The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (25 page)

Or, of course,
Anderson could just prefer Matt Damon to Leonardo DiCaprio, and
particularly enjoy spy thrillers and historical epics...

* * *

Rebane glanced
at McDowell as though wanting his opinion, unsure whether he was
missing something.

“Play it back
from the beginning,” McDowell said, eyes watching Anderson.

A nervous Anderson sat and listened to the recording,
thankful now he hadn’t thrown in
The
Aviator
or the more blatant
Citizen Kane
as a
suggestion – between them, Rebane and McDowell were smart enough to
work out he was telling Charlotte to go to the papers. But were
they smart enough to work out Charlotte’s use of
The Departed
? Despite
being pre-warned by Charlotte’s text referring to herself as
Lottie, even Anderson had momentarily been confused.
The Last of the Mohicans
would help to muddy the waters, and it was amazing how
quickly his brain had seized up when trying to think of some clever
film title that would guide Charlotte as to what to do
next.

The recording ended and Rebane sat studying Anderson
thoughtfully. “
The Last of the
Mohicans
– why that film?” he asked
quietly.

“It’s a good
film; Charlotte wanted a title and that’s all I could think of on
the spur of the moment.”

Rebane gave a
nod of understanding, “I appreciate your co-operation, Mr Anderson,
long may it continue.”

“It’s still not necessary to involve Charlotte,” Anderson
said, “She knows nothing that could threaten
August 14
.” Despite Rebane implying
she would be safe in Poland, Anderson was unconvinced by anything
Rebane said. He was assuming Charlotte wasn’t being serious about
Warsaw but he couldn’t be certain, and he was terrified any plane
journey would turn out to be a one-way trip.

“She’s already
involved up to her pretty neck.” Rebane responded sharply. “And
there’s too much at stake to risk simply ignoring her.” He gestured
crossly at McDowell, “Take him back, Pat; Mr Anderson is beginning
to test my patience.”

McDowell
escorted Anderson back to his room in the accommodation block. The
rear-facing room was rather lacking in its dual role as a cell,
despite the locked door and window; hence the addition of a camera
high up in one corner and the handcuffing of Anderson to a metal
fitment on the wall. The bed had been moved so Anderson could lie
down with some degree of comfort, but his right wrist was already
scraped and bruised. He had worked out several possible ways to
wrench the handcuff free, but the vigilant eye of the camera was an
appropriate deterrent – that and the warning from McDowell. It
wasn’t the words themselves that worried Anderson, or even the tone
in which they were said; it was the way McDowell smiled – like a
snake marking out its next victim.

Events were
starting to have a horrible inevitability, and despite Rebane’s
promises Anderson assumed the latest plan was for him to suffer
some accident, possibly in Poland. Until then, Anderson had a TV to
watch and butler service for food, drinks and toilet break. The
hours invariably dragged by, self-reproach as to his many
misjudgements a constant companion; Rebane’s confirmation that
George Saunders had indeed been murdered was still a shock,
Anderson’s instincts proving to be far superior to his common
sense.

He couldn’t be
sure how much Charlotte knew, or had been able to guess, but Rebane
seemed very wary of leaving Charlotte to her own devices, and her
film references showed she was obviously up to something. Anderson
just hoped she didn’t try anything too outrageous and she was
sensible enough to pick Devereau as her first point of contact.

Rebane had done a good job of convincing Anderson as
to
August 14’
s
reach, but with Anderson now having had plenty of time to brood and
mope, Rebane’s comment about Devereau being warned off simply
didn’t ring true. Devereau wasn’t the type to appreciate being
ordered around and it was just one example of where Rebane might
simply be exaggerating for effect. If not, then things could hardly
get any worse.

* * *

Charlotte
prevaricated as to the wisdom of driving to Anderson’s rented
cottage then decided to chance it, using the fact that the agency
had a spare key as some sort of omen. She drove the long way round,
looking out for a tail, but trying not to make it obvious she was
being careful. Thankfully, all seemed normal.

