anderson would have been hard-pushed to refuse.

Eighteen
months they had worked together, Adam Devereau doing his best to
ensure Anderson’s transition to enterprise journalism wasn’t a
disaster, Anderson grateful enough to try and make it work.
Persistence seemed to be the key, that and Devereau’s many
contacts, Anderson now with a decent, if unpredictable income.
Commercial pilot to freelance journalist – the adjustment had
proved easier than Anderson had anticipated, the career change one
enforced upon him by the return of blurred vision and the
suspension of his pilot’s licence for the second time. Central
Serous Retinopathy was the medical term, the consultant blaming it
on stress with the threat of permanent eye damage only one of many
unpalatable outcomes.

As the friend
of a friend, Devereau had helped far more than Anderson had any
right to expect and being asked to attend the funeral of a complete
stranger seemed little enough in return, even if it did entail a
five-hour round-trip. With Devereau still in New York, Anderson was
the preferred substitute, a private word to the widow felt to be
more respectful than the standard of flowers and a card. Not that
Devereau had been particularly forthcoming about the late George
Saunders, Anderson’s curiosity only growing once he’d read some of
the online obituaries, the funeral service adding a more intimate
perspective to the multitude of facts.

Known
affectionately as ‘the Commander’ to friends and acquaintances, the
church had been full to bursting, and it was the first time
Anderson had experienced a retired Admiral deliver a eulogy.
Lincolnshire born and bred, Saunders had joined the Royal Navy
straight from university, eventually finding his niche in Naval
Intelligence before retiring back to village life and the challenge
of being a parish councillor. A frequent visitor to Spain, he had
been reported as missing by his wife whilst walking alone in the
hills east of Malaga, it two more days before his body had been
found at the base of a deep ravine; with no suspicious
circumstances, it had all the elements of a tragic accident.
Despite the combination of Naval Intelligence and an unusual death,
Saunders had been retired far too long for the national press to
see it as a story worth pursuing. The journalist in Anderson was
tempted but reluctant, curious now as to whether Devereau actually
wanted him to become involved – in which case why hadn’t he just
said as much?

Anderson
musings were cut short as a distant roll of thunder sounded out its
warning and already there was a cold wet trickle nuzzling its way
down the back of his neck. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease
the ache in his back, and by chance his gaze settled on a tall,
burly figure away to his left. Like Anderson, the man stood apart
from the rest of the mourners: late-thirties; six-foot four; black
hair tied in a ponytail; alert, restless eyes – Anderson had walked
past a score of such men every flight, most in uniform, some not.
Using the Commander’s history with Naval Intelligence as his cue,
Anderson’s imagination worked overtime to wonder whether Ponytail
was MI5, or should it be MI6? There was almost the look of a Hells
Angel... CIA, he decided finally, the man doubtless enjoying a
brief respite from a heady life of espionage and intrigue. More
likely though, he was the gravedigger silently urging the vicar to
hurry up before the storm got worse.

If so the man
would be disappointed, both wind and rain choosing to redouble
their efforts; with the funeral finally over, the vicar immediately
encouraged everyone to join the family at the Saunders’ home,
Anderson happy to tag along and express his condolences in a rather
drier environment. The village itself was a loose connection of a
few hundred homes, a farming community midway between Boston and
the coast. Anderson had no need for his car, the short walk from
the church taking him past Marshwick’s single shop and lone pub,
then along a narrow country lane to a detached picture-postcard
cottage, with leaded windows and ivy-covered walls.

By the time
Anderson arrived the two main rooms were already crowded, mourners
spilling out into the kitchen and even up the stairs, raincoats and
umbrellas drying out where they could. Anderson picked up a drink
and a plate of food, before looking around for someone who might be
willing to give him some more background on the Commander. The
atmosphere was restrained but not especially sombre and no-one
seemed concerned that Anderson was a complete stranger. To his
disappointment, there was no sign of the man with the ponytail – no
doubt he was already hard at work with wheelbarrow and shovel.

It was a good
fifteen minutes before Anderson chose to work his way round to the
Commander’s widow. Jessica Saunders stood beside the living-room
fireplace, deep in conversation with the Admiral. Anderson politely
hovered in the background, uncomfortably rehearsing his opening
line, while waiting for a convenient moment to interrupt. His
attention quickly began to wander elsewhere and he found himself
looking at a young woman conversing at the far end of the room:
tall, thirtyish, shoulder-length brunette hair, attractive and with
a ready smile – Anderson couldn’t stop himself from staring, even
going so far as to search out the potential annoyance of a wedding
or engagement ring.

An elderly
couple generously took pity on his lonely vigil, it several minutes
before they moved on. Anderson’s gaze immediately resumed its
previous traverse but the young woman in question was already
moving purposefully towards him. Their eyes met and Anderson
instantly glanced away, feeling as if he’d been caught peeping
through someone’s window.

“I’m sorry; I
don’t think we’ve met. I’m Charlotte Saunders.” Her voice was cool,
polite, the deep-brown eyes almost accusing.

“Michael
Anderson.” They shook hands, Anderson’s brain working overtime to
find something relevant to say.

“I seem to
have been the focus of much of your interest, Mr Anderson. I’m not
quite sure why I deserve such attention, but it can be rather
unnerving.”

Anderson
struggled to change the subject, “You’re Commander Saunders’
daughter?”

“That’s very
perceptive of you, Mr Anderson. Did you know my father well?”

The hint of
sarcasm wasn’t an encouraging start and Anderson’s role as stand-in
for Devereau was proving more awkward than he’d anticipated. “I
never actually met the Commander,” he replied, trusting in honesty
to dig him out of a very deep hole. “I was asked to express my
condolences on behalf of a friend, Adam Devereau.”

Charlotte
frowned, “I’m afraid I don’t recognise the name. In which case, did
Mr Devereau know my father well? If they were in the Navy together,
I’m sure there are others here who would be interested to talk to
you.”

“I’m pretty
sure Adam was never in the Navy; I got the impression that he knew
your parents from when they lived in London. Unfortunately he’s in
New York at the moment – hence me.” Anderson realised he was close
to babbling and having assumed Devereau’s name would instantly
strike a chord, he wasn’t sure that anything he was saying was
actually correct.

Charlotte
persisted, “Well, it’s kind of you to give up your time to come
here. What is it you do, Mr Anderson?”

Her tone was a
warning to be careful and Anderson tried to hedge, “A writer of
sorts; articles and such like.”

“You mean a
journalist?”

“On a good
day... a hack for the most part.”

Anderson’s
attempt to make it light-hearted failed miserably, the admission
merely opening the floodgates of the woman’s anger: not only was
Anderson rude and a chauvinist, he was quite likely an interloper
as well.