The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (15 page)

Eduard gently tried the only ground floor door, nodding to
Jester to confirm it wasn’t locked. Jester signalled to the
remaining two
spetsnaz
, before following Eduard as he gently crept his way up the
wooden steps and onto the wrap-around deck. The glass-fronted
double doors were closed but again unlocked. Orders confirmed,
Jester counted slowly to three. An instant later, Eduard
half-opened one of the doors, Jester lobbing two stun-grenades into
the room beyond, his actions mirrored by the
spetsnaz
on the floor
below.

There was a
delay of a few short seconds before a series of deafening
explosions tore through the dacha’s interior. Almost before silence
had returned, Eduard led the way inside, Kalashnikov held ready for
instant use. He entered a large room – table, chairs, TV, closed
doors ahead and to the left and right, but no terrorists.

Terrorists first, companion devices such as cell phones and
laptops second, paper documents third
–
such was Moscow’s order of priority. Jester moved inside, nodding
to Eduard to check the door to the left; from somewhere far off
came the crackle of gunfire, ceasing almost immediately.

The room to the
left was a large bedroom, three single beds, little else of
immediate interest. The room to the right was a twin to the one
they had just left. The remaining door opened out on to the dining
area, stairs leading to the rooms on the ground floor; still no
terrorists. Jester duly reported the top floor clear. Seconds
later, one of the ground-floor team moved warily up the stairs and
into view, shaking his head. Again there was a spatter of gunfire
away to the north.

Jester was
growing concerned, and he checked the visual display on his arm,
the coloured icons jumping around as spurious heat sources and the
residue from the stun-grenades confused the drone’s sensors. Jester
widened the target area; away to the north-west two red dots
suddenly flickered into existence as if from nowhere, Jester
instantly recognising their significance.

Even as a
warning sounded in Jester’s earpiece, he grabbed Eduard, almost
flinging him back towards the outer stairs.

“Get out!”
Jester shouted. “It’s wired!” They took the stairs three at a time,
Jester aiming to be anywhere but the dacha. They had barely crossed
halfway to the forest fringe before several muffled explosions
ripped through the dacha complex, three of the four buildings
belching forth a torrent of smoke and heat from shattered windows
and doors.

Jester flung himself head-first into the undergrowth, the
night-goggles torn from his face. Flashes of gunfire lit up the
pine trees opposite, the familiar rapid-fire burst of Kalashnikovs
now an unwelcome indication of the terrorists’ firepower. Slowly to
begin with but increasing in intensity, the
spetsnaz
fired back. Jester’s
earpiece was silent, the visual display attempting to
reboot.

Bullets
flicked through the branches to Jester’s left, a red-hot needle of
pain ripping into his side and out through his back, his cry of
anguish bitten short to become stifled groan. Beside him, Eduard
got off a three-shot burst, before grabbing Jester by the arm and
dragging him deeper into the forest.

Jester twisted painfully around so his back was against a
tree, left hand clamped across the wound, watching with something
akin to indignation as the blood seeped through his fingers. The
opposition were supposed to be nervous ill-trained amateurs, the
need for body armour dismissed as unnecessary and restrictive – but
when had
August 14
ever acted like amateurs? It was an idiotic mistake, born of
over-confidence, the dacha complex well-prepared for its Russian
visitors.

Marshwick’s
general store was a treasure trove of hidden supplies, with the
shelves along each narrow aisle crammed with everything the
villagers could possibly need, ensuring they would think twice
before making the frustrating trip to a supermarket in Boston.
Anderson took his time whilst trying to work out what he might need
to cover the next few days, still unsure whether it was a good
thing that Charlotte had already managed to organise some
alternative accommodation. He had grown to quite like his small
room, and the privacy offered by a holiday let might well be a poor
exchange for the convenience of pub food and his regular
psychoanalysis from Rob.

