The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2)

by Christopher Read

  Sukhov had only been appointed as a Presidential aide in February, having previously been an adviser to the Ministry of Economic Development. Fluent in English, he had a doctorate in Politics from Harvard and had worked as a political analyst in New York before eventually joining the Putin Administration in 2012. Forty, married with one son, apartment in Moscow, holiday home on the Black Sea coast: it wasn’t so much the man himself that had piqued Markova’s interest, more his wide-ranging role. Hanoi, Manila, Washington, London, Seoul and Taipei: six capitals visited in the last five months, Washington and London twice, just two or three days in each city, always travelling alone. Russia’s economy still had to make up ground lost since the annexation of Crimea, but Markova had found no evidence that Sukhov was pursuing some new economic initiative or attending a relevant conference, even one with a vaguely pertinent political agenda.

  It was just five days since Sukhov’s last fleeting trip, and Markova’s persistence had finally paid off, able to learn whom Sukhov was meeting, if not exactly why. The five-star Hamburg venue was well used to ensuring their guests’ privacy was not compromised, but it taken only a few hours to name the American who had joined Sukhov there.

  Like a complex variation of Chinese whispers, the American had dined that evening not with Sukhov, but with a young woman at a restaurant in Bremen, 120 kilometres away. To the watchers, it had appeared more of a business meeting than a romantic reunion; they had even managed to record a fragmented conversation between the two, some twenty seconds of intrigue just before they had parted.

  Despite overstretched resources, the woman had in turn been followed to the town of Wilhelmshaven, home to Germany’s largest naval base. The next morning, she had driven from her hotel into the base’s high-security zone, leaving Markova with the difficult choice of abandoning the chase or asking the SVR for help. With little time to deliberate, she had judged the SVR a risk worth taking, her faith seemingly justified when just twenty-four hours later a set of photos had landed in her inbox. A quick analysis and the number of active targets had been increased to a grand total of eight.

  Now, in retrospect, Markova’s decision had been an unbelievably stupid mistake, her hurried and thoughtless actions bringing swift retribution. The pursuit of Sukhov was no longer a secret – after all the evidence was plastered across the wall in front of her – and rather than providing a form of protection, it might well have led directly to Grebeshkov’s death. The coincidence of Grebeshkov’s murder happening so soon after Markova had first contacted the SVR was impossible to ignore; Markova had even been foolish enough to show the SVR the strength of her hand.

  Then why wasn’t Markova already dead? Conjecture and paranoia were an unhelpful pairing, and Markova appreciated that Alekseyev’s motivation could easily be anything from jealousy to temporary insanity. In any event, there seemed little she could do to guarantee her own safety.

  Decision made, she acted quickly before she changed her mind, gathering the papers from wall and desk, putting some to one side, shredding the rest. Fearful of the acumen of the smoke alarm, she opted to turn the tangle of torn paper into a sodden mess, trusting that would be enough. Next it was the turn of the computer files, with the ones relating to Sukhov first doctored then deleted.

  Finally, it was back to the basics of pen and ink. While not exactly ideal for what she had in mind, such old-fashioned methods were the only option available; in the FSB’s closed world of mistrust and suspicion, the very act of trying to copy computer files to an unauthorised external device – such as a memory stick – would immediately generate a security alert. Even using the printer or photocopier was a risk not worth taking.

  Thirty minutes later Markova stood, drink in hand, just one of the many colleagues who had congregated in a Lubyanka briefing room to pay their respects and share their memories. Grebeshkov was well-liked and universally respected, several in the room already openly blaming elements within the SVR even though the actual murderer was one of their own. More popular was the theory that Grebeshkov and his secretary had merely got in the way, and that Trukhin was the target. But why then did Alekseyev bother walking thirty metres along the corridor and into Grebeshkov’s office?

  Markova took her time working her way round to Sergeant Nikolai Nechayev, a meaningful glance enough to warn him to be on his guard. Nikolai spoke little, listening intently to Markova’s detailed instructions while keeping his body language relaxed as though nothing of importance was being discussed. A brief nod of understanding; then he left her alone to mingle and chat, his left leg dragging stiffly.

