The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (30 page)

It was another
twenty minutes before Golubeva took her leave, escorted out by
Markova. The latter returned to stand a respectful distance from
Grebeshkov’s chair, politely waiting for him to speak.

“Captain
Markova,” Grebeshkov said. “Welcome to the countryside. I am
curious to know what Golubeva told you.”

“Very little,
Sir. I received new orders about three hours ago: gather a team of
twelve and escort Golubeva’s car here; then assume responsibility
for your personal security.” Markova gave a broad smile, “The
orders were countersigned by the President himself. It seems he is
very concerned as to your safety, Sir.”

“That’s what’s
worrying me, Captain. Perhaps I have more enemies that even I
suspected...”

Charlotte woke from an exhausted sleep to hear the steady
throb of the ship’s engine. Her watch told her it was less than
three hours since they’d boarded, although lack of sleep made it
feel like it was actually much later. The indoor cabin was slightly
disorienting, but she sensed the
Princess
Eloise
was moving at a good speed, so it
was likely they were already well out into the North
Sea.

Minutes later,
there was the rattle of a key in the door. In the other bed,
Anderson jerked awake, pushing himself upright.

A uniformed
figure entered, the man looking to be at least as tall as Anderson,
mid-forties, his black beard speckled with silver.

“Captain
Koval?” Anderson asked, the exhaustion sounding in his voice.

“That’s
correct. No more names, please; it’s better not to know.”

“Fair enough,”
Anderson said without enthusiasm. “Anything to protect the
guilty.”

Charlotte
would have kicked him if he’d been closer and fully fit. “We
understand, Captain,” she said, keen not to antagonise their
jailor.

“Your anger is
quite understandable,” Koval said pleasantly. “And I genuinely
regret that we have to meet under such circumstances. I would still
hope that we can treat each other with civility.”

“Of course,
Captain,” Charlotte said, forcing a smile. If being polite was the
worst she had to put up with, then that was fine.

Koval
continued, “Obviously, you are not exactly guests, but I will try
to make your time here as comfortable as possible. You’ll find
plenty of choice on the television – all the usual satellite
channels. We can also supply you with books, DVDs, and a wide range
of music. If you are short of clothes or other essentials, then we
can help out there as well. Please just ask.”

“Thank you,
Captain,” said Charlotte. “That’s very much appreciated.”

“The
Princess Eloise
is a delightful vessel,” Koval said, with a hint
of pride, “and I trust you will have a pleasant voyage. I’m afraid
I must lock you in your cabin at night and when we go through the
Kiel Canal, but I will try to ensure you can spend some time each
day either on the bridge or in our small gym. During such periods
you will need to be escorted by a member of the crew. Please do not
attempt to persuade them to help you in any way. Whilst your
arrival in Gdansk is to be preferred, it is apparently not
essential, and I would rather not have to do anything
unpleasant.”

“As would we,”
Charlotte said quickly, before Anderson could speak. “Although, if
you were to pretend we got lost somewhere, I’m sure we could make
it financially worthwhile for all of you. Just one phone call would
be all it would take.” She felt it was worth a try, although she
hadn’t a clue as to whom she would call.

Koval smiled
broadly, and under different circumstances Charlotte felt she could
have got on well with him. “Even if I believed you,” he said,
“there are certain things in life that override such concerns as
money. It might be sad to say this, but seeing Russia suffer brings
a warm glow. If I can ensure Russia’s pain continues by
transporting the two of you to Gdansk, then that is no less than my
duty.”

“We get the
message, Captain,” Anderson said without emotion.

“But,” Koval continued, “let’s not concern ourselves with
such matters. The weather is glorious, your cabin comfortable I
think; if there is anything you need, please do let me know. And
perhaps in an hour or so, I can give you a tour of the
Princess Eloise
.”

Charlotte
again was quick to respond, “Thank you, Captain; there is one
thing. Do you have someone who could look at my friend; I’m worried
he might have fractured a rib?”

“No doctor,
I’m afraid; there are only seven of us. But I will see what I can
do...”

True to his
word, Koval returned in just over an hour. First on his agenda was
Anderson, the Captain checking his chest and back, nodding now and
again as though to convince them he knew what he was doing.
Eventually, he declared that Anderson was just badly bruised,
prescribing ice, ibuprofen, and deep breaths.

Their tour of
Princess Eloise
was next, the Captain proving to be a charming
host. Even if it was only for a short while, he seemed determined
to distract them from thinking of what the following week might
bring. Charlotte almost convinced herself Koval’s helpfulness could
eventually be turned to their advantage, then she looked again at
his cool blue eyes and appreciated how false her hope was. At heart
Koval was just another McDowell, albeit one who smiled often and
was far more charming.

The
Princess Eloise
was a Dutch-built multi-purpose freighter,
registered in St Vincent and the Grenadines under a flag of
convenience: ten years old; ninety metres long; gross tonnage just
shy of three thousand tonnes. Her Boston cargo had been animal
feed, and she generally voyaged between the UK and the Baltic
carrying grain, animal feed, phosphates and wood products. Captain
Koval was keen to recount the minutiae of the ship’s finer points,
and even though Charlotte listened attentively there didn’t seem
that one extra-special fact which would somehow help them to
escape. To make use of a lifeboat or liferaft, they would have to
disable their escort, plus whoever was on the Bridge, then launch
their chosen option and hope no-one noticed.

With an awful
lot of luck it might be possible, but Charlotte was far from
convinced. Sadly, there didn’t seem to be a plan B.

