Again Jessica answered for Anderson, “I’m encouraging Michael to continue his interest in Mr McDowell, so please don’t give him a hard time. And I must admit I’m quite intrigued by the mysterious Yuri and Lara.”
“As are we all”, said Charlotte. “Or at least until we discover McDowell’s trying to widen Erdenheim’s appeal by offering language courses.”
“There’s always a cynic,” Jessica said unabashed. “Apparently, Michael’s been upsetting important people, and not just you.”
Charlotte ignored the jibe, “Are we talking about Erdenheim? How did it go? Or is Mike not actually allowed to speak for himself?”
“Pat McDowell was the perfect host,” said Anderson, pleased to finally get a word in. “And there was nothing suspicious that I could see. It’s not clear who I’ve upset but it’s another incentive to stick around.”
“And how long might that be for?”
“A few more days,” said Anderson, trying not to smile. “A week maybe.”
Jessica again jumped in. “Charlotte, don’t forget I’m off to Dublin on Saturday, then a few days with your Uncle John; back on the 26th. I told Michael he could stay here – as a sort of house-sitter – rather than some cramped room at the Farriers, but he politely declined. Perhaps you could sort something better out for him, dear; not tonight, of course, but maybe tomorrow or at least before the weekend?”
Charlotte ignored Anderson’s hint of a smirk and gave her mother a daughterly-glare, “Of course, Mum; just leave it with me.”
* * *
Jessica set great store by her instincts, and her instinct was telling her Anderson was one of the good guys. Despite Charlotte’s outward reserve, she clearly like him and Jessica wanted to help things along if she could. If it all came to nothing, then at least she’d tried; not that Anderson seemed the ideal suitor, his unclear job description and vivid imagination perhaps indicating an uncertain future. Jessica still couldn’t believe that her husband had been murdered but that she was content to follow Anderson’s lead and see how it all played out.
The search through George’s many books had produced nothing related to terrorism but it had resulted in an unexpected bonus when Jessica came across a thin black notebook. She had recognised it immediately even though she hadn’t seen it for years; it wasn’t exactly hidden away, merely squashed between two bigger books on a shelf in the study and George had used it for various work-related contact details. No home addresses, just names, phone numbers and perhaps an email address, together with a single letter above each surname. It wasn’t even a particularly subtle code, just a silly idea suggested by Jessica but taken up with enthusiasm by George; the letter L used for Langley or CIA, T for Thames House or MI5, and so on. In total, there were some hundred names in the book, listed in a loose variation of alphabetical order, the results of some twenty years working on the fringes of Britain’s intelligence agencies.
Once Charlotte and Anderson had left, Jessica retrieved the notebook, and more out of curiosity than expectation, she thumbed through the second half, gaze moving quickly down the list of names. No Patrick McDowell and no Charles Zhilin. Having started along that particular train of thought, Jessica turned somewhat hesitantly to the front pages; a cautious search and she was relieved to see that there was also no listing of anyone named Anderson. She delved deeper, not totally surprised when she quickly found the final name she was looking for: Adam Devereau, with work phone number and the letter V alongside. V for Vauxhall Cross on the South Bank of the Thames, home to the UK’s Secret Intelligence Service, more popularly known as MI6.
Jessica shut the book with a sigh, curious as to whether Anderson was aware of Devereau’s past link with the security services. And, if not, would it really be wise to tell him?
Chapter 7 – Thursday, May 13th
Russia
The MS Mikhail Bulgakov was the very latest addition to the ships cruising back and forth between Moscow and St. Petersburg. A budget version of the five-star vessels favoured by the foreign visitors, the steady increase in domestic tourism ensured the Bulgakov had a full complement of 442 passengers and crew. With four decks of relative luxury, the ship had been designed to provide an entertaining but relaxing experience for its passengers, the overwhelming majority of whom were Russian.
