The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (5 page)

Jessica
returned with a chunky hard-backed book in her hand, front cover
garishly showing bright-red blood dripping from a yellow hammer and
sickle.

“I can’t see
anything to suggest George took the walk along the sea bank
recently,” she said as she sat back down. “But he did in fact visit
Erdenheim; the morning of March 29th to be precise. I just can’t
recall that he said anything about it at the time, so I’ve no idea
why he went there.”

Jessica placed
the book on the coffee table in front of Anderson and gave him
another one of her sad smiles. “You’ve now got me thinking about
everything that happened over those last few weeks. George was an
avid reader and this was one of three books he ordered off the
internet, all by the same author; I think they even came by
next-day delivery. They turned up a few days before we went to
Spain but when I asked George if he wanted any of them to read on
holiday, he said not to bother.”

“
Red Terror, Truth and Fiction
,” quoted Anderson, picking out the key facts from the
information on the dust jacket, “A detailed study of
Soviet-sponsored terrorism from 1945 to 1991; author Charles
Zhilin.”

“All three
share the terrorism theme and they’re not at all what George would
normally read,” Jessica said, sounding confused. “This one was
sitting on top. By all means borrow it, Mr Anderson; perhaps it’s
relevant in some way.”

Anderson
smiled his thanks while trying not to show his disappointment, one
diary entry and a hardback book little enough for two days of
effort.

Some forty
kilometres south of Moscow sits Domodedovo International Airport,
Moscow’s main outlet to the Western World, the three terminals
struggling to cope with some 30 million passengers per year. Around
the airport, the town of Domodedovo similarly continued its own
expansion, Russia’s planners doing all they could to ease the
plight of its home-hungry millions. Three kilometres west of the
airport, the last in a set of eight massive apartment blocks, each
sixteen storeys high, waited empty and forlorn. Despite already
being a month late, and at least one more from completion, the
second-shift had finished some fifty minutes earlier, able finally
to enjoy what little remained of the Victory Day national holiday.
The building was now left safely in the hands of its two security
guards and their dogs.

Baranovskiy
and Nazarenko made no distinction between guards and dogs, using
silenced automatics to deal with all four. Elevator and final
clamber up onto the roof took some ten minutes, Baranovskiy coping
with the sixteen kilograms of missile and launcher, while Nazarenko
struggled with the remainder of their gear. Eglitis’ sources had
said it would be at least another hour before the guards’ absence
was noted, and even then the response would be fairly lax. However,
just in case someone should turn up unexpectedly, Katya – the third
and final member of the terrorist cell – waited impatiently on the
ground floor.

Baranovskiy
got on particularly well with Nazarenko, liking the other man’s
confident and somewhat relaxed approach, western Ukraine home to
them both. Katya might be the youngest at twenty-one but she was
the serious one of the three, it the first time she had travelled
outside of her native Lithuania; months earlier Baranovskiy had
made a passing comment as to her diminutive stature, his arm almost
broken as Katya proved she was no makeweight. For all of them,
their hatred of Russia was a genuine bond, it an unfortunate truth
that the only common language between them was Russian.

History clearly proved the dangers of a resurgent and
assertive Russia, Baranovskiy prepared to do whatever was necessary
to save his country’s future. Eglitis had promised six months of
fearful anticipation mixed in with an occasional moment of
gut-wrenching terror, confident now that they would be back home
before the end of the month. Baranovskiy had no idea what he would
do with himself when that time came, and
August 14
wasn’t perhaps the ideal
apprenticeship for a stable and successful career path.

The Aeroflot
Airbus was late. Baranovskiy sat with his back against the
metre-high parapet, concentrating on the background hiss from the
VHF radio receiver resting at his feet. Restlessly, he picked up
the missile launcher, running his hand lovingly along its length,
before once again going through a trial run, making sure the
complex set of operations was clear in his mind – grip and stance
secure, battery coolant unit in place, sight assembly locked, right
thumb on actuator switch... There would be no second chances, and
even though the heat signature from the Airbus’ twin engines would
make it a deliciously attractive target, Baranovskiy felt the need
to practise each and every action over and over again. The
American-made Stinger was a weapon he could admire – this wouldn’t
be the second-hand thrill of a car bomb, this would be far more
personal.

