The Trust Of The People

by Christopher Read

  * * *

  From the opposite bank a black-uniformed officer scanned across the river and up towards the trees, slowly traversing from south to north. The thermal imaging binoculars were supposedly able to detect someone two kilometres away, just not when there was a swathe of trees in the way.

  The man gave a long sigh of frustration, irritated that someone might have escaped. The attack on Morozov’s country retreat had taken a little longer than anticipated, the GRU guards putting up a stubborn defence, and the attackers had been lucky that only two of those from the house had succeeded in breaking through the encircling spetsnaz. One had quickly been hunted down and killed. The second was more of an enigma, it taking time to discover exactly who she was.

  Major Markova, Grebeshkov’s favourite – that had been a surprise, recent reports suggesting she had hightailed it to Germany. The officer knew it would be unwise to underestimate Markova’s abilities, but could she really swim the Volga and survive?

  The officer’s priority had been to neutralise the computer and communications facility, data and files to be deleted, all personnel to be held for interrogation or if necessary killed. ‘All’ personnel – it was galling to feel he couldn’t guarantee that was actually the case. They had found a coat washed up on the bank, a single bullet hole in the sleeve, but that might easily be a diversion.

  North to nowhere or south to Tutaev? There was no evidence Markova had chosen either direction. The spetsnaz were needed elsewhere and they were already well behind schedule. The local police were of unclear loyalty, and it would be demeaning to expect them to correct the Special Forces’ mistakes – especially if there was no need.

  The officer nodded slowly to himself: six hundred metres of ice-cold water, at night, possibly with a bullet in the arm – no-one could do that without months of training, and certainly no woman. To his mind, the cold waters of the River Volga had swallowed yet another victim.

  Leesburg, U.S.A. – 18:40 Local Time; 22:40 UTC

  Charlotte was delighted with Leesburg’s Jackson Inn, initially worried in case it would be something for Anderson to whinge about: not whinge exactly – he was more the silent-look type. Set in attractive grounds, the Inn was an ideal base for the Shenandoah Valley and the nearby historic sites, yet Washington was a mere thirty miles to the south-east; equally important, downtown Leesburg was no more than a few minutes’ walk away.

  Anderson had been impressed enough to comment favourably on their room, each one named after a Southern General, Virginia’s links to the Civil War leaping out with every brief glimpse at the map. Overall, it was an encouraging start to their trip and even the flight from Heathrow had gone smoothly, with Anderson’s assortment of electronic paraphernalia exciting no more than polite interest from the U.S. customs. Tomorrow it was Washington for them both – Anderson to seek his fortune with The Washington Post; Charlotte to do the more usual touristy things, starting with the Smithsonian.

  First, however, it was dinner and an early night. Whether Halloween was the best time to experience Leesburg’s restaurants and bars was debatable, especially as the Jackson Inn apparently had its own resident ghost, but Charlotte was well-prepared for dealing with youngsters demanding treats – after all she lived part-time with Anderson.

  As they walked hand-in-hand towards the town centre, past the ghouls, skeletons and witches, Charlotte was left wondering whether it might not be better to stay in ignorance of the world’s many problems – if the president of the most powerful country in the world seemed powerless to make a difference, what could she actually do to change anything?