The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

“My father was
a generous man, Mr Anderson,” said Charlotte, her tone ice-cold.
“He would always go out of his way to make everyone welcome, even
insensitive journalists who choose to invade a family’s private
grief. Stay if you must, but please leave my mother alone. And to
save you the need to bother anyone else, I’m thirty-three,
unmarried, live in Boston and work at an estate agent’s.” Charlotte
paused, brown eyes smouldering. “Was there anything else you wanted
to know?”

Anderson
slowly shook his head, then with nothing to lose, he pushed his
luck as far as he dared. “Is that Charlie for short, or
Lottie?”

Charlotte glared at him in confusion, struggling for the
right response. When the reply came, it was both abrupt and
dismissive, “Goodbye,
Mr
Anderson.”

* * *

As well as being the village’s sole pub,
The Farriers Arms
also doubled up as
Marshwick’s only hotel. Dating from the early-1800’s, with beamed
ceilings and a wood-burning fire, it offered just three en-suite
rooms for the occasional guest like Anderson; yet while his room
might be small and spartan, the food more than made up for such
minor grievances. The lounge and public bars had long since merged
into one, with chairs and tables for some two dozen patrons, plus
up to ten more on stools alongside the U-shaped counter. The
atmosphere was friendly and relaxed, and without the distraction of
irritating music or even a TV; two-thirds full, the bar area was
still cosy rather than crowded, the two staff coping with
professional ease without ever looking rushed.

A well-fed
Anderson sat on an end stool with drink in hand, reflecting on a
very confused set of messages from the Commander’s wife and
daughter. Having been roundly put in his place by Charlotte, he had
struggled to know how best to satisfy his obligations to Devereau,
the problem solved within minutes by Jessica herself. Whether she
had noticed Charlotte’s reaction to Anderson wasn’t clear but she
at least well knew Adam Devereau, or more specifically his wife,
Christmas cards shared but no real contact for a good twenty years.
Jessica certainly hadn’t been put out by Anderson’s admission that
he was a journalist, keen in fact to promote the Commander’s story
beyond just one five-minute conversation.

It had been an intriguing proposition, the worsening weather
another good reason for Anderson to delay his return home. So far,
the
Farriers
had
proved a welcoming refuge, Anderson’s continuing failure with
members of the fairer sex not something to brood over. Despite
being close to the wrong side of forty and of unsteady income, he
could still be considered a reasonable catch, the hindrance of a
failed marriage a relatively minor inconvenience. Their friends had
always regarded it as the ideal match, then after five years of
marriage, Anderson had suddenly packed his bags and walked out;
four years on and he still couldn’t explain – even to himself –
exactly why he had left.

Anderson
gulped down the last of his drink, thought about having an early
night, then took the easy option and asked for a refill.

“You here for the Commander’s funeral?” The barman was in his
forties, solidly built, always happy for a chat in his broad
Lincolnshire accent, his main talent that of making people feel at
ease. The
Farriers
seemed to be run primarily by a husband and wife team – the
husband organising the bar, the wife organising the
husband.

Anderson
nodded, “Didn’t know him though; just doing a favour for a friend.
Now wondering whether there might be a story in it somewhere.”

“Story? You
work for the papers, then?”

“Freelance,”
Anderson said, hoping to encourage the barman to open up and
confident that he would know something of interest. Devereau
preferred the term enterprise journalism over investigative,
arguing that every journalist was part investigator, but whatever
the name Anderson was still at the bottom of the pile, learning his
trade while supplementing his income with articles of purely local
interest. Of late, Anderson had been keen to prove he could cope
without the need for a guiding hand and as long as Devereau was
kept in the loop, he didn’t seem that bothered, the subsequent
expense claims signed off with only an occasional caustic
comment.

“Commander was
a straight Scotch man, like yourself,” continued the barman.
“Everyone round here liked him and he always had time for a
chat...”

An unsolicited
summary of the Commander’s naval exploits then followed, the
barman’s tone softening as he detailed rumours concerning Saunders’
role in Naval Intelligence. Anderson looked suitably impressed but
there seemed little of real substance, just village gossip and
hearsay, nothing that would be of real use.

