Grebeshkov struggled to his feet, unsure whether he would be able to stop the laughter from exploding from within, and fearful of what the others might think. Now Valentin, like the FSB’s Nabiyev, was a fallen hero and not a callous murderer whose ambition had resulted in months of heartache for the people of Moscow. From Russia’s perspective, the imagined attack brought a more defined sense of closure to the terrorist assaults and the country was slowly returning to a form of optimistic normality, with just the situation in the Baltic still to be resolved, something that was next on Golubeva’s short agenda.
A word of thanks and Golubeva sat down, moving straight on to events in Poland. “I am pleased to announce that after some feverish diplomatic activity, agreement has been reached with NATO, including of course Poland. A suitable compromise has been worked out with regard to the withdrawal of forces in the Baltic, and this is presently underway. In addition, an independent multinational inquiry will be held under the auspices of the International Court of Justice; their specific charge to undertake a full and impartial investigation into August 14, including the terrorists’ possible relationship with various governments or government agencies.”
But presumably not Russia, thought Grebeshkov bitterly. It wasn’t the best compromise but it was the best NATO would offer, and it could be packaged in sufficient fine rhetoric to satisfy the Russian people.
“I have been assured,” Golubeva continued, “that all relevant governments will provide their full and unequivocal support to the investigating team. The exact make-up of the inquiry will be decided over the next few days and I will be asking General Grebeshkov to lead negotiations on Russia’s behalf.”
Grebeshkov acknowledged Golubeva’s words with the briefest of nods, realising that he was the obvious choice. The Russian people had listened to Valentin’s lies and Grebeshkov was seen as the main instigator of August 14’s demise; if Grebeshkov’s name was associated with that of the International Court, then that might just be enough to allay any public concern.
“Finally,” Golubeva reported, “an unofficial exchange has taken place, no publicity. Of the fifteen men and five women detained by the Polish authorities, and under investigation for their links with the terrorist base outside Gdansk, fourteen are Russian citizens. I am delighted to report that all fourteen have been forcibly repatriated to Russia; in return, the captain and crew of the Princess Eloise have been released without charge, and have been flown to Warsaw.” Golubeva gave a cautious smile, “Once the dust has settled we can leak news of the exchange, and fourteen live terrorists are the best we could possibly hope for.”
Nods of approval greeted the President’s unexpected revelation, and even Grebeshkov was impressed. Russia had extracted more than it might have expected from the West, and so far had successfully hidden from the world the internal power struggle between the members of the coup. Even after a few days, the new Government was gaining a certain respectability, with an approval rating of over seventy percent according to a recent news poll.
For Grebeshkov there was much to be pleased with, perhaps even proud of, despite the obvious mistakes and the machinations of others. He had risen to a position of some influence, a well-respected and popular member of the ruling clique, lauded as being instrumental in the destruction of August 14. Although such an accolade might be undeserved, for some reason it seemed almost a fair exchange for the weeks of pain and anguish.
Warsaw
The mortuary was having a difficult day, the routine haul of corpses far more than was normal. Primarily, it was a consequence of the awful late-Spring weather, although a contributing factor had been the celebrations associated with the ending of the Russian blockade.
For the single female attendant still on duty, it was not an unfamiliar experience, and she was old enough to recall a dozen similar days, especially during the final years of Communist rule. If truth be told, she had a certain fondness for those times, when she had been unfettered by the demands of family and uncaring as to the political desires of her elders. And, as always, the memory of her first love brought a twinge of regret and a wistful smile.
Now she was twice-divorced and Poland had Western democracy, together with the trademark terrorism of extremists and fanatics. Yet few in Warsaw believed the Russian lies about August 14 – it was all propaganda to help explain away their own internal divisions and home-grown terrorists. Russia had challenged Poland and been forced to beat a hasty retreat; no wonder Warsaw was celebrating.
Not that such complex issues were of particular interest to the attendant, and certainly of no further concern to the mortuary’s clientele. To the woman’s experienced eyes, each body told its own tale, and mixed in amongst the crushed skull of a car-crash victim and the blue-tinged lips of a suicide, was another reminder from the past. The mortuary’s most recent arrival had suffered a single small-calibre wound to the side of the head, a fate once the feared hallmark of Communist repression but now relatively rare, and it was almost unheard of for the victim to be a woman.
Idle curiosity made the attendant check the woman’s name – Klaudia Woroniecki. The name meant nothing, but the old woman gave a small nod of approval, strangely pleased that even for the well-manicured and obviously wealthy, destiny was still a fickle and unreliable friend.
Marshwick, England
It was a bright, crisp morning, with cotton-wool clouds silhouetted against a pastel-blue sky. Little had changed in the churchyard since the Commander’s funeral – the weeds were perhaps a little sturdier than before and a few more flowers had come onto bloom – but to the church and its immediate surroundings, the confusion and fears of the past three weeks meant little of consequence.
For Anderson, this second visit was a far more personal affair than before, and he came now as a friend of the family, rather than a total stranger. Charlotte and Jessica stood arm in arm beside the grave, each with their own very private thoughts. Anderson waited a few paces further back, ready to offer a steadying hand should the need arise; however, the strength that had carried them through recent weeks was still evident. The Commander would doubtless have expected nothing less – tears were for shedding well outside of the public gaze.
The relationship between Charlotte and Anderson was at a difficult stage, their shared imprisonment aboard the Princess Eloise almost creating a barrier between them rather than bringing them closer together. To the British press and public, events in Russia had now been overtaken by domestic political turmoil, specifically the resignation of the Home Secretary – nothing supposedly related to August 14 or Erdenheim. The Management Development Centre in turn had finally lost its news appeal, the official response being to rubbish stories linking it to August 14 and blame the explosion on a gas leak. Rebane and McDowell were listed amongst those killed – no mention of Jon Carter. It was a confused and somewhat unsatisfying conclusion to the Erdenheim myth, with countless loose ends left hanging.
