The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (42 page)

The long,
narrow hallway outside was empty. Gennadi led the way, Nikolai
walking half-backwards behind Anderson, both Russians with guns in
hand and very wary of what lay ahead. Anderson too felt his nerves
on edge, not knowing who or what they had to fear. Every few yards
they passed another numbered door, a dozen or more already. Despite
the ceiling lights and the gentle evening glow filtering through
the windows to their right, the corridor still exuded a sense of
gloom, Anderson having to suppress an unexpected shiver which ran
across his shoulders.

Suddenly,
there was the sound of gunfire, not close but definitely coming
from somewhere within the Senate building. It grew rapidly in
intensity before a strained silence returned. Neither of the two
Russians made any comment, walking steadily along the corridor,
Anderson growing ever more nervous.

The hallway
turned sharply right. Gennadi disappeared from view, then
immediately stepped back, speaking briefly to his colleague.

Nikolai
grabbed Anderson’s arm and gestured back the way they had come.
“Change of plan. There’s more stairs at the far end; wait for us
there. Give it fifteen minutes and then you’re on your own.” He
pinched the insignia on the arm of his uniform, “Blue good, red not
so good.”

Anderson
nodded his understanding, thinking if he got close enough to study
the badge colour on someone’s sleeve then it was probably a bit
late to do much about it. Within seconds of starting to retrace his
steps, there was the double crack from Gennadi’s handgun, followed
instantly by the rapid chatter of automatic weapons.

Anderson sped
up, jogging past the original starting point, the sustained gunfire
from behind hurrying him on, the jog becoming a run. The hallway
took him past another long line of office doors and he desperately
looked for some guide as to where exactly might lie some stairs.
Short side corridors projected off at regular intervals but
invariably led only to another numbered office. There was no sign
of anyone else, most of those still in the Senate wisely deciding
it was best to keep a low profile.

Anderson kept
moving, adrenalin adding a nervous edge to his unease. He was
totally confused as to what was happening and it was bad enough
worrying about being able to distinguish friend from foe, without
the added fear that the bad guys might actually shoot you.

Ahead to the
left was a double door, offering the hope of stairs beyond. As
Anderson strode forwards, two uniformed figures stepped through
from the stairway beyond and out into the hall, submachine guns
held double-handed. Even as they noticed Anderson, he instinctively
launched himself at the first man, no doubt in his mind they were
the enemy. The Russian was smashed back against his colleague, the
latter crashing upright against the door frame. An unwanted burst
from one of the SMG’s splattered the floor, then Anderson waded in
once more, wrenching the first man’s gun around and smashing the
butt against his chin. The man collapsed unconscious to the floor,
his colleague struggling to refocus with blood running down past
his right ear.

Anderson
grabbed at the second gun, his only wish to end the fight whatever
it took. Some out-of-body calculation argued that the two of them
were pretty evenly matched: the Russian was younger, fitter and far
more experienced, but Anderson weighed an extra twenty pounds, and
he was a good four inches taller. Desperation, surprise, anger,
wounds – old and new – each added an extra dimension to the
contest.

The force of
Anderson’s assault pushed the man back against the wall, the two of
them wrestling for the gun. Abruptly the Russian lost his footing,
and he dragged Anderson with him to the floor, the SMG twisting to
one side. The two of them fell heavily, Anderson on top, both hands
knocked from their grip on the gun. Instinctively, he clawed at the
Russian’s neck, thumbs and fingers locking around the man’s throat,
his legs and elbows squeezing tight, the gun sandwiched impotently
between them. The Russian abruptly let go of the weapon and reached
out to drag Anderson’s hands away, but their grip was already
secure; Anderson pressed his face to the floor, protecting it, the
Russian’s body threshing wildly as he struggled to free himself,
hands finally managing to grasp Anderson’s throat.

In a macabre
version of two lovers entwined, they fought out their personal
battle. Another distant part of Anderson’s mind analysed and
accepted the pain his body was going through, the warning messages
ignored – Anderson sensed victory and everything else was an
unwanted distraction. His strength was ebbing fast, yet he didn’t
relax, his body fighting against the black curtain closing over his
eyes, fighting to stay alive.