  Nikolai was ex-Alpha, his injury testimony to his own part in Russia’s internal struggle for power, the sergeant too proud to make use of a walking stick. The normal reward would have been an enforced retirement with a meagre pension, but Grebeshkov would have none of it, Nikolai almost having died protecting him. Now he worked on an informal basis as an FSB courier, coming in for work as and when he felt able, his salary artificially maintained at close to its former level. If anyone in the Lubyanka resented such obvious favouritism, then they wisely kept it to themselves – Nikolai might not be quite the man he was but few would dare to argue with him, and no-one could dispute his right to special treatment. In fact there was no actual damage to his leg, the weakness a result of a bullet permanently damaging the sciatic nerve. He had been hit by three bullets that day and had been lucky to survive – lucky too to have been on the winning side.

  Markova had no doubt Nikolai would do exactly as she had asked, his task a way of ensuring Grebeshkov’s death might not be entirely in vain. Deep down she knew that all such precautions were doubtless a complete waste of time, and despite the Lubyanka’s obsession with security the deleted files would be easy enough to restore. Yet it might give Markova a few hours grace before someone came knocking on her door.

  In fact, she didn’t even make it to her home…

  Chapter 1 – Friday, October 21st

  Marshwick, England – 14:04 Local Time; 13:04 UTC

  Anderson stared at the package in confusion, puzzled but also intrigued. When he had left the previous week, the kitchen table had been totally free of clutter, but now a small brown cardboard box occupied pride of place at its centre. Charlotte was the only other person to have a key to the cottage but there was no note, and there had been no text message to say she had called. Still, it could only be from her, unless of course Santa Claus had got his dates wrong.

  Roughly A4 in size and an inch thick, a lone handwritten word marred its surface – ‘Anderson’. It wasn’t even sealed with tape, a single flap holding it shut. Anderson turned it over, intrigued, but the back was totally blank: no name, no address, and no postage label – so definitely not Royal Mail. Even for Charlotte the use of just his surname was somewhat restrained, almost impolite, and Anderson realised that he wasn’t actually certain whether it was Charlotte’s handwriting or not. Non-verbal communication between them was invariably via a brief text, and the occasional note or irritating to-do list obviously wasn’t enough of a guide.

  If Charlotte was merely the courier, Anderson was still disappointed that she hadn’t left a message and a simple ‘Welcome Back’ would have sufficed. With a frown of annoyance he let the back-pack slide from his shoulder down onto the kitchen table, knowing that he should really have phoned Charlotte last night.

  Basically they needed to spend some time together, and not just an odd day with Anderson either jet-lagged or distracted by the need to find the next pay-cheque. An intimate dinner for two immediately climbed up his priority list, a quick glance at his watch confirming that he had at least a couple of hours before Charlotte finished her stint at the estate agent’s. Coffee, unpack, shop, shower, dinner – even his sleep-dulled brain was quick to confirm such targets were well within his present capabilities.

  Anderson’s relationship with Charlotte was at an awkward stage, the classic friends with benefits but shying well clear of something more permanent. Charlotte w
as generous enough to put up with Anderson’s frequent trips to anywhere and everywhere, but it wasn’t ideal knowing that he could disappear at a moment’s notice, off on a whim for a week or more while hunting for something newsworthy. Whenever he had a few days off, Charlotte seemed happy enough to split her time between his cottage and her home in Boston, but it always felt as if she was the one having to make all of the compromises.

  It was sixteen months since Anderson had first set foot in the Lincolnshire village of Marshwick, his intrinsic stubbornness turning a routine news story into something far more dangerous. Meeting Charlotte had been an unexpected bonus, and despite an enforced detour to Russia their relationship had quickly blossomed into something worthwhile. Keen not to let it fade, Anderson had opted to leave the financial constraints of London and move north to Marshwick. He hadn’t quite made it the commitment some might have hoped for, choosing to rent rather than buy; nevertheless, to begin with everything had been fine, Anderson’s old contacts helping him to make a steady living out of enterprise journalism. Yet rural Lincolnshire hardly offered the challenge of London, and gradually the work had dried up, forcing Anderson to move further and further afield, past events ensuring a good proportion of his time was spent abroad, chasing elusive leads across Poland and the Baltic.