With the
cottage empty, she again felt like she was snooping – which of
course she was, but in a good way. She stayed less than ten
minutes, any lingering doubts that Anderson was in control of his
own destiny finally erased. Anderson might go to Warsaw without
certain clothes, shoes, or aftershave, but he most certainly
wouldn’t forget his favourite camera.

The nurse cast
a despairing look at her erstwhile patient then strode haughtily
from the room: if Grebeshkov wanted to run the risk of an infection
and thus kill himself, then that was his problem, not hers. As a
result the General’s transfer from bed to wheelchair was made with
the inexpert assistance of two bodyguards. It was then only a short
journey to the main elevators, before a final transit along the
wide passageway to the hospital’s side entrance. Outside, a
three-car convoy waited impatiently with engines running.

There was a
slight delay as Grebeshkov struggled to manoeuvre his way onto the
back seat of the black limousine, then the convoy accelerated away,
heading west. The lead car used its siren in an attempt to clear
the road ahead, its task made more difficult by traffic-clogged
roads and frustrated drivers, the convoy stop-starting its way
towards Barvikha and the government dachas. Grebeshkov would have
preferred to have returned home, but with the doctors predicting a
recovery time of two to three weeks, the President had been
insistent, and four days enforced recuperation at Barvikha was the
very least he would accept – in the present climate, the Kremlin or
even the Lubyanka was no place for an invalid.

Grebeshkov had
been shot twice, the first bullet striking him in his side in line
with his heart, the second passing though his right thigh. The body
armour had stopped the first bullet, although its kinetic energy
still had the potential to kill: known as behind-armour blunt
trauma, a cone-shaped layer of compressed body armour and clothing
was often driven into the soft tissue, creating a surface injury
that at first glance looked similar to a gunshot wound. The
resultant shock-wave could on occasion cause more serious injuries
depending upon where the bullet struck; in extreme cases, such as
when the pulmonary artery was lacerated, the energy transfer itself
was the cause of death. Fortunately for Grebeshkov, internal damage
was restricted to a single fractured rib. The second bullet had
missed both the femur and the femoral artery, and although there
was some soft tissue damage plus bruising to the bone, the
recommended treatment was nothing more than bed rest and a mix of
anti-inflammatories and antibiotics.

Of dubious
consolation was the fact that Eglitis and his associate had both
been killed, representing belated justice for two more perpetrators
of the Metro bombings. That left just one man, a sixty-year old
Polish man named Bagiński, as the sole survivor from Eglitis’
original four cells.

Just for an
instant, Grebeshkov almost felt sorry for Bagiński: everyone
involved was fighting for a cause they truly believed in, and under
different circumstances Grebeshkov might be the one pushed to
extremes while trying to achieve the impossible. The only real
difference between them was their motivation, each of them doing
what they thought was right.

In the hours
since the assassination attempt, Grebeshkov had worked hard to stay
in touch with events both in Moscow and the Baltic. Eglitis’
personal effects had led in turn to his hideout, a large
three-storey house east of the city centre, although the subsequent
search had produced little of interest other than the usual clutch
of cell phones.

With Eglitis’ death it had been hoped the threat from
August 14
would
decrease; however, since early that morning there had been an
upsurge of terrorist attacks against government facilities – not
bombs or bullets, but renewed cyber-espionage. The victims ranged
from the old favourites of transportation, communications and the
electric power grid, to the previously untouched targets of water
supplies and hospital services, even the stock market. Life for the
people of Moscow had moved on from the intolerable to the
impossible, with disruption to every aspect of their daily
existence.

August 14
’s tactics were working to
good effect, with even the most placid of Muscovites becoming
frustrated and angry as they watched the city crumble around them.
Industrial action was spreading, a strike by immigrant workers
protesting against the government’s crackdown on its East European
workforce exacerbated when Russian workers also took to the
streets, demanding an even tougher stance against
August 14
and its
Western masters. Combined with those employees who couldn’t
actually get to work, Moscow was effectively in the grip of a
general strike.

