The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (8 page)

There was a murmur of derision from around the table and
Grebeshkov gave an exaggerated shrug, “It’s unclear quite why
either man is so anti-Russian. No doubt we will discover their
exact motivation in due course, but it would be unwise to doubt
their commitment or their belief in the terrorist cause.
Baranovskiy’s error in targeting the British Airways flight has
given
August 14
worldwide publicity but with the Americans now actively
involved, it could well prove counter-productive.”

Some around
the table might not appreciate American help but Grebeshkov knew it
could only be to Russia’s advantage, the West’s intelligence
agencies offering a different route to searching out the
terrorists’ many secrets. A gesture from the Prime Minister and
Grebeshkov pressed on; able to keep a wealth of detail at his
fingertips, only rarely did he need to refer to the paper file or
his own notes.

“Nazarenko was recruited in August last year – he hasn’t yet
explained exactly how, or what happened to him before he entered
Russia in late December. The terrorists work in three-man cells,
each apparently independent of the other. Nazarenko has yet to
reveal the total number of cells and the location of his particular
group, but it’s likely all of the cells are based in and around
Moscow. He claims not to know who finances
August 14
or who its leaders are;
Eglitis is more like a chief of staff.”

“So Eglitis,”
interrupted the Prime Minister, “is the key. Find him and we will
have them all.”

“I’m not so sure,” Grebeshkov replied slowly. “For
August 14
to rely
heavily on just one man would be foolish, especially someone who
has a serious heart condition; I think it would be too easy to
assume Eglitis knows the location of each and every
cell.”

The discussion
widened, Grebeshkov fielding a range of questions from around the
table. Conjecture as to the total number of cells was one of the
questions left unresolved, although Grebeshkov was confident as to
his own figure of at most four.

Next on the
Prime’s Minster’s mental agenda was finance. “Mikhail, I believe
that’s in your brief?”

The FSB’s Anti-Terrorism Chief noticeably straightened his
back; he was already under pressure for his section’s lack of prior
intelligence concerning
August
14
, and he was unsure as to how this
latest report would be received. With relatively few leads, tracing
the origin of
August
14’
s
money had
proved difficult, but not impossible.

“Section 3-42,
Prime Minister. Several financial transactions have now been traced
back to their source, which are inevitably cash-deposits made into
Ukrainian or Polish accounts. Last November, Eglitis purchased a
plane ticket from London to Moscow using a British account, the
money routed through Turkey and Latvia, but originating in Poland.”
He paused, as though for effect, “The Polish account was in the
name of Lech Kaczyński.”

There was a
stunned silence, broken eventually by Golubeva, “They’re mocking
us,” she said incredulous.

“No,”
Grebeshkov said quietly, “They’re showing us they don’t care.”

There now was
little doubt as to where the terrorists’ loyalties lay. Five years
as President of Poland, Lech Kaczyński’s death in April 2010 had
seen over 100,000 people attend his commemoration ceremony, and a
day of national mourning had been declared across Europe. The cause
of the Polish Air Force Tupolev crash near Smolensk was still
controversial, several investigations failing to satisfy those
looking for Russian complicity. Also killed were the President’s
wife, former president Ryszard Kaczorowski, government members,
senior military officers, and relatives of victims of the Katyn
massacre. As the crash had occurred on Russian soil, the initial
investigation was carried out by the Russian authorities. Their
report had placed the majority of the blame onto the Polish pilots,
as had the follow-up Polish report. Yet conspiracy theories
abounded, ranging from a deliberate assassination of the Polish
President to suggestions that Russia was merely trying to prevent
him from attending the Katyn ceremony. It was a wound that was
taking a long time to heal, and any terrorist link to Poland would
bring its own set of unique problems, not least because it was part
of NATO.

It was another
twenty minutes before the Director of the SVR, Arkady Valentin,
gave his report. Valentin had been one of the President’s few
surprise appointments and at just forty-five had become the
youngest ever head of Russia’s primary foreign intelligence agency,
his first success that of replacing the old guard, the few
dissenting voices swiftly silenced.