The Bulgakov’s tour along Russia’s scenic waterways took in the ancient cities of the Golden Ring before moving slowly on to St. Petersburg. Ahead was Uglich, home to the beautiful Church of Saint Dimitry on the Blood, and so far the trip had fairly routine; one crew member had failed to board before the Bulgakov had departed Moscow the previous evening but the ship’s entertainment officer had quickly rearranged the quotas to cope.
Four hundred kilometres to the north the Bulgakov’s sister-ship, the MS Konstantin Balmont, cruised slowly along the River Svir. Again there was a single crew-member missing; this time one of the kitchen staff.
The first bomb exploded aboard the MS Mikhail Bulgakov shortly after 7 a.m. local time, then eighteen minutes later the second on the MS Konstantin Balmont. Those sleeping aboard the Balmont were by far the luckier, the bomb blast sweeping through part of the main restaurant but causing no structural damage, and the subsequent fire was quickly extinguished. On the Bulgakov, the bomb shattered one of the lower-deck cabins, splitting the hull just below the waterline. Within fifteen minutes the vessel began to list, adding to the problems of the inexperienced crew struggling to launch the lifeboats. Despite there being no real danger, several panic-stricken passengers began to leap overboard, desperately striking out to the shore some four hundred metres distant. The hysteria and fear started to spread, people fighting each other to board the life-boats. Overcrowded and unstable, two lifeboats crashed into each other, spilling terrified passengers into the chilly waters of the Volga.
Even as the first news reports flashed onto the TV screens, a third explosion tore through the entrance chamber of the Mariinsky Palace, the home of St. Petersburg’s City Council. August 14 had chosen to spread its wings, its actions once again emphasising to the world the impotence of Russia’s security forces.
* * *
As the bomb attacks became public knowledge, a wave of protests spread rapidly through Moscow’s streets. In particular, a gathering at Arbat Square began to suck in more and more people, the crowd’s numbers swelled into the tens of thousands as even the most placid of Muscovites was taken up with the passion of the moment. Activists pushed themselves to the front and a group several thousand strong broke away from the main body, streaming west along the New Arbat and towards the Russian White House. Their placards revealed that the crowd’s anger was primarily directed against the Prime Minister, regarded by many as indecisive and weak, and thus the main cause of Russia’s inability to stop the terrorists.
Two hundred metres from the White House, a double line of riot police stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shields and batons held ready, the extremists in the crowd marked out for later attention by well-armed snatch-squads. The shouts of the protestors were soon reinforced by anything from chunks of concrete to petrol bombs, the two sides becoming embroiled in a series of vicious confrontations.
With a helicopter hovering overhead, hundreds more police began to advance along the wide avenue, two water cannon punching a hole through the front rank of demonstrators. People began to stumble and fall as they tried to escape, but the police advance never slowed, batons, shields and boots being used to club the protestors back. So far, it was relatively routine; no need for tear-gas, rubber bullets or stun-grenades, and no reason to deploy the armoured vehicles presently held in reserve.
Two thousand more riot police waited directly outside the White House, most of them impatient to get to grips with the mob. Not that they felt any personal animosity towards the protestors – in fact many agreed wholeheartedly with their views – but Moscow’s Police Commissioner had decreed that the White House be protected.
And protected it was: six thousand security personnel p
olicing Moscow’s streets, one demonstrator killed, well over a hundred injured.
Marshwick, England
Anderson was feeling guilty, well aware that he should have found a healthier lunchtime option than a ham sandwich at the Farriers. Still, the quiet corner of the bar was somewhere relaxing to review progress and plan out his next move.
Devereau might be busy in Bristol but he hadn’t entirely left Anderson to his own devices and his initial inquiry into Erdenheim had found nothing untoward, a trusted source with personal experience of the Management Centre giving it a glowing review. The Erdenheim staff had been friendly and knowledgeable, particularly Jon Carter; McDowell had delivered the standard welcome speech but that was about the limit of his contribution.
