The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (22 page)

Rebane took a final drag on the cigarette and considered
whether it would be advantageous to change tactics, if only for a
day, and turn
August
14’
s focus onto individuals rather than
its more usual inanimate targets. It was a precarious time both for
Rebane and
August 14
, not a time to make rash decisions, most certainly not a
time to make another mistake.

* * *

The return
trip back from Boston had still not revealed a suspicious Audi
skulking in the rear-view mirror and if Rebane was to be believed,
then any followers were doubtless from the Security Services.
Devereau had typically given short shrift to Anderson’s complaint
about not mentioning his links with MI6, claiming it was a time
best left in the past; similarly, Rebane’s presence at Erdenheim
and his explanation as to his role were met with the text
equivalent of a non-committal shrug, Devereau letting Anderson
decide whether or not to cut his losses and move on.

Rebane might
have called his bluff, but Anderson wasn’t ready to give up just
yet, curious as to Erdenheim’s most recent visitors. The
photographs from Friday had given him the helicopter’s registration
number, the Civil Aviation Authority website supplying the owner’s
name and address; forty minutes later, Devereau was in his car
heading south of Watford and on towards Denham Aerodrome near
Uxbridge, a sixty-mile round trip on the off-chance of learning
something worthwhile.

If Anderson
expected Devereau’s persuasive skills would ensure some sort of
breakthrough then he was disappointed, and the information was
basic at best. Erdenheim had regularly chartered a helicopter from
Heathrow to Graythorp, the majority of passengers American, usually
no more than six. While it didn’t directly contradict anything
Rebane had said, it just seemed odd that Britain would rely so
heavily on American expertise, with Carter apparently the lone UK
representative.

Charlotte’s
arrival was a welcome after-dinner distraction, Anderson trying to
be generous at her success in identifying Lara, irritated that he
hadn’t thought of it first.

“And Rob
confirmed it was her?” he asked while reading though Klaudia
Woroniecki’s internet profile.

“Ninety percent
certain,” Charlotte said, trying not to gloat too much.

“And you’ve
brought Zhilin’s other two books with you because? Personally I’d
rather burn them than have to read another page.”

“I thought we
might combine resources,” said Charlotte with a smile. “With your
perceptive genius and my deductive reasoning, then surely anything
is possible. The acknowledgements gave us Rebane and Woroniecki –
maybe your friend Yuri is in there as well? I’m still struggling to
find nine people from the book that gave me Klaudia.”

Anderson knew
it was well worth a try. “I guess we’re sticking with people whose
expertise is related to terrorism in some form or another?”

Charlotte
nodded, “Using Amazon as a filter helped with some of the more
common names; there’s also a Global Expert Database. There might
only be fifty or so left to check, less if several double or triple
up.”

In fact it was simpler than Charlotte had imagined, there
just thirty-five more names to be pursued, one from
The Tactics of Terror
immediately striking a chord.

“Aldis
Eglitis,” Charlotte said, staring down at the page. “He’s the man
the Russians are desperate to get their hands on.”

“While true,” said Anderson with a shrug, “it still proves
nothing. Just because Zhilin consulted with Eglitis, that doesn’t
mean Rebane knows him. Even if they worked together on the book,
that was years ago; Devereau would just laugh at me if I used one
dodgy reference to somehow link
August
14
to what’s happening at
Erdenheim.”

“But you have
to admit, it’s intriguing.”

“As with
everything we’ve found,” said Anderson exasperated.

The news reports had been working hard to keep them apprised
as to events in the Baltic, the Government in Warsaw vehemently
denying any prior knowledge of
August
14
’s Polish base. Erdenheim’s complicity
remained unproven but the amount of circumstantial evidence was
slowly gathering pace and for what it was worth, Anderson’s own
verdict on Poland was rapidly edging towards guilty.

Grebeshkov
ignored the driving rain and strode purposefully along Nikolskaya
Street, forgoing his official car for the short journey from the
Lubyanka to the Kremlin. For his four bodyguards it was far from
ideal, but Grebeshkov had curtly dismissed their concerns. With one
leading the way, the others kept close to Grebeshkov while giving
him a certain amount of personal space; fortunately, the
bodyguards’ very presence often created its own protective bubble,
and in the main the other pedestrians quickly stepped aside.