To the TV crew
stationed by chance in Lubyanka Square it had all the elements of a
flash mob, although more properly it was referred to as a smart mob
– the intelligent coordination of people through instant messaging.
From all directions an organised tide of protestors swept into the
square; while many held placards condemning the State of Emergency,
other banners were more personal, attacking the President and
accusing him of corruption and incompetence. A good proportion of
the activists were non-Russians, emerging onto the streets to show
their anger and frustration at the Government’s draconian policies.
The security forces were slow to respond, and in any case were
unsure as to where the crowd might head next – the Lubyanka itself
seemed not to be the target.

Belatedly, the authorities followed
August 14’
s lead and blocked the
cell phone services. Even as the police moved to cordon off
Lubyanka square, thousands of protestors headed from there west
towards Theatre Square, where another vociferous crowd was
gathering. The newcomers were similarly responding to messages on
various social networks; however, their anger was targeted
elsewhere, their support for the President shown by the wearing of
something red, representing allegiance to the concept of ‘One
Russia’.

Both gatherings
were in direct conflict with the new laws, and with just two hours
remaining before the start of the curfew, even that was likely to
be ignored, thousands still heading towards an inevitable
confrontation at the very heart of Moscow.

The two
opposing groups met near to the Bolshoi, bricks, fireworks and
petrol bombs from both sides showing their intent. The police
communications network was itself under attack and the officers in
the area were far too few in number to do anything but watch. Yet
more protestors swarmed in from the surrounding areas to boost both
sides, arming themselves with anything that came to hand. Missiles
bombarded the two front lines; at least a dozen vehicles were set
alight, some used as flaming battering rams.

As police
reinforcements finally started to move in from the south, water
cannon and tear gas were used to separate the two sides. Slowly the
protestors were driven apart, the fumes from the tear gas drifting
lazily in the breeze to cover much of the square. Some protestors
refused to go quietly, kicking or simply flinging the smoking
canisters back towards the police lines, a scarf or forearm their
only protection against the searing anguish of the tear-gas.

The situation
was gradually being brought under control when shots from a
building on the western edge of the square reignited the tumult,
both police and protestors hit. The gunfire drew an instant
response from the east, shots fired from several sources. A police
helicopter was itself targeted, and as the number of injured
increased, many of the protestors sought sanctuary wherever they
could. The buildings surrounding the square, even the Bolshoi
Theatre, were attacked, doors and windows smashed open so as to
force a way inside – anything to escape the gunfire scything
through the protestors from east and west. Those who tried to flee
down the side streets were handicapped by the crowd’s sheer numbers
and new fighting erupted as people became desperate, driven on by
the screams of those they had left behind.

The rattle of
gunfire intensified, automatic weapons now sounding out from all
corners of the square. Theatre Square became a shooting range, with
several thousand terrified panic-stricken targets. Outside the
Bolshoi, a live TV feed revealed the continuing turmoil as
protestors cowered beside the theatre’s stone columns, or crouched
down behind fountains and abandoned vehicles. In the centre of the
square a score of bloodied figures lay unmoving, a brave few trying
to help them or drag them to safety.

In a totally
separate but apparently coordinated attack, a swarm of protestors
fought their way into the national television centre at Ostankino,
the small police guard overwhelmed by the ferocity and number of
their attackers. Some two dozen TV stations went off air. As if in
response, the police’s tactics immediately changed and they
abandoned their futile attempt to bring order through restraint. A
well-armed anti-terrorist squad retook the television centre after
less than thirty minutes, while in Theatre Square the security
force’s own guns were now added to those of Government opponents
and supporters. For another hour the square echoed to the sound of
automatic fire, until increased numbers and armoured police
vehicles finally managed to clear the streets.

Initial police
estimates put the number of deaths at fifty-three – including
twelve police – with some five hundred injured. The news reports
were less optimistic, with most independent sources more than
doubling the number of casualties.

By eleven in
the evening, some two hours after the official start of the curfew,
Moscow finally settled down for a worried night’s sleep, the
security forces determined to keep the streets clear, whatever it
took.

The humpbacked
silhouette slipped gently under the waves, foam boiling briefly
around the submarine as the air swept up out of the ballast tanks.
Despite the occasional gentle groan of protest from the hull, there
was no sign of apprehension on the faces in the control room:
familiarity had helped the crew overcome their initial fears and
now they treated such sounds, if not with contempt, then with scant
respect.

For Valeri Karenin, the
Gepard’
s captain, the condensed
environment aboard the submarine was little different to his
cramped apartment in St. Petersburg, and at least the
Gepard’
s well-ordered
world was immune to the trivia and irrelevance of city life. Anna
had never understood why her husband was willing to give up so
much, and she hated the weeks apart, having to take sole
responsibility for every decision while learning how to be both
mother and father to Mikhail and little Daria. The
Gepard’
s isolation had
begun to represent more than just a physical barrier between them,
and each separation merely widened the cracks in an already rocky
marriage.

Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, much of Russia’s navy
had been left to rot. The
Gepard
had been relatively lucky, not scrapped or sold,
the boat’s commissioning merely delayed, eventually joining the
Northern Fleet in 2001. Known by NATO as an
Akula
(shark) fast-attack submarine,
NATO’s name had far more charisma than Russia’s choice of
Schuka-B
, or pike,
despite the latter’s aggressive tendencies. The submarine was now
rather past its prime but given a second life with the Baltic
Fleet, the Baltic Sea a familiar haven from the
Gepard
’s original sea trials.
Nuclear-powered, double hull, anechoic coating and advanced noise
reduction – like its namesake the cheetah, the
Gepard
was still well able to match
speed and stealth with aggression when needed. Armed with
multi-purpose torpedoes, missiles and mines, Karenin truly believed
the
Gepard
remained a potent hunter-killer, and only slightly inferior
to the latest American
Virginia
-class and British
Astute
-class attack
submarines.