The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (40 page)

Final checks
complete, Markova deigned to explain to Anderson his part in their
enterprise, it assumed his knowledge of Erdenheim would help in the
continuing search to identify more of the Rebane’s associates, even
Yuri. It was to be a team effort, led by Markova, aided by
Anderson, with each of Markova’s three associates linked to a
network of helpers – their exact number and whereabouts left open
to conjecture. Not quite Erdenheim, but close enough.

Official
resources, such as the FSB’s intelligence database and Interpol,
were available at the touch of a button, but not for some reason
Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service or its military affiliate. If
required, certain other data sources could be accessed, although
there were limitations – details as yet unspecified.

Markova made
no attempt to hide the fact that their undertaking was covert in
nature, but quite why the need for such secrecy and why the Senate
rather than the Lubyanka were not matters Anderson chose to dwell
on, putting them down to normal Russian paranoia. Anderson just
hoped he could be of some use, ignoring the fear that he was
actually colluding with the enemy – his twenty years for treason
could wait until he’d finished his ten years in the Siberian
gulag.

Markova
initially focused on Anderson’s own computer files, his Erdenheim
folder simply downloaded from the cloud. The FSB’s
facial-recognition software took just seconds to analyse all of the
relevant photos, with only the images from the helicopter flight
producing probable hits, four more Americans – three working in
counter-terrorism, one a software designer – added to the list of
Rebane’s associates.

Markova duly
kept Anderson apprised as to progress. For the time being there
were no national security issues, the results merely reinforcing
Anderson’s own research. Without any photographic links to Yuri,
the FSB was left with little choice but to rely on Anderson’s
dubious brand of assumptions and guesswork, it still not absolutely
certain that Lara really was Klaudia Woroniecki.

Markova spoke
briefly in Russian to the young man next to her; moments later she
twisted her laptop around to allow Anderson to view the screen.

“Flight
details,” she reported nonchalantly, “for the helicopter company
used by Erdenheim, filtered by trips to Graythorp. Fourteen in
total; no passenger names, just how many. The last trip was
Wednesday, May 19th; the one before that was Friday, May 14th,
which would be the one you photographed.”

Anderson was
suitably impressed, although he assumed the database hadn’t just
that moment been hacked. His gaze settled on a different entry, the
date a good match to the possible arrival of McDowell’s two
drinking companions.

Markova
appeared to have read his thoughts, “Two passengers picked up from
Heathrow, Sunday April 25th, 13:30; return flight from Erdenheim to
Heathrow, Wednesday April 28th, 10:00.”

Whilst they
now had some idea as to when Yuri and Lara might have arrived at
Heathrow, only the airlines’ own reservation systems could supply
more specific answers. Anderson realised he probably knew more than
most about the intricacies of the booking process. The flow of data
between airlines, travel agents and other agencies was a complex
interplay between different systems, coordinated by several global
distribution companies. Each booking resulted in a unique passenger
name record (PNR), and although fears about unauthorised use – or
even over-use by government agencies – had resulted in restrictions
as to what information a PNR held and for how long, it still
included all relevant booking and passport information. A PNR
wasn’t erased even if a booking was cancelled. A list of PNRs would
thus be a good starting point for any search, although futile
without the matching passport photo.

Markova was
still one step ahead of Anderson. “We can access the passenger name
records for airlines operating out of Heathrow, but the more
records we hack the greater the chance of being detected; the
intrusion systems will then immediately send out a global alert. We
would need to synchronise any attempts and restrict the search to
specific carriers or agencies. With our present resources, that
means no more than three.” Markova broke off to check something
else, “Apparently, there is a booking profile for those terrorists
entering Russia by plane.”

A questioning
look from Anderson and she read out the key facts, “Bookings always
made online using a credit card, no more than three days in
advance; single seat booking; never first-class, usually
business-class rather than economy; airline invariably a flag
carrier, primarily Finnair, Lufthansa, and LOT; never
Aeroflot.”

Anderson
nodded his understanding, unsure how much faith to put in any such
analysis. “The terrorists you’ve caught,” he asked thoughtfully,
“did they all have genuine digital passports?”