Amongst a swathe of other information from Devereau was a chronological list of Erdenheim’s courses and clients. Anderson had wondered if the Centre might have run a workshop on counter-terrorism and invited some expert as a guest speaker, but there was nothing even close. Often the company names meant nothing, no specific links able to be made, it impossible to verify whether the bookings were genuine or not. Anderson had tried to confirm who had been at Erdenheim during the visit of Anne Teacher’s brash Americans but got nowhere, it the same for the date of Yuri and Lara’s likely visit; his quick analysis of the photographs from his visit to Erdenheim had proved equally unhelpful, there nothing that stood out as being odd or unusual.
Throughout the morning the radio news had kept him up-to-date with the continuing turmoil in Russia. Domodedovo was now relegated to the briefest of mentions as details of the latest attacks were revealed – seventeen killed or missing on the MS Mikhail Bulgakov, four more deaths aboard the MS Konstantin Balmont, and one killed in the St. Petersburg bombing.
Yet, the Russian authorities were continuing to strike back, their massive media campaign at long last producing results when a Moscow shop assistant had recognised a man buying cigarettes. The man was quickly traced to the third-floor of a nearby apartment block, and in the chaos of the ensuing shoot-out, three had died, all presumed to be members of August 14. There was no mention of any arrests, although a cache of arms and explosives had reportedly been seized.
It was clearly a world away from the tranquillity of Marshwick and the relaxed surroundings of the Farriers. Coffee duly finished, Anderson set himself the task of finding more about Erdenheim’s foreign guests – preferably without upsetting anyone too important.
Moscow
Nabiyev carefully slipped on gloves and shoe covers, always conscious of the need to set the correct example. A nod that he was ready, and one of the FSB guards thrust open the shattered remains of the front door, simultaneously holding aside the police tape for Nabiyev to duck through into the apartment’s main living area. Nabiyev let the door swing half shut behind him before standing to survey a dishevelled and crowded interior, his eyes drawn to the blood-spattered sofa-bed. Just hours previously the apartment’s three occupants had been living a meaningful if slightly chaotic existence; now, thanks to one of them needing his half-hourly fix of nicotine, all three were dead.
Less than forty minutes after receiving the emergency call from the shop assistant, a six-man unit from the FSB’s Alpha Group had blasted their way through the apartment’s front door. Only one of the terrorists had been immediately visible, the man confused and barely conscious from the effects of two stun-grenades. A second terrorist had suddenly appeared from the rear room, gun blazing, joined a moment later by the third man. In the ensuing firefight, all three terrorists had been killed. It wasn’t the Alpha Group’s finest hour: despite their body armour, two of them had been seriously injured, and questions were already being asked as to why they had chosen to rush in rather than making a proper assessment. Live terrorists were considered a useful commodity, dead ones significantly less so.
The apartment’s main room had the usual trappings of table, chairs, and TV, but along two walls stood a line of large cardboard boxes, sometimes up to three boxes high. Nabiyev began the onerous task of looking through them, trying to disturb the contents as little as possible. All weapons, explosives and phones had supposedly been removed by the FSB’s investigators once Alpha had secured the apartment, and it would be at least a half-hour before the main forensic team arrived, leaving him time enough; in any case, as one of Grebeshkov’s hated team of inspectors, he had every reason to be there. And if nothing else, it made a welcome change from the claustrophobia of the Lubyanka.
The boxes contained enough processed food to last the terrorists several weeks; there were also work clothes and various uniforms – nothing of any interest to Nabiyev. He padded back across to the large table, and one-handed casually sorted through the topping of domestic clutter, mostly magazines. Nabiyev moved on, past the sofa-bed and into the bedroom. To his surprise, there was space enough for a large wardrobe, plus two single beds separated by a chest of drawers. He was more thorough now, although still unsure what he was looking for – his visit more one of idle curiosity than fear there would be something to implicate him. In fact, it had taken an internal FSB report for him to even know the three men’s names. In this sad world of terror and deceit, ignorance was a form of security, and the terrorists had given their lives without ever learning the identity of August 14’s leader or its backers, probably not even aware of allies within Russia such as Nabiyev.