It was almost
as an aside that Charlotte had revealed the results of her own
research into Erdenheim. Anderson had tried hard not to sound
petulant and even though the discovery of some man named Marty was
hardly dramatic, it was still far better than anything he had come
up with. A celebratory bottle of wine was thus high on Anderson’s
list of potential purchases, it preferably one to be shared while
settling into his new abode.

“Isn’t it time
you stopped interfering in matters that aren’t your concern!” The
woman’s tone was angry, and Anderson instinctively turned, keen to
see who was the recipient of the woman’s wrath. Unfortunately, she
was staring straight at him.

“I’m sorry?”
Anderson didn’t need to act confused.

“Thanks to
you, I’m losing money, and I don’t appreciate someone spreading
lies and gossip.” The woman was in her late forties, dressed in a
casual top and jeans, her body language a mix of determination and
disapproval.

The general
store suddenly seemed to have more customers than Anderson had
noticed, the woman’s angry words immediately gaining an interested
audience.

Anderson
worked hard to defuse the situation, brain feverishly trying to
work out what the woman might be referring to. “I’m afraid I don’t
understand. Perhaps we could talk outside? I’d be happy to sort out
any misunderstanding...”

“You wouldn’t
be wanting to talk outside if my Steve was here, and I don’t call
it a misunderstanding when my wages get cut in half.”

“You mean Erdenheim?” Anderson asked uncertainly. That was
all he could think of, unless Rob had taken umbrage at him leaving
the
Farriers
.

“Of course I
mean bloody Erdenheim...” The woman now noticed how much attention
she was attracting, and with an angry glare at Anderson she stormed
past, thrusting her half-full basket onto the counter, hand
reaching for her purse.

Anderson
waited until the woman had paid for her shopping before following
her out onto the street. “If there’s some way I can make amends and
sort all of this out. What about lunch? It’s the least I can do
under the circumstances.” Admitting responsibility seemed the most
sensible course, although Anderson still didn’t understand how
exactly he was at fault. Even as he spoke, he realised that the
woman might just think he was trying to pick her up – in which case
the aforementioned Steve could soon be making his presence
felt.

The woman
paused, brow furrowing as she worked out whether to spurn or accept
Anderson’s offer.

“The
Farriers
?” encouraged Anderson. If in doubt, his response lately to
every problem seemed to involve eating, and the
Farriers
menu was already forever
etched on his brain.

Mention of the
Farriers
seemed to do the trick, lunch rejected for the
less-compromising alternative of a soft drink, and not the bar but
one of the outside tables. Pippa Mason had worked as a housekeeper
at Erdenheim since it had opened, weekday mornings until twelve
with an occasional full day at the weekend. She had been working
the morning of Anderson’s visit to the Management Centre, having
been pre-warned by McDowell to make sure everything was immaculate
in case of publicity photographs. So when she had been called in to
the office and told by McDowell that the Centre was having to cut
her hours until at least June, she had discounted his excuse of
disappointing course numbers, and assumed it was all down to some
poor review from Anderson. Less than forty minutes later, Anderson
himself had been standing in front of her, glibly unaware of the
ensuing onslaught. His subsequent offer had seemed to be Pippa’s
one chance to change his mind, yet she was still finding it hard to
believe he was entirely blameless.

And for a
brief moment, Anderson wondered whether she might actually be
right. Perhaps McDowell’s decision was somehow related to
Anderson’s meddling, although he couldn’t quite grasp how his
investigation could so instantly affect course numbers.

Anderson
coaxed yet more from Pippa, resisting the urge to question her
about an American named Marty or indeed anything controversial.
Erdenheim employed two housekeepers and Pippa’s colleague was
similarly affected, but as neither of them was being laid off, that
seemed to imply some rooms and certain facilities were still in
everyday use.

With Pippa departing the
Farriers
apparently unconvinced of
Anderson’s innocence, Graythorp was next on his agenda, along with
the pursuit of a white Lamborghini.

* * *

The concrete
surface of the pillbox was a convenient vantage point, allowing an
unrestricted if distant view of Erdenheim, a wide ledge providing a
good resting place for Anderson’s forearms. The Centre’s car park
was more than half-full but no sign of a white sports car, the
highlight of the past hour the sight of a small van from Boston
delivering farm produce.