The barman –
now known to Anderson as Rob – broke off to attend to one of his
regulars, returning briefly a few minutes later with newspaper in
hand.

“
Boston Standard
,” he explained, as he laid the paper down in front of
Anderson, “They did a nice write-up about the Commander; sorry it’s
bit of a mess, but it’s a couple of weeks old. Plenty of info, so
it might be a help...”

Anderson
didn’t have the heart to refuse and with nothing better to do, he
read through the lengthy obituary, even though most of it was
familiar. Idly, he continued to turn the pages, scanning the weekly
paper for something else of interest. It was only when he reached
the newspaper’s original front page that both headline and picture
grabbed his attention.

“
Death Crash Horror. Village stunned
by teenager’s death
.” The photograph
showed the crumpled wreck of a saloon car resting against a large
tree, the car front squashed and distorted, the harsh glare of arc
lamps picking out every horrific detail.

The report
itself was the standard mix of fact, conjecture and tributes.
Nineteen year-old Darren Westrope had only passed his driving test
eight months earlier and the ageing Ford Fiesta had been bought
soon after, Darren using it to commute from Marshwick to his
college course in Boston. Yet it was doubtful whether age or
experience could have helped save Darren’s young life, the Fiesta
sideswiped by a box van skidding out of control on a patch of wet
mud. With no chance to do anything, the Fiesta had smashed head-on
against a mature sycamore, the massive trunk an unforgiving and
immovable barrier. It had taken firemen over an hour to cut
Darren’s body free.

Seeing
Anderson’s renewed interest in local matters, Rob chose to return.
“Bad luck, I call it: there’s not that many trees round here and
the road’s never busy. Nice lad, not one to cause trouble; parents
are devastated.”

Anderson’s
attention had been dragged away mid-sentence, “The van driver – was
he hurt?”

“Badly shaken,
some cuts and bruises, that’s all. Lucky not to have been killed.
Van was travelling too fast, I reckon. Narrow road, normally empty,
driver in a hurry – since Erdenheim came there’s been plenty of
near-misses; their drivers treat the roads round here like a
race-track.”

Anderson’s
bewildered look brought an immediate response, “Erdenheim,”
repeated Rob, as though it explained everything. “They have a place
just outside Graythorp, a couple of miles east of here; it’s a
Management Development Centre.”

“Which still
means nothing,” said Anderson, getting frustrated.

Rob grinned at
Anderson’s confusion, enjoying his superiority. “Team-building
exercises,” he explained. “Not the fun stuff like a zip wire and
quad bikes, Erdenheim prefers to do it all on computer.”

Anderson
finally nodded in understanding, “Been there, done that;
apparently, I don’t listen enough to be effective in a team
situation.”

“I could have
told you that,” said Rob with a grin. “Boss there’s a yank, name of
Pat McDowell; ties his hair in a ponytail but don’t let that put
you off – he’d be a tough bastard in a fight.”

“Big guy,
‘bout six-four?” Anderson asked curiously. “Late-thirties?”

“Yeah, that’s
him.” Rob’s tone became defensive, “You know McDowell then?”

“Not
personally; he was at the Commander’s funeral.”

Rob frowned,
“Odd that; I didn’t think he knew the Commander that well. Maybe he
was just curious as to who else might turn up.” He leaned closer to
Anderson and gave a knowing wink, “Could be he was hoping to meet
an old friend from the CIA...”

Major-General Dmitry Grebeshkov stood in front of the wide
windows and looked out across rain spattered Lubyanka Square,
watching as police stopped and searched two men a few metres from
the newly-restored metro entrance. Such aspects had now become a
normal part of Moscow’s daily routine with the authorities
struggling to make headway against
August
14
. Responsibility for defeating the
terrorists rested primarily with the Federal Security Service –
unfortunate then, that according to some, the crisis was yet
another FSB-led conspiracy.

