* * *
Major Natalia Markova sat alone in the semi-darkness of her Lubyanka office, struggling to cope with the flood of emotion than coursed through her body. She had known General Grebeshkov for most of her adult life; he had been her mentor and friend, someone she thought of almost as a second father, one of the few men she truly looked up to.
Now he was just a bloodied corpse, one of three lying in the Lubyanka’s own morgue. The initial turmoil had affected the whole building, and it was late afternoon before a sombre form of normality reached up beyond the lower floors. The FSB’s own team of investigators – most of them having learnt their skills under Grebeshkov’s gaze – had already taken charge, although it was the Kremlin’s unique slant on reality that became the official version of the morning’s events.
Moscow’s news channels naturally had it as their top story, the scene of the attack cleverly shifting to the main Lubyanka entrance. The perpetrator too had also miraculously transformed into a much younger man: identified as a known Siberian separatist, he was said to have been shot dead by FSB agents. Alekseyev was named as an innocent victim of the attack, although his family and close friends would doubtless be confused as to the intimidating nature of the questions they were presently having to answer.
Grebeshkov’s murder had shocked Markova into a mental paralysis when the one thing she needed was clarity. Was this purely an attack against Grebeshkov or was it part of something wider, and was she too in danger? From whom exactly? Would running be wise or totally pointless? And why was she even thinking of such an extreme?
Alekseyev had been a conscientious and loyal member of the FSB, and it made no sense for him to murder anyone, let alone Grebeshkov, a man he respected, almost revered. Trukhin might be unyielding and autocratic, but like everyone else Alekseyev had learnt how to deal with him. Sofia never had a bad word to say about anyone, and treated generals and privates alike with equal respect. Whatever the reason for Alekseyev’s onslaught, it must have been something truly dramatic. Markova knew him to be easy-going and level-headed, and not someone to act irresponsibly or without good cause. The loss of his wife had hit him hard, but with the birth of his granddaughter he had seemed far more settled.
Markova was dismayed at her own emotional weakness, yet it took almost another hour for the cobwebs of despair to finally dissolve. Her team had every right to expect a show of leadership, not someone skulking alone in their office; they had even been considerate enough to leave her to grieve, with no impatient rap on the door or even the buzz of the phone to interrupt her reverie.
Markova switched on the desk light, gaze instantly drawn to the printouts and photographs strewn in front of her and pinned across the office wall. Paper records might be old-fashioned but Markova preferred to have something more tangible than a computer file, needing to physically move pages around in order to accurately gauge their relationship to one another. Not that it particularly mattered, as all she presently had was a tortuous paper trail leading absolutely nowhere.
For months now Markova and her small FSB team had ploughed their way through a mass of data, tracing and then eradicating the hidden links between the terrorists of August 14 and Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Agency, the SVR. It was just one element of a far wider purge of the SVR and not an assignment Markova had either expected or wanted; certainly, as an officer in Russia’s elite counter-terrorist Alpha Group, she had every right to anticipate a more appealing role. Sadly, the President had demanded someone well-versed in the subtle demands of such a challenge; hence Markova and her team of eight.
The President’s high expectations had extended into every aspect of government and the new regime remained far more popular than its democratic predecessor. The public also recognised the sacrifice made by those who had rescued Russia from chaos; two of the original five conspirators hadn’t even survived the first six months: one shot dead by terrorists, the other suffering a heart attack. Again, that had been the official line, the truth somewhat different: the first executed as a traitor, the second dying under mysterious circumstances, most probably poisoned.
The recent elections had been a dramatic confirmation of the regime’s favoured status, with the President picking up a healthy seventy-eight percent of votes. There were the usual claims of vote-rigging and intimidation, but even the International Observers had found it impossible to disagree with the outcome. Eastern Europe might still worry as to Russian expansion, but internally the country was relatively stable, the physical evidence for Russia’s late crisis all-but erased.
That success had been due to the impressive ability of the three remaining conspirators to work together as one. General Morozov maintained a tight rein on the military whilst Grebeshkov had used the FSB’s power to stifle the secessionists, before turning his attention to the problem of government corruption. For such a male-dominated country, it was still difficult to realise that both men had freely given their allegiance to the final member of the coup, Irina Golubeva – President Golubeva. She was proving an able and resourceful leader, the inevitable comparisons with Britain’s Thatcher and Germany’s Merkel misguided and often inaccurate. Golubeva was relatively approachable and prepared to listen to opposing views, even willing on occasion to change her mind – an assessment freely given by Grebeshkov during one of his more verbose moments. And attitudes were slowly changing, the chauvinism of old still there, just less likely to be spoken out loud.
Yet Grebeshkov had never truly trusted Golubeva, sensing that she too might have had some loose connection with August 14. Much of the terror group’s infrastructure in Eastern Europe had barely been touched and the exact source of their funds had still to be resolved; a final puzzle that was proving difficult to crack. With the purge of the SVR effectively complete and the agency’s key positions now occupied by those loyal to the regime, Grebeshkov had ordered Markova and her team to expand and adapt their search, his renewed obsession with Golubeva motivated by the desire to have some form of insurance for when his own political usefulness finally came to an end. Such was the politics of Russia, with no-one truly secure, political allies invariably temporary in nature.