Markova
nodded, “Names and other details were false but they corresponded
to the passports’ biometric data; none were stolen.”

“And all EU or
Russian?”

“The majority,
but not all.” Markova was quick to grasp what Anderson was
suggesting. “You want to use the passport details from the PNRs to
access the corresponding passport photographs? If the passport is
genuine with the record stored in a national passport centre, then
that should be possible, even if the names are false. But that
could involve dozens of passport centres.”

Anderson
wasn’t quite so pessimistic, “Hopefully we can filter the
possibilities down to just a handful.”

Markova chose
to consult further, eventually nodding in agreement. “Again, we
would need to limit any such search to just three national passport
databases. Accessing them could prove difficult…”

Despite
Markova’s caution, Anderson was starting to sense nothing was
beyond the FSB once it got its teeth into a problem. Their first
task was to produce a target list of airlines, reducing the
hundreds of flights arriving at Heathrow on the morning of April
25th, and those departing on the afternoon of the 28th, to more
manageable proportions.

Anderson had
become blasé about such tactics, willing to cut a generous swathe
through the various possibilities. Markova was rather more
judicious, their final compromise eliminating those flight arrivals
without a corresponding return departure, plus flights arriving at
Heathrow from west of Brussels, east of Moscow, or south of
Milan.

Anderson
waited patiently, making good use of the contents of the mini-bar
as an alternative to the regularly proffered tea. On Markova’s
laptop, the flights’ spreadsheet flickered erratically as rows were
deleted, until just over a hundred remained – still far more than
Anderson would have liked. And still far too many airlines, even if
they just picked out the flag carriers. And was it even safe to
assume that the terrorists would always ignore Russia’s Aeroflot?
Anderson had asked if Aeroflot could be added as an extra to the
choice of three airlines, but apparently not; it was the same with
the passport data, Russia’s data centre having to count as one of
the magic three.

Anderson knew
they were already restricting the search far too rigidly, but under
the present limitations there seemed little choice. He studied the
list of flights, worrying that the more popular airlines might not
necessarily be the right ones to check.

Markova was
first to speak, “BA and Lufthansa, plus one other? Finnair?”

“The Polish
Airline, LOT,” Anderson said positively.

Markova
shrugged but didn’t disagree. A quick consultation with her
colleagues, and then their computer skills were finally put to a
more stringent test, the booking databases hacked for passenger
name records covering the relevant arrivals and corresponding
departures. Anderson hoped he wasn’t expecting the impossible: even
if they could have checked every return flight, Yuri or Lara might
simply have chosen a different way home, such as flying indirect
via somewhere like Spain or the more convoluted option of
Eurostar.

The minutes dragged by, Anderson’s hopes resting on a virtual
tug of war between the FSB and the airlines. One of
August 14
’s most potent
weapons was being turned against it, the hacking skills of
Markova’s team hopefully comparable to Jonathan
Carter’s.

A meal of cold
meat, boiled potatoes, eggs and salad eventually arrived, together
with tea and coffee. Despite the half-empty mini-bar Anderson
tucked in, not quite knowing when or where his next meal might
be.

It took the
team just over an hour to complete the Heathrow task. The lists
were then compared, matching names extracted, the PNR used to
filter out anyone who didn’t book online less than four days in
advance and pay by credit card.

“Still over
eighty matches,” Markova announced. “Mostly British, Dutch and
German.” She kept tapping away, talking as she did so, “Ignoring
the cancellations and no-shows, there are eighteen men of the right
age; ten women; twelve different nationalities. Taking out economy
class would help.”

Anderson
nodded his agreement, despite worrying that they were already well
over-loaded on assumptions.

The updated
listing appeared on Markova’s laptop: five men, three women; six
nationalities.

Anderson felt
they were getting somewhere, although Markova’s body language
suggested she was far from convinced. It was still too many
nationalities for a passport check, and they went through the whole
process a second time, looking to find a logical way to reduce the
numbers still further.

The number of
possibilities remained fixed at eight...