A sudden sound
froze him into immobility. There was a second crackle of static
from the radio, followed immediately by half-caught instructions in
English to the Airbus’ pilot. Baranovskiy searched the murky early
evening sky to the north-west, but it was several seconds before he
found the aircraft as it angled down towards the runway. He pressed
then released the actuator, the hum of the gyro confirming all was
well. Baranovskiy braced his left thigh against the parapet,
ignoring the distraction of yet more messages from the radio.

A sudden gust
of wind twisted the launcher to one side; Baranovskiy wrenched it
back, but precious seconds were wasted before he managed to
relocate the target through the gloom, now some four kilometres
distant. Body rigid, he tracked the plane as it flew south-east,
the audio tone changing to confirm acquisition lock. His body
tensed and almost without thinking his left thumb held the first
switch closed; immediately the tone grew louder and Baranovskiy
instinctively squeezed the launch trigger with his right hand.

Even as the
missile leapt forward, Baranovskiy sensed something amiss. The
exhaust plume momentarily blocked his view, then as he focussed
again on the aircraft, he saw that the target’s profile didn’t
quite match the computer simulations and despite the grey evening
light the aircraft livery looked all wrong.

The Stinger
missile had no such doubts, cruising safely away from the tower
block before accelerating once more towards its target.

The pilot
seemed suddenly to sense the threat and the aircraft banked
sharply, wrenching itself around in a futile attempt to
outmanoeuvre the chasing missile. The Stinger appeared to twist in
mid-air, reaching out once more towards the aircraft’s starboard
wing. A brief moment later the proximity fuse exploded, shredding
the starboard engine and ripping a jagged hole in the fuselage. The
aircraft flipped almost horizontal, the motion abruptly reversing
as a piece of the starboard wing crumpled and broke off. Now
totally out of control, the aircraft’s remaining engine gave a high
squeal of protest before the plane spiralled downward, arcing
south-west and towards the town’s suburbs.

Nazarenko
dragged Baranovskiy away from the parapet, the launcher dropping
from his hands, his whole body starting to shake. Even as the
rolling boom of an explosion sounded from far-off, the two men were
heading back down, desperate now to make their escape. Neither man
spoke, Baranovskiy unable to look at his friend, his mind still
struggling to accept his mistake. Almost in a daze, he followed
Nazarenko out of the building, clattering down the front steps
before slowing to a walk, his body still reacting to the adrenalin.
Their Nissan SUV was parked some twenty metres ahead, Katya already
beside the driver’s door.

Distracted by
the distant wail of several sirens, Baranovskiy barely registered
the sound of voices away to his left, reacting only when he heard a
shouted command to halt. He broke into a run, hand reaching down
into his waistband to pull out his pistol. There was another shout,
followed immediately by the crack of a handgun.

Baranovskiy
twisted around, trying to steady his hand before firing at a pair
of shadowy figures some fifty yards away – police or security
guards it was too dark to tell. The nearest staggered forward then
fell to his knees, hands clawing at his chest, but it was Nazarenko
who had drawn first blood. The second figure fired twice before
flinging himself to the ground.

Baranovskiy
sensed a bullet tug as his side then he doubled over as a second
tore into his belly, a shriek of agony drawn from his lips.
Fighting against the pain, he wrenched himself upright, firing
wildly and emptying the clip in the vague direction of the second
man.

Moments later,
the Nissan shuddered to a halt beside him. From the back seat
Nazarenko reached across to help drag Baranovskiy inside, bullets
punching through the side window as Katya accelerated away.

* * *

Positioned on the western outskirts of Domodedovo, the
factory building was a decaying remnant of its former self, a
victim of Russia’s blind leap into economic
perestroika
. For once, Grebeshkov
had struck lucky, Markova’s Alpha section operating by chance in
Podolsk, less than twenty kilometres to the west.