The Russian’s
body suddenly went limp. Anderson kept squeezing, fearful that it
was merely a ruse, and only gradually did he begin to relax.

Strong hands
pulled him free, Nikolai saying nothing but giving him a broad wink
as he dragged Anderson to his feet. Anderson stared down at his
motionless adversary, worried now that he killed him, and noticing
for the first time the red dagger insignia on the man’s sleeve.

Nikolai pushed
him through the door onto the landing and Anderson stood
unsteadily, trying to gather his senses, the muted crack of two
gunshots a warning as to the penalty for failure. Anderson found he
was shaking all over, angry at himself for getting involved in
someone else’s war.

Nikolai then
Gennadi joined him, the latter talking softly into his radio. A
brief check as to his new orders, then Gennadi spoke rapidly in
Russian to his colleague.

“The
Presidential Regiment are staying neutral,” Nikolai explained. “As
is General Morozov. His troops have cordoned off the Senate
Building while waiting to see who wins. It’s turned into a straight
fight between Grebeshkov and Valentin, Alpha versus the SVR’s
Zaslon.”

Anderson
didn’t fully understand but he got the gist. “So now what?” he
muttered warily.

“Grebeshkov’s
pinned down and needs our help. I suggest you keep out the way
until this is all over.”

A moment’s
indecision then Anderson slowly shook his head, “I somehow doubt
the other lot have my best interests at heart, and I think I’ll tag
along and see what happens… A gun would be useful.”

Nikolai sought a second opinion, Gennadi’s frown of concern
finally turning into a nod of agreement. Seconds later, the Russian
led the way up the stairs, both the
spetsnaz
now armed with SMGs;
Anderson nervously took up the rear, pistol in his right hand and
fully committed to playing his part, the irregular rattle of
gunfire not the most encouraging of signs.

There route
was more complex than a simple trek along half-lit corridors,
Gennadi doing what he could to avoid another confrontation.
Anderson seemed to have gained Nikolai’s respect and the Russian
detailed more of what was happening: Grebeshkov had taken refuge in
the Presidential Library, his bodyguards cut down from six to just
four. The SVR numbered around twelve and while Anderson wasn’t
enamoured by possible odds of almost two to one, it seemed a little
late to chicken out. In Russia’s new and better world, there were
no ballot papers or coloured balls to count, not even a simple show
of hands, just a bloody fight to the finish. It threatened to be a
modern version of an old-fashioned gunfight, with limited
ammunition and basic weapons of submachine gun and pistol, the
winner the side that took out the other’s leader.

It was several
minutes before Gennadi signalled a halt. The hallway ahead wasn’t
quite empty this time, three bodies resting untidily on the
patterned carpet, spaced out over some fifteen yards. The sound of
gunfire had been intermittent for some time; now there was only
silence.

Gennadi paused
beside the last body, focusing on elegant double doors further down
the hallway to his right, one door slightly open. A few whispered
words in his radio, then Gennadi spoke softly to Nikolai, motioning
Anderson to stay where he was. Gennadi crept forward, hugging the
right-hand wall; Nikolai matched him on the left, submachine gun
aimed at the narrow gap between the two doors.

Anderson
waited, not sure how he could help, but determined to do something
useful – preferably without getting himself killed. Nikolai
abruptly dropped to one knee to fire a rapid three-shot burst. The
reply was almost instantaneous, Nikolai and Gennadi firing back as
one, Anderson responding an instant later.

An ominous
silence returned. Nikolai sat slumped against the wall, face
distorted in pain, hand grasped to his left leg, blood oozing
between his fingers, a second dark stain spreading down the side of
his jacket. Gennadi quickly moved back into danger and Anderson
edged across to try and aid Nikolai, the Russian merely shaking his
head and gesturing at him to help Gennadi.

