The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (43 page)

The President
had been sworn in early that morning, the Russian Constitution
simply bypassed as being outdated and impractical. It was a move
few in Russia had been brave enough to dispute, certainly in
public, and for many it was confirmation of a more assertive
leadership, even a return to the popular days of the Putin era.
Grebeshkov had been informed in person that he was still an
essential component in Russia’s fight against dissidents and
separatists, and although far from convinced, under the
circumstances it had seemed churlish to refuse.

There was a
sudden hush as the President entered, Grebeshkov standing with the
rest until the President was seated. The latter’s welcome to the
hand-picked group of men and women who would now shape Russia’s
future was brief and business-like, typical Golubeva. She might be
Russia’s first woman president, but she was the one person able to
match strength with stability, essential requirements after the
turmoil of the past weeks, with leaders discarded seemingly every
few days. Grebeshkov felt he owed Golubeva, if not perhaps his
life, then at least some form of loyalty. It was Golubeva who had
persuaded General Morozov to intervene, his troops storming the
Senate building with orders to rescue Grebeshkov.

Quite why Golubeva had sided with Grebeshkov over Valentin
was unclear, and despite Valentin’s denial, Grebeshkov wasn’t
convinced that Golubeva was ignorant of the conspiracy
behind
August 14
.
With Valentin dead, it seemed best to leave such fears unsaid,
Grebeshkov merely noting with interest that Valentin’s SVR was
presently undergoing a good old-fashioned purge, various
high-ranking officers arrested, others suspended from duty.
Grebeshkov didn’t know what had happened to Reunkov or Purvukhin,
but he sensed their life expectancy was likely to be relatively
short.

“It is with sadness,” Golubeva continued, “that I have to
confirm the terrorist attack on this very building resulted in
thirty-one killed, including Arkady Valentin.
August 14
’s last desperate act has
taken another of Russia’s finest, and I would ask that we stand in
silence as a token of respect for our comrades murdered here
yesterday.”

Grebeshkov
struggled to his feet, unsure whether he would be able to stop the
laughter from exploding from within, and fearful of what the others
might think. Now Valentin, like the FSB’s Nabiyev, was a fallen
hero and not a callous murderer whose ambition had resulted in
months of heartache for the people of Moscow. From Russia’s
perspective, the imagined attack brought a more defined sense of
closure to the terrorist assaults and the country was slowly
returning to a form of optimistic normality, with just the
situation in the Baltic still to be resolved, something that was
next on Golubeva’s short agenda.

A word of thanks and Golubeva sat down, moving straight on to
events in Poland. “I am pleased to announce that after some
feverish diplomatic activity, agreement has been reached with NATO,
including of course Poland. A suitable compromise has been worked
out with regard to the withdrawal of forces in the Baltic, and this
is presently underway. In addition, an independent multinational
inquiry will be held under the auspices of the International Court
of Justice; their specific charge to undertake a full and impartial
investigation into
August
14
, including the terrorists’ possible
relationship with various governments or government
agencies.”

But presumably not Russia
, thought
Grebeshkov bitterly. It wasn’t the best compromise but it was the
best NATO would offer, and it could be packaged in sufficient fine
rhetoric to satisfy the Russian people.

“I have been
assured,” Golubeva continued, “that all relevant governments will
provide their full and unequivocal support to the investigating
team. The exact make-up of the inquiry will be decided over the
next few days and I will be asking General Grebeshkov to lead
negotiations on Russia’s behalf.”

Grebeshkov acknowledged Golubeva’s words with the briefest of
nods, realising that he was the obvious choice. The Russian people
had listened to Valentin’s lies and Grebeshkov was seen as the main
instigator of
August 14
’s demise; if Grebeshkov’s name was associated with that of
the International Court, then that might just be enough to allay
any public concern.

“Finally,” Golubeva reported, “an unofficial exchange has
taken place, no publicity. Of the fifteen men and five women
detained by the Polish authorities, and under investigation for
their links with the terrorist base outside Gdansk, fourteen are
Russian citizens. I am delighted to report that all fourteen have
been forcibly repatriated to Russia; in return, the captain and
crew of the
Princess Eloise
have been released without charge, and have been
flown to Warsaw.” Golubeva gave a cautious smile, “Once the dust
has settled we can leak news of the exchange, and fourteen live
terrorists are the best we could possibly hope for.”

Nods of
approval greeted the President’s unexpected revelation, and even
Grebeshkov was impressed. Russia had extracted more than it might
have expected from the West, and so far had successfully hidden
from the world the internal power struggle between the members of
the coup. Even after a few days, the new Government was gaining a
certain respectability, with an approval rating of over seventy
percent according to a recent news poll.

For Grebeshkov there was much to be pleased with, perhaps
even proud of, despite the obvious mistakes and the machinations of
others. He had risen to a position of some influence, a
well-respected and popular member of the ruling clique, lauded as
being instrumental in the destruction of
August 14
. Although such an accolade
might be undeserved, for some reason it seemed almost a fair
exchange for the weeks of pain and anguish.

The mortuary
was having a difficult day, the routine haul of corpses far more
than was normal. Primarily, it was a consequence of the awful
late-Spring weather, although a contributing factor had been the
celebrations associated with the ending of the Russian
blockade.

For the single
female attendant still on duty, it was not an unfamiliar
experience, and she was old enough to recall a dozen similar days,
especially during the final years of Communist rule. If truth be
told, she had a certain fondness for those times, when she had been
unfettered by the demands of family and uncaring as to the
political desires of her elders. And, as always, the memory of her
first love brought a twinge of regret and a wistful smile.

