The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (29 page)

“No need;
three days, alone with you in small cabin, and nothing to do – I
should really be writing him a thank-you note.”

“And I thought
you were poorly.”

“Not that
poorly. I’m just hoping it wasn’t McDowell that packed your
case.”

Charlotte
pulled a face at the thought and started to rummage through the
first of the suitcases. “It’s just clothes and all neatly folded,
so I’m being positive as to who packed it. You get some sleep,
Mike; you look like you need it. I’ll sort this lot out.”

Anderson knew
he was taking the chauvinistic option but he was too exhausted to
argue, “Just yell if anything exciting happens...”

Anderson lay
back on the free bed and closed his eyes. Within minutes he lapsed
into a fitful sleep. Charlotte quickly sorted out the two cases,
then sat on the other bed, knees pulled up to her chin while
studying their new domain.

McDowell
hadn’t been exaggerating: the cabin was en-suite, with table, two
chairs, desk, wardrobe and drawers, even a wall-mounted TV and a
small fridge. The fridge was in fact part of a well-stocked
mini-bar, with wine, soft drinks, snacks and chocolate. The hotel
theme continued into the en-suite shower room with its range of
luxury toiletries. Overall, there was ample room to swing several
cats, while the quality furnishings and dark blue wall-to-wall
carpet gave the cabin a luxurious feel. It was not at all what
Charlotte expected of a small cargo ship. Sadly, being an internal
cabin, there was no porthole, so the traditional message in a
bottle option was a definite non-starter.

Charlotte’s
thoughts turned to her mother, concerned her earlier phone call
might not have been convincing enough for Rebane. She was certain
Jessica had no suspicions there was any sort of a problem, and her
mother had seemed delighted Charlotte was off to Warsaw to meet up
with Anderson. Jessica had even promised to restrain her curiosity
and only interrogate Charlotte more fully once she’d returned.

Charlotte
could only hope that events would allow Jessica to keep to her
promise, preferably the sooner the better. Still, as McDowell had
said, things could be far worse, and even though Anderson was a bit
under the weather, his bruises would heal. He had tried
apologising, blaming himself for the mess they were in, but
Charlotte would have none of it – she had free will, which combined
with her stubborn streak, meant that her active involvement in
Anderson’s quest was never really in doubt. Poland was days away
and a lot could happen before then; she certainly had no intention
of brooding on what might be their fate once they arrived – at
least not until Saturday night.

Of more
immediate concern was the fear Anderson might possibly have a
fractured rib or two, and Charlotte made a mental note to try and
find out if any of the ship’s crew had medical training. Assuming,
of course, the Captain didn’t decide to cut his losses and throw
them both overboard.

* * *

McDowell moved
away along the dock to make sure Fisher would be unable to hear his
cell phone conversation: it wouldn’t do for his colleague to be
confused as to where McDowell’s loyalties lay. McDowell had long
since given up trying to make sense of who worked for whom and why.
In his present line of work, the deeper you dug the more shit you
came across, and it never helped make anything any clearer. Rebane
might believe his paymasters were a group of like-minded
benefactors, with their roots based in Eastern Europe, but that was
just a naïve hope or more simply blind faith, the reality far
different.

Polish,
Ukrainian, Russian, American, politician, poet, banker or gangster
– McDowell didn’t care whom he worked for as long as he was paid
what he was due. And through some odd moral principle based loosely
on honour, once McDowell had given his word then his allegiance was
guaranteed – well at least for as long as the money kept coming.
The fact he was presently being paid rather handsomely was merely
an appropriate reward for his commitment and effort; he had worked
hard to help make Erdenheim a success, and those first few months
had been far more challenging, indeed far more enjoyable, than he
had ever anticipated. Now the last few weeks were in sight he felt
an unusual sense of regret and despite their differing
personalities, the team of Rebane, Carter and McDowell had worked
particularly well together.

Having reached
the far corner of the dock, McDowell finally halted. A last check,
just to be sure there was nobody in earshot, then he made the
call.