With respect
to the Baltic, a short-term compromise had finally been agreed in
order to allow time for a more permanent solution to be found. NATO
would halt reinforcements heading to the Baltic, while Poland would
allow a joint American-Russian mission access to the training
centre near Gdansk and to its twenty occupants, all of whom were
now being held at a military facility in Gdynia. In return, Russia
would permit vessels – other than those heading for Gdansk’s three
fuel terminals – to enter port. That process had already started –
but with merchant ships having first to be inspected and then only
allowed to follow a very specific route, entry to Gdansk and Gdynia
was proving to be fairly tedious. In effect, Russia was imposing a
shipping-based quota system. Finally, for mutual protection amid
the fear of some tragic mistake, a new no-fly zone had been
established, covering the Baltic for one hundred kilometres north
and east of Gdansk, with Gdansk Lech Walesa Airport and the
military airport at Gdynia temporarily closed to all flights.

To Grebeshkov
it looked to be more of a Russian concession than an equitable
compromise, yet it was still far better than having warships
throwing missiles at each other. Reaction on Moscow’s streets was
universally negative, Russia’s right-wing media similarly unwilling
to accept anything other than total victory – whatever that might
mean. Grebeshkov’s own fears centred on a military coup, and he
wondered whether to re-assign Markova to her earlier task. He
quickly realised it was too late for that, and in any case his
temporary home would hardly be the best place to counter Golubeva’s
schemes.

Even with
generous use of the siren, the thirty kilometre journey to the
dacha took well over an hour, Grebeshkov’s eventual transfer into
bed made easier by the presence of both his wife and a nurse.
Although not quite as sumptuous as some of the government’s many
country houses, Grebeshkov had been allocated a dacha of two
stories and a range of modern amenities. Surrounded on all sides by
a forest of pine, the dacha’s faded wooden boards and antique
furniture gave it a traditional feel, its many rooms and sombre
decor offering an environment of tranquillity, a place to relax and
forget the troubles of the world.

However, relaxation was not high on Grebeshkov’s list of
priorities. Within an hour, the first report arrived from the
Lubyanka, Grebeshkov reading through the details with a frown of
concentration. He had instructed an FSB team to review recent
strikes and unrest to see if there was a pattern, and their initial
findings left little room for doubt, duly confirming Grebeshkov’s
worst fears. The team concluded that while many strikes were
obviously spontaneous, others revealed a more organised approach,
fermented by activists working in concert. It was even suggested
that this too was a deliberate act by
August 14
, the terrorists’ bombs
replaced by rhetoric.

Three such activists had been identified, their recent
movements checked. It quickly became clear
August 14’
s base in Poland provided
a very different but equally effective form of training compared to
Lithuania, one based on creating turmoil and disorder without the
need for explosives, or even a single death. Such activists could
well have been spreading their poisonous message for months,
twisting the attacks on Moscow’s streets to their own advantage,
continually emphasising the weakness of the Government while
pushing home the need for change.

A second difference with Lithuania was that none of the three
agitators were from Eastern Europe: two were born in the Russian
Republic of Komi, the third in the Republic of North Ossetia. The
strategy seemed clear: first the bombs to create an environment of
mistrust and fear, then the provocateurs to rip Russia apart. And
the President’s actions in the Baltic had obligingly pushed Russia
to the very edge, NATO conveniently acting as
August 14’
s unknowing allies. Or
perhaps some in NATO weren’t quite so innocent, with Poland’s exact
role still open to question.

Grebeshkov
thrust the report aside and turned on the TV for the latest on
Moscow’s pain. He was met with a scene of chaos, angry protestors
battering at metal railings with stone and concrete, while others
fought with a cordon of riot police. The camera panned back, and
Grebeshkov recognised the flattened grey modernist slab that was
the Polish Embassy. The police were vastly outnumbered and as
Grebeshkov watched, a set of railings split, opening up enough to
let a group of protestors into the embassy grounds.