  The rewards of looking towards Eastern Europe had been two-fold, Anderson’s journalistic reputation growing and his finances steadily improving. Articles on Russia and August 14 still had a popular appeal, both across Western Europe and America; Anderson had even been asked give talks at a couple of events. But again, it all ate away at his time in the UK.

  Charlotte had tried to be supportive, not that she seemed to know quite what she wanted anyway – certainly not a husband, but perhaps not a part-time lover either. One day soon, they’d have to sit down and sort it all out – and sadly that might mean a parting of the ways…

  Anderson shook the thought aside, studying once more the intriguing challenge of the cardboard box. A year ago, Anderson would have treated the package with exaggerated respect, fearing that the contents were more likely to be a bomb than a box of chocolates. Sadly, the latter option seemed unlikely: the parcel might be about the right size, but the weight was all wrong, it heavy enough to be back to the parcel-bomb alternative.

  Even though he knew certain people might well feel aggrieved he was still in one piece, Anderson threw caution to the wind and slipped the cardboard flap aside, flipping the package open.

  Inside were an A4 envelope and a hardback book. But not just any book; one all-too familiar to Anderson, the garish dust jacket instantly recognised: Red Terror, Truth and Fiction by Charles Zhilin…

  Anderson stared at it in part confusion part anger, his body automatically tensing as though the book represented some kind of physical threat. Definitely not from Charlotte then – she hated the book almost as much as he did. Red Terror: the title was as exciting as it got, the actual content a long-winded and uninspiring review of Soviet-sponsored terrorism. The sender doubtless realised its significance to Anderson, and he or she was clearly keen to get his attention.

  “It appeared yesterday,” said an amused female voice behind Anderson. “Sitting on the table as if by magic; doors and windows all secure.”

  Anderson swiftly pivoted around, almost falling over, his brain struggling to cope with too many surprises. “Bugger it, Charlie; you scared the shit out of me.”

  Charlotte stood in the lounge doorway, sandwich in hand, Anderson confused by the sight of her in T-shirt and jeans rather than the expected smart suit. Although not a market day, Friday was one of Boston’s busiest, and Charlotte should have been snowed under with the pre-weekend rush of house buyers, not idling around scoffing his limited food supply.

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t resist and sneaked a peak,” Charlotte explained. “Wished I hadn’t now. I wasn’t really hiding, but I just wanted to see the look on your face when you opened it, just in case medical assistance was required. Thanks for being less than an hour late – such excellent time-keeping is to be commended.”

  Anderson ignored the sarcasm; his arrival home was suddenly turning rather surreal, his memories of the book interlaced with narrow dimly-lit corridors and bloodied bodies during Russia’s internal struggle for power. Someone obviously wanted to send a message and had used a most effective method, one specifically targeted to Anderson, which in itself offered a good clue as to the book’s sender.

  “Shouldn’t you be hard at work,” he said, trying to give himself time to think. “Or has everyone in Boston suddenly decided they quite like where they live?”

  “Switched my afternoon off.” Charlotte gestured with her sandwich at the package, “Not sure what’s in the envelope, I didn’t dare look – one heart-wrenching shock per day is all I can cope with. Having had a whole day to think about this, I’m betting it’s from one of your Russian friends.”

  It was said with the hint of a smile and Anderson chose not to rise to the bait. He had always been deliberately evasive about what had actually happened in Moscow and Charlotte knew better than to try and drag it out of him. Anderson had maintained an interest in Grebeshkov but that was it, certainly no secret emails back and forth to the Lubyanka; if anything was a shock, it was that Grebeshkov’s luck had finally run out, Anderson aware of at least two previous attempts to kill him.