“Section 8-106,” said Valentin, pausing whilst the others
turned to the relevant page. “The terrorists are invariably
disciplined, well trained, and familiar with the use of guns and
explosives, even a Stinger missile. We’ve managed to track some of
the terrorists’ movements prior to their arrival in Russia,
specifically Baranovskiy, which combined with satellite data and
other intelligence, gives an indicator of where they might have
been trained. The most likely site is in the Dzūkija region of
Lithuania, near to the border with Belarus. An initial assessment
of this site has confirmed the presence of at least a dozen
personnel, together with visual evidence of weapons’ training. That
by itself is not definitive but if they are
August 14
it suggests several more
terrorist cells may soon join those already here in
Moscow.”

“Not at all
what I wanted to hear,” the Prime Minister said with a sigh of
frustration. “And Eastern Europe again – this has become a
dangerous theme. But let’s be clear, Arkady, you’re not absolutely
certain where Baranovskiy was trained, and might it be somewhere
other than Lithuania?”

“It’s
possible, Prime Minister. It will take time to gather sufficient
evidence, and it may never be conclusive – men and women firing
weapons doesn’t have to mean terrorists… Perhaps we should consider
bringing in the Americans?”

That was now
two of the Committee’s members who seemed keen to involve the
United States. A terrorist base in Eastern Europe would make
everything far more complex and action against Lithuania – in
whatever form – without American agreement would be at best
unwise.

The Prime
Minister chose to keep his thoughts to himself, “Thank you, Arkady.
Lithuania lies well outside the remit of this Committee, but should
your fears be confirmed, Russia’s response will need to be judged
most carefully–”

Golubeva was quick to interrupt, “With any response we must
also consider the fact that
August
14
appears to be particularly well
informed. Their agents seem able to bypass police raids and road
blocks at will, and the increase in security obviously hasn’t
halted the attacks.”

Moscow’s
Commissioner of Police was the first to protest, struggling to hold
back his anger, “We lost a man at Domodedovo and three more at
Lubyanka. Every one of my officers wants to get these bastards. If
there’s an informer, I suggest you look elsewhere…”

“Perhaps not
the police,” Golubeva continued, unabashed. “The conspiracy
theorists always seem keen to blame the FSB.”

“As they
blamed the U.S. Government for 9/11,” Grebeshkov retorted calmly,
before his two colleagues could respond. “The FSB is always an easy
target. My responsibility, indeed my specific charge from the Prime
Minister, is to ensure the FSB is blame-free.” He looked directly
across the table at Golubeva, speaking slowly so as to emphasise
each word, “My responsibility, my reputation.”

Golubeva gave a
thin smile, but remained silent.

“Well said,
General,” the Prime Minister said smoothly. “I think you have your
answer, Irina.”

Anderson
returned from a visit to Marshwick’s general store to be met by a
grinning Rob. “There was a call for you,” said Rob with a wink,
“Commander Saunders’ daughter...”

Anderson nodded
his thanks as he took the proffered post-it note and tried to look
nonchalant; after a terrible start with Charlotte, things had
definitely improved, and now he finally had her mobile number. He
stepped back outside, preferring a little more privacy for the
return call.

For once
Charlotte actually sounded pleased to hear from him even if the
pleasantries were effectively ignored. “To cut a long story short,
I phoned Erdenheim. I trust you’re not busy tomorrow morning
because you’ve got an appointment to go and visit them; eleven
o’clock sharp.”

“An
appointment?” repeated Anderson in confusion. If he had any sort of
a plan then it was to stay inconspicuous, not rush full pelt into
the lion’s den.

“Well someone
needed to take the initiative,” said Charlotte forcefully.
“Otherwise you’ll keep badgering my mother. So I put on my best
telephone voice, claimed I was your assistant and spoke to a very
snooty receptionist. Don’t worry; I used my mobile not the agency
landline.”

“What sort of
an appointment?” asked Anderson, struggling to get a word in.