The narrow
street was one of the oldest in Moscow, its fine buildings once
making it a centre for scholars and poets; now it catered for the
fashionable and the thirsty, the bright lights of the boutiques and
bars blighting the ornate stone facades. Since the uprising of ‘93,
Moscow’s streets and squares had undergone a popular
transformation, and in an attempt to eradicate the memory of 70
years of communist-inspired ineptitude, the city had gradually
reverted to its pre-revolutionary state. So Twenty-Fifth of October
Street had once again become Nikolskaya Street, with the even more
preposterous Fiftieth Anniversary of the October Revolution Square
restored to its more traditional title of Manezhnaya.

The walk was slowly helping to clear Grebeshkov’s mind, his
thoughts preoccupied with the latest reports from Kaliningrad. May
18th: the Baltic Fleet should have been celebrating its birthday;
instead, it was forming an ever tighter noose around Gdansk and
Gdynia, while readying itself for the arrival of yet more NATO
ships. Other than the USS
John
Finn
, only a handful of vessels had been
foolish enough to test the blockade and in such cases the warships
had been quick to enforce their mandate; four merchant ships had
been fired upon, one suffering minor damage, no casualties
reported.

In reply, NATO had denounced and threatened, with additional
warships now being deployed to the Baltic, both from the U.S. Sixth
Fleet and their European allies. Diplomacy was still struggling to
find a solution, with talks at the United Nations deadlocked. For
the moment it had become a test of wills, and eventually NATO’s raw
power would force Russia to give way. But Poland too had been
censured, and Polish public opinion was split as to whether the
Government was implicitly helping
August
14
. The terrorists themselves had
apparently been spirited away from their base near Gdansk, their
present whereabouts unknown.

In Russia, protests continued to grow, with Arbat Square the
main focus for dissent. Violent clashes between demonstrators and
police were also being reported from Kaliningrad to Vladivostok.
The U.S. and Polish embassies were virtually under siege and the
theory that
August 14
was an American-Polish invention was rapidly gaining
acceptance. Russia’s aggressive response had generally been well
received, many of influence warning the Government against
accepting any US-led compromise, some going so far as to demand
even tougher action against Poland.

Otherwise, the streets of Moscow were relatively
peaceful,
August 14
noteworthy for its inactivity. Despite the lack of progress
as to whether the terrorists trained in Poland had even reached
Moscow, Grebeshkov was growing more confident that
August 14’
s strength had
finally been blunted. Link and pattern analysis, using CCTV
evidence of Nabiyev’s movements combined with the data from his
car, was also helping highlight where others from
August 14
– even perhaps
Eglitis – might be found, just one of several strategies vying to
complete their destruction.

By the time
Grebeshkov reached the Pokrovsky Opera the pavement had become more
crowded. Distracted, Grebeshkov almost walked into an elderly
couple, the woman having to quickly step aside. The General turned
to apologise, his words suddenly stilled as the woman gave a
shuddering cry and collapsed to the ground, a bright red welt newly
revealed on her jacket.

One of
Grebeshkov’s bodyguards reacted far quicker than the General and a
hard shove sent him up the three steps towards the Opera entrance.
Grebeshkov had time to realise someone was shooting at him and time
to wonder why he couldn’t hear the shots above the screams, when
both legs abruptly buckled beneath him, a dark cloud sweeping him
down into unconsciousness.

* * *

From the
opposite pavement Eglitis backed away, moving south-west towards
the Kremlin. As two of Grebeshkov’s bodyguards crouched over the
General’s still body, a third opened fire, the shop window beside
Eglitis shattering with a deafening crash. Around Eglitis the
pavement emptied as pedestrians sought sanctuary wherever they
could. At least one person was already wounded, his cries merging
with the frightened screams of those caught up in the mayhem. A few
yards away, a car had smashed into the rear of another, virtually
blocking the street, a bemused driver standing beside his car and
staring open-mouthed at the chaos unfolding on either side of the
street.