History did
little to convince the doubters otherwise, the evidence of the
FSB’s involvement in the apartment bombings of ‘99 persuasive, it
seen as part of a wider plot to justify the war in Chechnya. With
every new atrocity or terrorist act since, many had automatically
assumed the FSB was culpable, some three hundred innocent lives
unjustly laid at its door in the last decade alone. To counter such
fears, the Prime Minister had insisted on a degree of additional
monitoring, a pledge made more difficult when the FSB had vetoed
the PM’s first two nominees due to security concerns; Grebeshkov
had become the compromise choice, his reputation within the FSB’s
Investigation Directorate – specifically for tackling corruption –
ensuring he was acceptable to both parties, his competence and
integrity never in doubt, his lack of independence considered an
acceptable risk.

With his new
title of Special Adviser to the Prime Minister had come a place on
Russia’s Counter-Terrorist Security Committee and an enforced move
across Moscow to a suite of offices on the Lubyanka’s fourth floor.
Officially, Grebeshkov’s unit was part of the FSB’s anti-corruption
section but in practice it was totally independent, answerable only
to the Prime Minister, able to inspect, search and question as it
saw fit. It was awkward at best, Grebeshkov and his small team
having to cope with the dangers implicit in split loyalties, while
also trying to ensure the FSB was indeed innocent of all slurs and
innuendo. And in a country where trust was at a premium, Grebeshkov
felt it safe to assume that someone was similarly scrutinising his
every move, their link to the Russian President doubtless rather
more direct than Grebeshkov’s to the Prime Minister.

Grebeshkov
felt he coped well with the inevitable stress: at fifty-four he had
achieved as much as he could have hoped for, and ambition had never
been one of his faults. Three children, five grand-children – he
loved them all but he still sometimes felt a stranger to them, his
thoughts more wrapped up in work than in family. Grebeshkov’s
long-suffering wife had long since learnt to live a
semi-independent life, supporting her husband when she felt he
needed it, and not getting under his skin when he brought home the
FSB’s problems to spend long hours at his desk, surviving on a
regular intake of strong tea and vodka.

For eight weeks now his hand-picked unit had questioned and
probed, rechecking the hundreds of lines of inquiry as they spread
outwards from Moscow and towards Eastern Europe, searching for the
clue ignored or the false lead blindly followed. Yet despite their
expert scrutiny, there was nothing of concern, no evidence of
manipulation or collusion, not even a rogue
agent provocateur
working on a
hidden agenda. Grebeshkov was surprised but not complacent, his
investigation now stretching out to include the Moscow Police and
National Guard.

Grebeshkov
turned away from the window, settling down at his desk to re-read
the latest update from two floors below. The search was still
ongoing for the three remaining metro bombers, although now they
had names as well as faces. From subsequent attacks, an additional
three suspects had been identified, but again they were nowhere to
be found. Unexpectedly, none of the terrorists were from Chechnya
or Dagestan, or indeed any other Russian Republic; four were
Polish, including the woman killed in the metro, two more were
Ukrainian.

Then there was the Latvian, Aldis Eglitis. He was well known
to the FSB due to past exploits and it seemed likely he was
August 14’s
bomb maker,
perhaps even their leader. The explosive used was invariably C4,
its probable origin Iraq, Eglitis with more than two decades of
experience in its use. He had made no attempt to hide from the
security cameras or disguise his appearance, and so far Eglitis’
arrogance had been well justified, the FSB unable to track his
movements either in the days leading up to the metro attack, or
during the succeeding weeks. The terrorists seemed able to come and
go as they pleased, invisible to police, CCTV, and the public
alike, just six nondescript faces hidden amongst some twelve
million others.

Overall, it made for uncomfortable reading. Previous
terrorist campaigns had lacked cohesion but
August 14
seemed well organised and
totally determined, with few qualms as to the numbers killed. So
far they had avoided the extreme of suicide attacks and even the
woman killed at the Lubyanka had been trying to escape, the
terrorists making the most of their resources: two cells, three at
most, presumably operating independently of each other.