“You’re
supposed to be some sort of journalist, so I said you’d like to go
and journalise, or whatever it is you do. I suggested Erdenheim
might appreciate the publicity, what with your many newspaper and
magazine connections – I take it you do have connections? It seemed
a long shot but half an hour later Pat McDowell phoned back and
said fine. Also, we’re going on a drive after I finish work to meet
someone – don’t bother asking whom or why. I trust that’s all
okay?”

Anderson
struggled to take it all in, Charlotte’s tone sounding rather
friendlier than the rapid-fire words themselves might suggest.
“That’s great,” he said, managing to sound enthusiastic.

“I’ll pick you up from the
Farriers
at six-thirty; forget the
camera, it just won’t be appropriate. You can reward me with dinner
later; the
Farriers
is fine.”

“The
Farriers,
for
dinner; you and me? Did the next
millennium arrive and I missed it?”

“I believe I
said that about lunch, not dinner. Do please keep up.”

“My apologies
for being so slow. You said no camera but presumably I’m actually
allowed to talk to this contact; even ask the occasional
question?”

“Probably
not,” Charlotte said. “Just follow my lead...”

A bemused
Anderson returned to the bar, opting for a celebratory drink.
Strictly speaking, the appointment at Erdenheim would be outside
his self-imposed deadline but he could hardly pull out now. And it
was about time he actually met Pat McDowell.

When Rob
returned with his drink, Anderson tenaciously resumed his quest,
choosing to ease his way slowly into finding more on events prior
to the Commander’s death. “Was Darren Westrope a regular?”

“His Dad is,”
Rob replied, happy to talk, “but not Darren; Boston’s got a bit
more to it than ‘round here.”

“What about
the people from Erdenheim, do they ever come in for a drink?”

“Now and
again; they have their own bar but a few come over once they’re
desperate for a proper pint. Jon Carter just lives round the corner
but he’s not been in for a while – too busy playing computer games,
I guess.”

“And Pat
McDowell?”

“Not that
much,” said Rob with a shrug. “Just an occasional drink with a few
of his Erdenheim buddies. Since Darren’s accident, they’ve avoided
evenings.”

“I guess it’s
fairly quiet ‘round here most of the time,” said Anderson, well
knowing that he was talking to the village’s chief gossip. “No
scandal to report? Or something else that might be of interest to
an underused journalist; preferably with a few facts thrown
in.”

Rob eyed
Anderson curiously and he took his time replying. “There’s always
something,” he said thoughtfully. “But if it’s McDowell you’re
after, it’s mostly hearsay.”

Anderson tried
to look nonchalant, hoping for a mutual exchange of information.
“He’s an interesting guy. Did he tell you he was ex-military; 82nd
Airborne in fact?”

“Guessed as
much,” Rob said, sounding impressed. “You been checking up on him
then?”

“Comes with the job; I’m assuming he’s never visited
the
Farriers
with
some of his old American buddies?”

Rob frowned,
searching his memory, “He brought some Yanks in for a meal a while
back; good tippers.”

“How far back
exactly?”

“A month at
least; I can check if you want.”

“Not unless
there was something memorable about it, other than the tips?”
Anderson knew Rob would put his own slant on everything but it was
a risk he needed to take.

Rob shook his
head, “Not that I recall. Picked up a bit when Pat came with two of
his other mates; be a couple of weeks ago now.”

Anderson’s
quizzical look was all the encouragement Rob needed. “Man of about
forty and an elderly woman; the three of them sat in a corner,
occasionally gabbling away in Polish or maybe it was Russian – not
McDowell, of course, he can barely speak the King’s English… The
woman spoke American like McDowell and it was only the man whose
English wasn’t so good. He was drinking steadily and the woman was
stupid enough to try and keep up; in the end Pat almost had to
carry her out. She wasn’t too happy, I can tell you.”

“A
Polish-Russian man of about forty, and an older bilingual American
woman,” Anderson repeated slowly. “Is that right?”