Further back
down Nikolskaya Street, a blue Lada mounted the pavement, terrified
pedestrians flinging themselves aside as the car fought its way
along the one-way street and past the now stationary traffic.
Eglitis pressed himself into the cover of a doorway, firing twice
in the vague direction of Grebeshkov’s bodyguards; then, as the
Lada shuddered to a halt beside him, he wrenched open the rear door
and threw himself in.

An instant
later bullets peppered the side of the car, the young driver
grunting in pain as blood darkened the back of his shirt. He jammed
his foot back down on the accelerator and the Lada leapt forward.
Another hundred metres and the man wrenched the wheel to the left,
down a narrow lane and past the Epiphany Monastery. Abruptly the
Lada screeched to a halt behind stationary traffic, Eglitis thrown
painfully against the driver’s head-rest.

“Keep going!”
Eglitis shouted. “Just get us anywhere but here!”

The driver
used the pavement again, the Lada moving only a few yards before a
line of parked and empty cars blocked the way ahead. A savage pull
on the wheel, and the Lada smashed its way back onto the road, cars
battered aside in its frenzied attempt to break free.

The driver
turned as though to speak to Eglitis, then with a blood-choked sigh
he slumped forward. Eglitis took a glance behind, choosing to
continue on foot, half-running half-walking, gun hand held tight
inside his jacket. He gave another hurried glance back, brain
filtering out the innocent to focus on four men in the black
uniform of the FSB’s counter-terrorist unit, plus at least
half-a-dozen police. The closest was some seventy metres away, gun
drawn, looking but not yet seeing his quarry. Eglitis couldn’t
understand how the security forces had reacted so quickly, sensing
now that he had been drawn into some sort of trap.

He raced left,
heading towards the nearest metro entrance. Heart pounding, his
breathing was becoming laboured and he felt his chest begin to
tighten, the spasm pressing in with an intensity that drew a sudden
gasp.

Eglitis
staggered to a stop, sinking to his knees, fighting against the
pain.

From around
the corner a single policeman appeared gun in hand. He looked
straight at Eglitis, then shouted something incoherent. Eglitis was
barely conscious but he managed to loose off a shot, hand shaking
with the strain.

The reply was
instantaneous, a bullet tugging at Eglitis’ right arm, a second
thumping into his side. The shock turned the angina into a
full-blown heart attack and a grey-faced Eglitis collapsed to the
ground, left hand clutching helplessly at his chest.

Devereau was
running late, the plans for his grand-daughter’s birthday
apparently requiring his involvement in a long list of
instructions, thus ensuring he would not suddenly cry off with a
forgotten appointment or some other familiar excuse. List duly
considered and confirmed, Devereau was given leave by his wife to
begin his usual early morning constitutional for the newspaper. The
commuter and school traffic had just about ended, a daily waste of
time of which Devereau was delighted not to be a part. It was eight
years since he and MI6 had parted company, Devereau being
pig-headed and resigning on a matter of principle when falsely
accused of fiddling his expenses and then trying to cover it up.
The injustice of it all played only a small part in his reasons for
leaving. What rankled most was his superiors’ lack of belief in his
ability. If he had wanted to fiddle his expenses, it would have
taken far more than a junior clerk to ferret it out.

That was all
well in the past, and Devereau was quite proud of the freedom his
new occupation gave him – no fixed base except his home, no
secretary except his live-in daughter, no hour-long city commute.
Thank heaven for his HTC phone: it had most of the resources of his
previous office, all nicely wrapped up in one very smart
pocket-sized package.

He walked at a
steady pace, finding the breeze with its persistent rain more
refreshing than unpleasant. In any case, Devereau was feeling
rather pleased with himself, and it would have taken a torrential
downpour to dampen his mood. Asking Anderson to go to Marshwick had
been one of Devereau’s better ideas and it was clear there was
something very unusual happening at Graythorp. Despite his cavalier
treatment of Anderson, he was now as much a friend as employee, and
Devereau was content to let Anderson take the lead, helping out if
needed. Friends in the Security Services were nowadays few and far
between and Devereau mentally worked his way through his
diminishing list of Intelligence contacts, weighing up which one
might know something of Erdenheim’s true role.