Anderson was keen not to muddy the waters with his version of the truth, and he was content to live out the lie for his own protection. He still had a painful reminder from those final chaotic hours in the Russian Senate, the stitches in his thigh due not to a bullet but a large splinter. Grebeshkov had been insistent that it was in Anderson’s interests to forget about what secrets he had learnt that day and it had seemed little enough in exchange for freedom and a flight home.
The British authorities had irritated him with the expected questions, their version of Major Eskov being rather less polite and far less perceptive. Eventually, Anderson had been let loose, his story first taken apart piece by piece to prove no-one would believe it, dire warnings made as to the consequences of publicising his tortuous tale.
Charlotte was clearly determined to put it all behind her and if she had guessed that Anderson knew Yuri’s identity, then she had said nothing, and events involving Erdenheim or the Princess Eloise were apparently off-limits, even for Anderson. There was so much that needed saying, but neither of them knew
how to begin.
It was just over three weeks since Anderson had first arrived in Marshwick to create general mayhem, and he still couldn’t even guarantee that the Commander’s murderer had been duly punished. The FSB had pursued the Demanov link all the way to Spain, the dates matching the Commander’s death, but that didn’t prove he had been the person responsible.
In retrospect it seemed doubtful whether Anderson had actually achieved anything worthwhile: he manifestly had done nothing to accelerate the downfall of August 14 and it was thanks to his interference that Devereau had ended up in intensive care, his full recovery still not yet certain; Pippa Mason also now had a genuine axe to grind, Erdenheim’s destruction leaving her with no job at all. Anderson hadn’t even been an effective journalist, his article on Darren Westrope still as yet unpublished. All in all, it was a fairly poor record and the hamlet of Graythorp would never quite be the same again, the blackened ruin of Erdenheim a daily reminder of their fifteen minutes of fame – plastic explosives or gas leak, Anderson knew which one he believed.
His musings were cut short as Charlotte moved to stand beside him, allowing her mother to have a few private moments alone. Her hand slipped into Anderson’s and slowly they walked back towards the church.
As they waited for Jessica, Anderson pulled Charlotte close, his arm trying to squeeze out the problems of the world. The Princess Eloise, August 14, Rebane and McDowell: all would soon be a distant memory – until then, they would just have to work a little harder to ignore past adversity.
Japan
The bullet train swept out of Tokyo on its race to the north, McDowell relaxing in the extra comfort of first-class, eyes closed, thoughts moving on from the success of the past towards an unclear future. He had a new identity, money to burn, no ties and no responsibilities – at least for a while – and McDowell was finding it hard adjusting to a relatively stress-free life, worrying that he might quickly succumb to the dubious pleasures of excess and extravagance.
With his Erdenheim role complete, McDowell had initially followed the latest from Moscow with only minor interest – that was until he had heard the new President speak. Even though the language spoken was different and the sound quality far superior, he had instantly recognised the voice from his many cell-phone conversations, the physical reality totally at odds with how he had perceived his Russian contact. McDowell’s surprise was tempered by something approaching pride, his arrogance fed by the knowledge that he had played an integral part in bringing Irina Golubeva to power.
If he had any regrets, it was those final hours at Erdenheim, specifically Rebane’s death. The two of them had worked well together, Rebane unconcerned by McDowell’s frequent criticism, treating it more as constructive than argumentative. By any definition, Rebane was more than just a colleague, but McDowell had happily ignored such complications, selfish concerns meaning far more than mere friendship. He knew he would invariably do the same again, the flaw in his character one he accepted as being an essential part of the whole. He hadn’t even questioned the need for Rebane to die, his orders followed to the letter – still, he wished he had been less dramatic, a bullet in the back of the head far simpler than dragging out the inevitable.
In four months detailed planning for the second phase would begin in earnest, McDowell’s paymasters delighted with the success of their initial investment. Arkady Valentin might have been their preferred candidate for President but Golubeva was a very acceptable alternative, their ultimate long-term goal still very much on track. There were obvious lessons to be learnt and the confrontation between NATO and Russia had proved to be an unexpected but key element, accelerating the internal divisions and magnifying the threat, ultimately easing the transition of power.
McDowell was well aware that the second target would require a more subtle approach, one geared to that particular nation’s democratic strengths and its unique place in history. The proposed budget had been increased to compensate and the personal profiles of some six hundred individuals were already being gathered, their aspirations and weaknesses duly assessed.
McDowell’s future role would also be expanded, it promising to be a suitably intriguing challenge and one McDowell’s ego would not allow him to ignore...
The Trust of the People
The story continues in the second part of the Conspiracy Trilogy, The Trust of the People, also available on Kindle.
Warned of a terrorist attack, the target unknown, Michael Anderson is once more drawn into a conspiracy of deceit, struggling to understand the complex games played out across three continents. His focus moves from London to Washington, the U.S. Midterm elections turning into a chaotic scramble for power as the American President’s grip on events at home and abroad rapidly spirals out of control.
In the South China Sea, Philippine protests over China’s creeping militarisation of the islets and half-sunken reefs of the Spratly Islands escalate into a series of bloody clashes. Vietnam is quickly dragged into the conflict, the United States’ apparent unwillingness to protect her allies provoking an angry reaction on the streets of Washington. With Beijing and Moscow both seeking to take advantage of the internal battles within the White House, the fight for supremacy over the disputed islands threatens the President’s own survival.
Set seventeen months after the events of The Will of the People, the story brings together many of the characters from the first novel and forms the second part of the Conspiracy Trilogy.
The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) Page 31