The number was
answered at the sixth ring. “Yes, Pat.” The voice was that of an
elderly woman, her accent slight but still noticeable, and to
McDowell’s ear not that dissimilar to Rebane’s.

“Anderson and his girlfriend are aboard the
Eloise
; due to set sail
in just over an hour; destination Gdansk.”

“Arrival
time?”

“Late Sunday
morning. If the blockade is still operating, the Captain will
divert to Szczecin. In either case, the plan is to then transfer
them to a safe-house near Warsaw.”

There was a
slight pause as the woman mulled over McDowell’s update. “I hope
both are still in one piece? They’re no good to us dead.”

“You sound
like Rebane; I had a bit of fun winding him up but once he can put
a face to a victim he lacks the balls to do anything. Anderson’s
gained a few bruises but nothing too serious. Koval’s reliable and
unless they try something really stupid, they’ll both be fine.”

McDowell could
almost sense the woman nodding her understanding. “On a related
matter, I’ve been impressed with your choice of Jon Carter; he’s
proved a crucial asset and I trust he’ll be involved in the second
phase.”

“I’ve already
been told to take good care of him,” confirmed McDowell softly.
“You’ve no need to worry.”

“And how’s
Rebane coping?”

“Not getting
much sleep,” McDowell said. “But he’s keeping on top of
things.”

“We need him
to be fully focused in these final few days,” said the woman. “The
pivotal moment could happen anytime soon, certainly less than a
week, and I assume you have everything prepared.”

“Of course,”
McDowell confirmed, thoughts briefly contemplating on how and where
to spend his bonus. “One phone call is all it will take.”

Grebeshkov sat
in an armchair, both feet raised, legs covered in a blanket,
reflecting on how quickly he had gone from being a high-powered
general in the FSB to an old man needing to be helped to the
bathroom. Soon no doubt he would be feeble in mind as well as in
body, remembering with clarity the events of his youth while
forgetting his wife’s name, and even her face.

Still, old age
had some advantages, and from the open-plan room he had a fine view
of the forest, the glint of water just visible through the trees.
And it was so peaceful, with the gentle tick-tock of the Swedish
longcase clock often the only sound to break the silence. It was so
perfect Grebeshkov had to restrain the urge to scream loudly or
smash something in frustration, anything to stop himself from
slowly going insane. His existence now seemed to consist of eating,
drinking, sleeping and frequent visits to the bathroom; not that he
felt in control over even those basic functions, his wife seemingly
determined to treat him as a complete invalid. Grebeshkov could
berate and bully anyone, male, female, colleague or civilian –
anyone except for his wife.

Whilst
technology was doing its very best to keep him informed of events
elsewhere, he was forbidden from interfering. Grebeshkov had
protested that he was fine, but the President’s version of
recuperation was the one that counted – and that meant Grebeshkov
was no longer fully in the loop, his wife even going so far as to
limit his contact with the Lubyanka. He had tried taking his
frustrations out on his nurse, a middle-aged woman who was far too
polite to ever argue, but it had merely made him feel guilty. It
was difficult but he had forced himself to read a book, listen to
music, and even lose to his wife at chess. And still he felt
resentful, irritated that no-one else appeared to share his sense
of isolation.

So it was a
relief when his wife announced he had visitors, Grebeshkov just
hopeful it was someone from the FSB and not another doctor to tell
him to take it easy. In fact it was a pairing he could never have
guessed at – Markova’s smart uniform and good looks making Golubeva
appear even more dowdy than usual.

Grebeshkov’s
wife knew the routine from old, quickly organising tea and then
leaving them alone, Golubeva pulling up a chair to sit opposite
Grebeshkov, Markova taking station by the window yet not quite out
of earshot.

“You’re
looking tired, Dmitry,” Golubeva said matter-of-factly. “But still
better than I expected. I understand you’ll be back with us in a
few days.”