For some
reason he wasn’t that bothered, confident that Charlotte would have
Marty’s surname figured out soon enough. Erdenheim might be short
on clients but Marty’s house proved its enigmatic backers had
plenty of money, Devereau doubtful as to whether McDowell and
Carter had found the million-plus to find the Management Centre
themselves. Carter had sold his computer company for several
million but had invested badly, the money mostly frittered away;
yet he obviously hadn’t lost any of his computer skills, writing
most of the software for Erdenheim’s computer simulations.

Boredom was
starting to catch up with Anderson and he moved across to the
western side of the pillbox, gaze idly following the road as it
meandered its way into Graythorp proper. He had spent exactly a
week chasing his way around the Lincolnshire countryside but had
never really taken the time to get to know the area. The only high
point was the sight of the Boston Stump several miles away, and the
totally flat landscape with its scarcity of trees still seemed
alien to him.

Abruptly
Anderson froze, listening intently. From far-off came the
unmistakable whirring of a helicopter, the squat shape easy to pick
up against a bright blue sky. It flew in from the south-west,
heading straight for Erdenheim before angling steeply down to land
on the helipad. The main rotor blade slowed, idling impatiently
while the helicopter’s four passengers – each struggling with a
large suitcase – stepped down on to the tarmac. McDowell and
another man emerged from inside the main building to greet them;
after brief handshakes, the new arrivals were escorted into the
Management Centre. Anderson took a good selection of photos but
wasn’t optimistic as to whether they would be of any use – even
with the zoom the distance was too great for a quality shot.

The helicopter
left without waiting, heading back the way it had come. Anderson
watched for another twenty minutes before calling it a day, curious
as to what the helicopter’s visit might mean.

Just because
Erdenheim might be struggling for numbers, there was no reason to
assume clients and guest speakers wouldn’t still be putting in an
appearance. Even so, it was an intriguing development, and Anderson
sensed it was time he actually did some proper work for a change.
He had promised McDowell a feature on Erdenheim and if nothing
else, it would give him a good excuse for a follow-up visit.

The Senate
building within the Moscow Kremlin appeared to be in turmoil, aides
scurrying back and forth, Grebeshkov’s two armed escorts saying
little as they guided him through the corridors of the President’s
power base. The evening summons to the Kremlin had left no room for
discussion, and it had been with a deep sense of foreboding that
Grebeshkov had walked out of the FSB’s headquarters and into the
waiting Mercedes. The Prime Minister had been unavailable all day,
leading to rumours of a heart attack, or even that he was under
arrest. The latter possibility certainly didn’t augur well for
Grebeshkov, especially with his recent promotion as the PM’s
Special Adviser.

The leading
escort stopped by a double set of doors and Grebeshkov was ushered
into the Security Council Meeting Hall. A respectful salute, then
Grebeshkov was left alone with his thoughts, the room’s sombre feel
totally in tune with Grebeshkov’s present mood.

Grebeshkov chose to seat himself near to one end of the long
conference table. After the excessive number of meetings he had
been forced to endure over the last week, it seemed fitting that he
should be sacked – or would it be court-martialled – in such formal
surroundings. He assumed he was about to become another casualty of
the fallout from Lithuania, and the raid had turned out to be a
serious error of judgement. The events of Thursday, culminating in
the Moscow riot, had finally forced the Prime Minister’s hand, and
even the destruction of a second terrorist cell could not prevent
the inevitable. Of the twenty
spetsnaz
smuggled into Lithuania,
four had been killed, another six wounded. Although the possibility
of the dachas being booby-trapped had been considered, the
reluctance of
August 14
to consider suicide attacks had led the Special
Forces to downplay such a possibility. And no-one had foreseen that
the terrorists would create escape tunnels. Ten or more had managed
to slip away before doubling back to turn the attack on its
head.