Now she was twice-divorced and Poland had Western democracy,
together with the trademark terrorism of extremists and fanatics.
Yet few in Warsaw believed the Russian lies about
August 14
– it was all
propaganda to help explain away their own internal divisions and
home-grown terrorists. Russia had challenged Poland and been forced
to beat a hasty retreat; no wonder Warsaw was
celebrating.

Not that such
complex issues were of particular interest to the attendant, and
certainly of no further concern to the mortuary’s clientele. To the
woman’s experienced eyes, each body told its own tale, and mixed in
amongst the crushed skull of a car-crash victim and the blue-tinged
lips of a suicide, was another reminder from the past. The
mortuary’s most recent arrival had suffered a single small-calibre
wound to the side of the head, a fate once the feared hallmark of
Communist repression but now relatively rare, and it was almost
unheard of for the victim to be a woman.

Idle curiosity
made the attendant check the woman’s name – Klaudia Woroniecki. The
name meant nothing, but the old woman gave a small nod of approval,
strangely pleased that even for the well-manicured and obviously
wealthy, destiny was still a fickle and unreliable friend.

It was a
bright, crisp morning, with cotton-wool clouds silhouetted against
a pastel-blue sky. Little had changed in the churchyard since the
Commander’s funeral – the weeds were perhaps a little sturdier than
before and a few more flowers had come onto bloom – but to the
church and its immediate surroundings, the confusion and fears of
the past three weeks meant little of consequence.

For Anderson,
this second visit was a far more personal affair than before, and
he came now as a friend of the family, rather than a total
stranger. Charlotte and Jessica stood arm in arm beside the grave,
each with their own very private thoughts. Anderson waited a few
paces further back, ready to offer a steadying hand should the need
arise; however, the strength that had carried them through recent
weeks was still evident. The Commander would doubtless have
expected nothing less – tears were for shedding well outside of the
public gaze.

The relationship between Charlotte and Anderson was at a
difficult stage, their shared imprisonment aboard the
Princess Eloise
almost
creating a barrier between them rather than bringing them closer
together. To the British press and public, events in Russia had now
been overtaken by domestic political turmoil, specifically the
resignation of the Home Secretary – nothing supposedly related
to
August 14
or
Erdenheim. The Management Development Centre in turn had finally
lost its news appeal, the official response being to rubbish
stories linking it to
August 14
and blame the explosion on a gas leak. Rebane and
McDowell were listed amongst those killed – no mention of Jon
Carter. It was a confused and somewhat unsatisfying conclusion to
the Erdenheim myth, with countless loose ends left
hanging.

Anderson was
keen not to muddy the waters with his version of the truth, and he
was content to live out the lie for his own protection. He still
had a painful reminder from those final chaotic hours in the
Russian Senate, the stitches in his thigh due not to a bullet but a
large splinter. Grebeshkov had been insistent that it was in
Anderson’s interests to forget about what secrets he had learnt
that day and it had seemed little enough in exchange for freedom
and a flight home.

The British
authorities had irritated him with the expected questions, their
version of Major Eskov being rather less polite and far less
perceptive. Eventually, Anderson had been let loose, his story
first taken apart piece by piece to prove no-one would believe it,
dire warnings made as to the consequences of publicising his
tortuous tale.

Charlotte was clearly determined to put it all behind her and
if she had guessed that Anderson knew Yuri’s identity, then she had
said nothing, and events involving Erdenheim or the
Princess Eloise
were
apparently off-limits, even for Anderson. There was so much that
needed saying, but neither of them knew how to begin.

It was just
over three weeks since Anderson had first arrived in Marshwick to
create general mayhem, and he still couldn’t even guarantee that
the Commander’s murderer had been duly punished. The FSB had
pursued the Demanov link all the way to Spain, the dates matching
the Commander’s death, but that didn’t prove he had been the person
responsible.

In retrospect it seemed doubtful whether Anderson had
actually achieved anything worthwhile: he manifestly had done
nothing to accelerate the downfall of
August 14
and it was thanks to his
interference that Devereau had ended up in intensive care, his full
recovery still not yet certain; Pippa Mason also now had a genuine
axe to grind, Erdenheim’s destruction leaving her with no job at
all. Anderson hadn’t even been an effective journalist, his article
on Darren Westrope still as yet unpublished. All in all, it was a
fairly poor record and the hamlet of Graythorp would never quite be
the same again, the blackened ruin of Erdenheim a daily reminder of
their fifteen minutes of fame – plastic explosives or gas leak,
Anderson knew which one he believed.

His musings
were cut short as Charlotte moved to stand beside him, allowing her
mother to have a few private moments alone. Her hand slipped into
Anderson’s and slowly they walked back towards the church.

As they waited for Jessica, Anderson pulled Charlotte close,
his arm trying to squeeze out the problems of the world. The
Princess Eloise
,
August 14
, Rebane and
McDowell: all would soon be a distant memory – until then, they
would just have to work a little harder to ignore past
adversity.

The bullet
train swept out of Tokyo on its race to the north, McDowell
relaxing in the extra comfort of first-class, eyes closed, thoughts
moving on from the success of the past towards an unclear future.
He had a new identity, money to burn, no ties and no
responsibilities – at least for a while – and McDowell was finding
it hard adjusting to a relatively stress-free life, worrying that
he might quickly succumb to the dubious pleasures of excess and
extravagance.

With his
Erdenheim role complete, McDowell had initially followed the latest
from Moscow with only minor interest – that was until he had heard
the new President speak. Even though the language spoken was
different and the sound quality far superior, he had instantly
recognised the voice from his many cell-phone conversations, the
physical reality totally at odds with how he had perceived his
Russian contact. McDowell’s surprise was tempered by something
approaching pride, his arrogance fed by the knowledge that he had
played an integral part in bringing Irina Golubeva to power.