Nabiyev himself was somewhat more knowledgeable, his understanding gained at the expense of his life becoming significantly more complex. Once there had been a happy marriage, two young children, a comfortable house in Moscow’s western suburbs. Everything had been just a little too cosy, and Nabiyev had followed a selfish path, allowing career and personal ambition to dominate his every waking hour.
Eventually, his wife had walked out, taking the children with her to live close to her family in Tatarstan. Nabiyev had been first bewildered and then distraught, falsely assuming his wife was having an affair. Too late he had finally come to understand that by satisfying the demands of the FSB he had completely ignored the needs of his own family.
The torment and despondency of those early weeks had eventually dulled, Nabiyev slowly coming to terms with his own mistakes, realising that his wife had had little choice. He started to look afresh at his life, concerned as to how easily he had been seduced by Russian arrogance, seeing himself almost as a collaborator. Evidence of the authoritarian and repressive nature of Russian federalism was all around him, the FSB an efficient custodian of Moscow’s will. Now, for the first time since his teenage years, Nabiyev actively sought to satisfy the needs of his conscience rather than his pocket.
Nabiyev’s profession gave him a unique – if dangerous – insight into finding fellow activists. In turn that had led to contacts from Eastern Europe. Lacking unity, their proposed strategy had initially been one of non-violent resistance and civil disobedience – that was until they had come to the attention of August 14. Nabiyev had met its leader just the once, a rushed ninety minutes at a Saint Petersburg hotel last September, and had immediately been impressed by the elder man’s passion and vision.
By the start of February, all the required elements had been put in place, Nabiyev having to tread a delicate path to keep August 14 informed as to where the various dangers lay, the FSB’s recent successes more down to basic mistakes by the terrorists themselves. August 14’s more subtle offensive, focusing now on media manipulation and cyber-attacks, was already proving to be particularly effective, the personal risks to those involved significantly less. Russia’s Government had worked hard over the previous decade to improve computer security, anticipating an attack from amateur hackers or perhaps China; consequently, it was the more vulnerable alternatives such as energy supplies, transport centres, and communications that were presently being targeted. Life in Moscow was becoming intolerable with the roads often gridlocked, other transport links cut, and phones – even landlines – subject to frequent outages.
Nabiyev turned his thoughts
back to more immediate problems: the apartment’s secrets would shortly be added to those dragged from Nazarenko, and he was growing nervous that soon there were be no secrets left. Quickly he checked the rest of the bedroom, before moving on to the kitchen and bathroom. To keep up the pretence, he made written notes of anything of interest, and would later prepare a detailed report on his visit, a paper copy duly filed away.
It was another ten minutes before Nabiyev left having found nothing to worry him. As he signalled for his car, an FSB guard spoke briefly into his radio; moments later, a record of Nabiyev’s visit was automatically assigned for processing, Nabiyev’s rank ensuring it was one of the few to land in General Grebeshkov’s personal inbox.
USS John Finn
The briefing-room was small but functional, a video camera passing on the Captain’s words to a far wider audience than the fourteen officers presently seated in front of him. Commander Jack Young stood at the podium, both elbows resting on its sloping surface. Even after almost two years as captain of the John Finn, Young still felt the pressure of command; he knew that others regarded him as fastidious, even a perfectionist, but he could only relax when every problem and difficulty had found a solution.
A guided missile destroyer of the Arleigh Burke class, the USS John Finn was a well-armed multi-role workhorse, capable of dealing with simultaneous air, surface and anti-submarine targets. Reasonable cost plus versatility – the designers had achieved the first of their two main objectives, while struggling with the second. In part because of this design conflict the John Finn was hardly the most stylish of vessels, the line of her hull spoilt by a misshapen topping of grey-metal boxes and a spike-encrusted central mast. The advanced design tried to ensure the superstructure was relatively free of vertical and horizontal surfaces which, in combination with its covering of radar absorbent tiles, helped to keep the destroyer’s radar signature to a minimum. With her Tomahawk cruise missiles and Ballistic Missile Defence System, the open expanse of the North Atlantic or the Pacific was the John Finn’s natural environment, most certainly not the busy waterway that was the Baltic Sea.
The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) Page 9