“Three more
days,” Grebeshkov responded, rather more sharply than he’d
intended. Whatever words Golubeva used and however she said it,
there was always a hidden message, and Grebeshkov was already on
his guard, unsure what she was after. And the reason for Markova’s
presence was still unclear.

“The President
has asked me to pass on his best wishes for a speedy recovery, and
also his congratulations.”

“Congratulations?” Grebeshkov asked curiously. “For what?”

“Your promise
to catch Eglitis and his associates. You did it in just four days.
That’s a very impressive record, General; you ought to be
proud.”

Grebeshkov
frowned, “There’s still the remaining metro bomber – the Pole
Bagiński.”

“Not so,”
Golubeva announced. “His body has been in the morgue for over a
week. He was pulled out of the Moskva near Gorky Park and the
police assumed it was drug-related. He had no papers and had been
shot in the face, so identification was difficult; more so as he’d
been in the river for at least two days. Perhaps he and Eglitis
fell out but I guess we’ll never know. Nine terrorists dead, four
in custody: a job well done, General.” Golubeva gave a thin smile,
“Making yourself a target was a brave if somewhat foolish
move.”

“A calculated
risk,” Grebeshkov said gruffly. Such praise always made him feel
ill at ease, with mistakes by the terrorists themselves playing a
significant part in the FSB’s success.

Golubeva said, “You’re definitely better off here than in
Moscow. The State of Emergency has had little effect, and to add to
the traffic jams and strikes, several government computer networks
have been hacked. We’re in grave danger of losing complete control…
For the record, Dmitry, no-one blames you for Lithuania; the Prime
Minister ignored your advice and the
spetsnaz
attack was ill-judged with
poor intelligence. It was always a very risky option.” Golubeva
tried to give a winning smile, but it still came across as a scowl,
“You have won the public’s respect, Dmitry; they recognise your
achievements with
August
14
, and even the terrorists fear you
enough to make you a target.”

An embarrassed
Grebeshkov quickly chose to return the conversation to something
less personal. “Are we getting anywhere with Poland?”

“The shipping quota is frustrating for everyone but there is
little sign the President’s demands will be met. Our
representatives have visited
August
14’
s base and apparently it is
masquerading as some sort of religious sanctuary: there were no
weapons, no explosives, nothing that could be described as a
physical threat. We know now they are being trained to spread
dissent and organise strikes, but to the world we look like idiots,
seeing terrorists in every Polish village and home.
August 14’
s strategy of
inciting worker unrest is proving particularly effective and from
the hundreds arrested in Moscow we have identified five who were
trained at Gdansk; we now estimate they have some sixty agents
spread across Russia.”

“And all
Russian?” Grebeshkov asked, shocked at the numbers.

“All Russian
speaking, with perhaps one in ten from Eastern Europe. It seems
they have been planning this for a year or more.” Golubeva leaned
forward, her voice softening, “From your perspective, Dmitry, away
from the stress of the Lubyanka, how do you assess the President’s
handling of the crisis?”

The sudden
change of emphasis and loaded question was typical of Golubeva, and
Grebeshkov picked his words with care. “I am certainly not in the
best position to judge: a diet of television news and the internet
will always give a biased view. Sadly, I fear Moscow will have to
undergo more pain before normality returns.”

“And the
continuing blockade of Gdansk?”

Grebeshkov chose to give a more honest answer, “It will be
difficult to extricate ourselves without loss of face. Even if
Poland gives in to all of our demands, I doubt that will stop the
terrorists already here. We should have taken up the offer of
American help when
August 14
attacked the British Airways’ flight. Now world
opinion is against us, and I’m unclear what we can do to retrieve
the situation.”

Golubeva
nodded thoughtfully before bringing Markova into the conversation.
“I was shocked to discover you had so few guards, Dmitry. You are
still a target, and I felt Captain Markova would be best suited to
provide the protection you require. I trust that is
acceptable?”

Polite
and
helpful – Grebeshkov was starting to feel very uncomfortable.
“Very acceptable, Irina; I am indebted to you.” Now he too was
being ingratiating. Much more and he would throw up.