The right-hand
door was now half open, a bloodied figure sprawled across the
threshold. Gennadi stopped well short, body pressed tight against
the wall. Opposite him, Anderson crouched down, eyes desperately
searching the room beyond. A multitude of tall glass-fronted
bookcases lined the library walls, surrounding a central round
table; higher up there was some sort of semi-circular gallery or
mezzanine. A second body laid face-down away to Anderson’s right,
the bookcase alongside shredded, a veil of dust drifting lazily
through the still air.

A whispered
remark dragged Anderson’s attention back to Gennadi, the Russian
glancing up at the ceiling, left hand tugging at his uniform.
Anderson shook his head, confused, and a frustrated Gennadi looked
back towards Nikolai before pointing towards the mezzanine floor.
Anderson finally nodded his understanding, trusting that their
non-verbal communication had successfully crossed the language
barrier.

Gennadi
gestured again at Anderson, hand signals detailing their next move,
eyes daring him to disagree. Anderson thought he understood, the
cut-throat gesture leaving little doubt as to their ultimate aim:
basically charge in, Gennadi first, two bad guys to the right, the
two to the left Anderson’s responsibility, expect support from
above.

A brief word
into his radio, then with bloodied fingers Gennadi began counting
down from five...

Gennadi leapt
through the opening, Anderson following a brief second later and
almost tripping over its late protector; unbalanced, he managed to
fling himself at the base of the table, before twisting around to
spot his targets past table leg and chairs. He glimpsed sudden
movement beside a curve in the wall and fired without even taking
aim, desperate to cut the odds.

There was
gunfire all around, bullets smashing into the table, splinters
flying. Something tugged sharply at Anderson’s thigh, but he kept
his focus, shooting at a second half-hidden shape, praying that
Gennadi was doing his part.

Silence
settled over the library. Ahead of Anderson two uniformed figures
lay slumped against the mezzanine stairs, both all-too obviously
dead. His gaze swept around to the opposite side, the bloodied
scene repeated but now with three bodies, Gennadi lying prostate
and unmoving across the ornate wooden floor.

Anderson heard
footsteps from behind, and he wrenched himself around, pain lancing
through his thigh.

“Rest easy, Mr Anderson,” said a familiar voice, Markova
moving quickly to check the corridor outside. A second
spetsnaz
cautiously
checked for survivors, a sad shake of his head his only comment as
he knelt beside Gennadi.

Nikolai was
still alive but in bad way, blood marking his uniform from stomach
to knee. Markova was doing what she could to help but both knew he
would be left to take his chances, Nikolai’s survival not the
priority.

* * *

Grebeshkov
rested against the wall, wheelchair long since abandoned with
no-one spare to push it. They were just four now, including
Anderson, their future more one of hope than expectation. The
Presidential Library might have served them well as a temporary
refuge but Grebeshkov had grown tired of hiding and with the odds
now more evenly stacked, he was determined to take the fight to
Valentin.

Ahead was the
President’s office, a naïve arrogance convincing Grebeshkov that
Valentin would still be there, but there were no guards, nothing to
suggest Valentin had been so obvious, or indeed so vain. A shake of
the head from Markova and Grebeshkov hobbled forward, walking
slowly to the central desk and easing himself into the President’s
leather chair, flanked by the Presidential Standard and the flag of
the Russian Federation.

Valentin deserves it more
, he
thought dispiritedly. Grebeshkov knew he was far too old for such
games and now even his intuition was playing him false. Idly, he
picked up one of the phones to his left but there was no tone, only
silence, and no response when Grebeshkov demanded an answer. He
smiled at his own foolishness, saddened that others had to die
because of his mistakes.

From beyond
the door came the sound of automatic gunfire, growing in intensity,
a harbinger of Valentin’s final victory.

The long table
in the Security Council Meeting Hall was occupied along barely half
its length, the new President’s inner circle gathering together for
the first time. Grebeshkov sat directly opposite the President’s
empty chair, unable to join in the small-talk of his new
colleagues. The trauma of the previous evening was still taking its
toll, twenty hours barely long enough for both mind and body to
return to anything approaching normality.