Within fifteen
minutes of the missile attack, they were heading east, their
journey guided by police reports detailing the likely route of the
target vehicle. A final update, then the searchlight from a police
helicopter directed them to where a blue Nissan rested on its side.
The car looked to have crashed rounding a bend at speed, and a
young woman’s body lay slumped across the driver’s seat, a blood
trail leading the pursuers towards a pair of battered gates and the
factory beyond.

Markova
personally led the first group into the building, the six of them
fanning out and moving cautiously towards the far wall some fifty
metres away. Moonlight filtering down through gaps in the high roof
revealed the pitted concrete and rusted metal of the building’s
interior, the odour of decay hanging heavily in the air. The rubble
of a decade littered the floor, a fine dust coating the discarded
chunks of machinery like an early-morning frost.

Markova’s
transfer to the FSB’s Alpha Group had been a well-deserved
highlight of her military career; her promotion to the rank of
Captain had been another – and this in a country where in many
men’s eyes women were only fit to be secretaries, cleaners or
whores. A loving husband, children, a real home – she had totally
failed to live up to childhood ambitions and family expectations,
yet she had already accomplished far more than a lifetime of
innocent dreams. Some two hundred strong, Alpha considered itself
the elite of Russia’s Special Forces, it primarily a specialist
counter-terrorist and hostage-rescue section, Markova’s unit with
hours spent evaluating scores of real-life incidents.

Abruptly a
shouted warning from somewhere to Markova’s right was followed
immediately after by a double report from a handgun. There was the
harsh crack of a stun-grenade, more shots, then an ominous
silence.

Markova moved
right, a quiet voice sounding in her earpiece. “Target-one is down
and tagged; target-two boxed in, single weapon only.”

Markova halted
beside a large concrete pillar; further right, lying with his back
against another pillar, was a young man with one of Markova’s
section kneeling protectively beside him, left hand pressing hard
down against the terrorist’s blood-soaked shirt. Markova searched
her memory but the man’s face meant nothing, certainly not one she
recognised as being on the FSB’s terror list. Directly ahead was
the scarred carcass of what looked like a giant press, the hint of
a shadow indicating where the second terrorist hid.

Markova gave
new orders, her instructions succinct and precise, well aware that
the terrorist would likely prefer suicide over the FSB’s
hospitality. Almost immediately, the man stepped out into the open,
firing twice, his body tensing for the expected deadly
response.

From Markova’s
left, two duller shots sounded, the first of the plastic rounds
knocking the man’s gun arm backwards, his weapon flying out of his
hand; a brief instant later the second round thudded into his
thigh, forcing him to his knees.

Markova walked cautiously towards him, gun held two-handed
out in front of her, two more
spetsnaz
moving in from either side.
The terrorist lifted his head to stare contemptuously up at
Markova, no words spoken, the bitterness showing in his
eyes.

Markova
couldn’t help but smile, it part relief, part satisfaction.
Grebeshkov had insisted on a live terrorist; well now he had
two.

The estate
agent’s was close to the river, down a narrow alley and only a few
yards from the town’s all-seeing landmark, the Boston Stump – or
more properly, Saint Botolph’s Church. After a decade in South
London, Charlotte’s move back to Lincolnshire had arisen from the
desire for something more; London had become claustrophobic and the
friendships she had made there seemed looser than the ties of
family. Boston and Marshwick offered familiarity, together with
ready-made close friends left over from the happiest of times at
the High School. It was perhaps a retrograde step, almost an
admission of failure, but Charlotte had few regrets, confident
about the future and content with her lot.

The agency was
a joint undertaking between herself and an old family friend,
Charlotte the junior partner and general dogsbody. Junior partner
she might be, but the ‘Welch & Saunders’ sign was a constant
reminder that the move to Boston had been the correct one. By luck
or good judgement, the opening of the agency had coincided with a
buoyant rental market and steady house sales, and both partners
considered the venture a significant success. Charlotte enjoyed the
various roles, although it was sometimes hard to ignore the fact
that in terms of public trust estate agents were generally fighting
for bottom place along with journalists, bankers and
politicians.