  Charlotte’s tone was suddenly more serious, “Russian TV is reporting that three more senior officers from the FSB have been arrested; supposedly corruption rather that anything to do with Grebeshkov. That makes at least four this week… If someone wanted to send you something important, then maybe this was the only safe option, the book a way of confirming it’s genuine.”

  Anderson nodded his agreement, fairly certain in his own mind as to the identity of the parcel’s sender. Markova was just one of a select few who would appreciate the book’s relevance to Anderson, but such an odd calling card still seemed an unnecessarily cryptic way to prove the package’s authenticity.

  Charlotte pulled up a chair, remaining silent as Anderson pondered his next move. In contrary mood, he opted for the basic essentials of food and caffeine, needing to clear his head after the shock of seeing the book. The look of thoughtful anticipation on Charlotte’s face was another incentive to wait awhile. Worryingly, he also sensed a certain nervousness, confirmation that she too thought it might not be good news, with Anderson chasing some news story a thousand miles from anywhere. The official line from Moscow was that August 14 was a spent force but there was still the danger that the terrorists would resurface with a new leader and a new campaign, reigniting the possibility of conflict between Russia and its NATO neighbours. Of course, it was always possible that the parcel had absolutely nothing to do with August 14, or even that it really was from Santa Claus.

  It was another half-hour before Anderson’s attention moved back to the package, Charlotte moving her chair round to sit beside him.

  The book itself seemed pristine, if perhaps not quite brand new. Despite the cold shiver of déjà vu running down his spine, Anderson quickly flicked through its many pages – nothing obviously added, nothing hidden inside. So far, so good, and unless Charlotte objected strongly, the book would quickly be finding its way into the kitchen bin.

  With studied indifference, Anderson extracted the single A4 envelope and placed it carefully onto the kitchen table. A quick side glance at Charlotte and a mental drum-roll; then he let the contents slide out onto the table.

  It all seemed a bit of a let-down, just several colour photographs, roughly A4 in size, clipped together. On top was the head shot of a woman, with ‘Hanson’ written in black pen across the bottom. Early-thirties, blonde hair, ice-blue eyes; the sort of woman any man would always look at twice. The image quality was relatively poor, as though taken with a cheap phone or from long distance and then blown up. The woman was leaving what looked to be a bar or restaurant; no clue as to its name or where it might be.

  Witho
ut comment, Anderson passed the first sheet across to Charlotte. The second photo was of the same woman and a similar background, just from a different angle. The third image was almost the exact same shot but from further back, and now with an older man in the frame. Despite the fuzzy nature of the photo, Anderson instantly knew who he was, and he could never forget – or forgive – the beating McDowell had dished out while two of his men held Anderson upright. The American could be charming and amiable, but underneath he was a complete and unadulterated bastard.

  Charlotte recognised McDowell virtually at the same instant, almost ripping the photo from Anderson’s grasp.

  “It seemed too easy to believe he was dead,” she said finally. “At least he’s lost the ponytail.” She had every reason to hate McDowell, if only because he was part of the terror group that had murdered her father.

  There were another three photographs: the first showed McDowell and Hanson sitting opposite each other while having a meal, the other two had just McDowell against a background of grey stone, possibly the side of some large building.

  The final sheet wasn’t in fact a photo, but a handwritten A4 sheet. Whilst legible, it looked to have been written at speed, with a nominal attempt at punctuation.

  12 October Germany – Hanson and McDowell meet for dinner, reason unknown. Hanson midway through two day symposium at Wilhelmshaven Naval Base with 1 thru 5.

  Paige Hanson Naval Intelligence Washington DC

  Patrick McDowell present location unknown

  1 – David Brandt Thales Wilhelmshaven

  2 – Walter Drummond John Hopkins University Baltimore

  3 – Judith Gastrell BAE Systems Barrow-in-Furness

  4 – Lukas Kramer Atlas Elektronik Bremen

  5 – Adrien Mercier Thales Underwater Systems Valbonne

  Following transcript hints at new terror offensive – London? No indication British Intelligence aware of threat.