Anderson
decided it was time for a leap of faith. “The man’s native language
is either Russian or Polish; so forget the British, Dutch and Czech
options. That would leave us with Polish or Ukrainian. Again,
ignore the Dutch woman and we have German or Polish. We could check
the national passport centres for Germany, Poland and the Ukraine,
and pray we’ve got it right. It’s either that or nothing.”

Markova
frowned, trying not to let Anderson’s cavalier approach rush her
into making a decision. “It seems reasonable,” she said finally.
“And, as you say, we have nothing else.”

Again it was
sit and wait. Even with a passport photo, there was still no
guarantee the FSB’s facial-recognition software would come up with
a suitable match. Anderson tried to remain positive, wandering
around the office, peering at every picture for what seemed the
hundredth time, before sitting down once more to think about what
tomorrow might bring – at least it would be summer in Siberia.

Markova
suddenly leant back in her chair to give Anderson a winning smile,
“Klaudia Woroniecki flew with Lufthansa from Hamburg under the name
of Lena Brandt, returning the same way; German rather than Polish
passport.”

Anderson was
pleased but hardly ecstatic – it was an awful lot of effort to
prove something Charlotte had suggested a week ago.

Markova glanced
down again at the screen, eyes confused.

Eventually
Anderson was forced into asking the obvious, “You have the
man?”

“It would seem
so. Maxim Demanov; Ukrainian passport; age 42; flew with Lufthansa
from Kiev.”

Anderson
persisted, “I presume that’s not his real name?”

Markova stood
up, snapping the laptop shut, face revealing nothing. Ignoring
Anderson, she keyed the radio microphone attached to her lapel,
speaking briefly, before rapping out new orders to her three
associates.

Anderson sat
in confusion, watching silently as the others began to pack up
their equipment. He instantly reverted to feeling insecure, not
knowing what new secret had been revealed, Markova’s apparent
irritation suggesting it wasn’t good news.

Abruptly the
office door was opened, two more uniformed figures entering to
stand behind Markova.

“Gennadi and
Nikolai will take care of you,” Markova said dismissively. She
gestured at the taller of the two men, “Nikolai spent two years in
the United States, so you’ll find his English is acceptable if a
little rusty. Thank you, Mr Anderson, for all your help.” A final
word of command, then she strode out of the office, closing the
door firmly behind her.

Anderson
looked from one large Russian soldier to the other, heart sinking,
thoughts racing through a half-dozen differing interpretations of
‘will take care of you’.

* * *

The evening
meeting of the Committee had been moved from the formal
extravagance of the Security Council Meeting Hall to a room on the
top floor of the Senate Building, the new venue offering a more
relaxed and intimate environment. The fact that the room was also
the Kremlin office of the President of the Russian Federation was
merely a convenience – or so Valentin had insisted.

A few metres
from the imposing central desk, running alongside two of the three
windows, was a table with just enough space for seven chairs.
Grebeshkov sat next to General Morozov, listening intently as Irina
Golubeva detailed the latest status reports concerning the various
internal threats.

Despite
Grebeshkov’s earlier doubts, Golubeva had been a revelation,
someone able to produce resources seemingly from nowhere to shore
up Russia’s drive against the separatists. She had also been
supportive of Grebeshkov’s raft of suggested second-tier
appointments, Grebeshkov determined to bring in like-minded
associates able to drive Russia forward, corruption-free, strong
and vibrant. Their present form of government might not be as
equitable as Western-style democracy, but to his mind it was one
better-suited to Russia’s needs.

Valentin
appeared to share Grebeshkov’s hopes for a better Russia, the
younger man’s influence on the Committee far greater than
Grebeshkov had expected. It was only now that Grebeshkov sensed the
naked ambition driving Valentin forward. There was a hard edge to
his every statement that made others pay attention, and Grebeshkov
was seeing a very different side to the man who had seemed to be
everyone’s friend and confidante. It was clear that it was Valentin
who had schemed and manipulated, Golubeva working all along under
his direction, the two of them taking full advantage of a weak
government.