Golubeva might well have nothing to do with the terrorists but there were still some aspects that had seemed worth pursuing, Amongst the President’s swarm of junior aides and advisers, at least one seemed to have free and immediate access to his superior, while also being particularly well-travelled. In the past month alone, Evgeny Sukhov had visited London, New York and Hamburg, as well as military bases at Khabarovsk and Vladivostok in eastern Russia.
Sukhov had only been appointed as a Presidential aide in February, having previously been an adviser to the Ministry of Economic Development. Fluent in English, he had a doctorate in Politics from Harvard and had worked as a political analyst in New York before eventually joining the Putin Administration in 2012. Forty, married with one son, apartment in Moscow, holiday home on the Black Sea coast: it wasn’t so much the man himself that had piqued Markova’s interest, more his wide-ranging role. Hanoi, Manila, Washington, London, Seoul and Taipei: six capitals visited in the last five months, Washington and London twice, just two or three days in each city, always travelling alone. Russia’s economy still had to make up ground lost since the annexation of Crimea, but Markova had found no evidence that Sukhov was pursuing some new economic initiative or attending a relevant conference, even one with a vaguely pertinent political agenda.
It was just five days since Sukhov’s last fleeting trip, and Markova’s persistence had finally paid off, able to learn whom Sukhov was meeting, if not exactly why. The five-star Hamburg venue was well used to ensuring their guests’ privacy was not compromised, but it taken only a few hours to name the American who had joined Sukhov there.
Like a complex variation of Chinese whispers, the American had dined that evening not with Sukhov, but with a young woman at a restaurant in Bremen, 120 kilometres away. To the watchers, it had appeared more of a
business meeting than a romantic reunion; they had even managed to record a fragmented conversation between the two, some twenty seconds of intrigue just before they had parted.
Despite overstretched resources, the woman had in turn been followed to the town of Wilhelmshaven, home to Germany’s largest naval base. The next morning, she had driven from her hotel into the base’s high-security zone, leaving Markova with the difficult choice of abandoning the chase or asking the SVR for help. With little time to deliberate, she had judged the SVR a risk worth taking, her faith seemingly justified when just twenty-four hours later a set of photos had landed in her inbox. A quick analysis and the number of active targets had been increased to a grand total of eight.
Now, in retrospect, Markova’s decision had been an unbelievably stupid mistake, her hurried and thoughtless actions bringing swift retribution. The pursuit of Sukhov was no longer a secret – after all the evidence was plastered across the wall in front of her – and rather than providing a form of protection, it might well have led directly to Grebeshkov’s death. The coincidence of Grebeshkov’s murder happening so soon after Markova had first contacted the SVR was impossible to ignore; Markova had even been foolish enough to show the SVR the strength of her hand.
Then why wasn’t Markova already dead? Conjecture and paranoia were an unhelpful pairing, and Markova appreciated that Alekseyev’s motivation could easily be anything from jealousy to temporary insanity. In any event, there seemed little she could do to guarantee her own safety.
Decision made, she acted quickly before she changed her mind, gathering the papers from wall and desk, putting some to one side, shredding the rest. Fearful of the acumen of the smoke alarm, she opted to turn the tangle of torn paper into a sodden mess, trusting that would be enough. Next it was the turn of the computer files, with the ones relating to Sukhov first doctored then deleted.
Finally, it was back to the basics of pen and ink. While not exactly ideal for what she had in mind, such old-fashioned methods were the only option available; in the FSB’s closed world of mistrust and suspicion, the very act of trying to copy computer files to an unauthorised external device – such as a memory stick – would immediately generate a security alert. Even using the printer or photocopier was a risk not worth taking.
Thirty minutes later Markova stood, drink in hand, just one of the many colleagues who had congregated in a Lubyanka briefing room to pay their respects and share their memories. Grebeshkov was well-liked and universally respected, several in the room already openly blaming elements within the SVR even though the actual murderer was one of their own. More popular was the theory that Grebeshkov and his secretary had merely got in the way, and that Trukhin was the target. But why then did Alekseyev bother walking thirty metres along the corridor and into Grebeshkov’s office?
Markova took her time working her way round to Sergeant Nikolai Nechayev, a meaningful glance enough to warn him to be on his guard. Nikolai spoke little, listening intently to Markova’s detailed instructions while keeping his body language relaxed as though nothing of importance was being discussed. A brief nod of understanding; then he left her alone to mingle and chat, his left leg dragging stiffly.
Nikolai was ex-Alpha, his injury testimony to his own part in Russia’s internal struggle for power, the sergeant too proud to make use of a walking stick. The normal reward would have been an enforced retirement with a meagre pension, but Grebeshkov would have none of it, Nikolai almost having died protecting him. Now he worked on an informal basis as an FSB courier, coming in for work as and when he felt able, his salary artificially maintained at close to its former level. If anyone in the Lubyanka resented such obvious favouritism, then they wisely kept it to themselves – Nikolai might not be quite the man he was but few would dare to argue with him, and no-one could dispute his right to special treatment. In fact there was no actual damage to his leg, the weakness a result of a bullet permanently damaging the sciatic nerve. He had been hit by three bullets that day and had been lucky to survive – lucky too to have been on the winning side.
Markova had no doubt Nikolai would do exactly as she had asked, his task a way of ensuring Grebeshkov’s death might not be entirely in vain. Deep down she knew that all such precautions were doubtless a complete waste of time, and despite the Lubyanka’s obsession with security the deleted files would be easy enough to restore. Yet it might give Markova a few hours grace before someone came knocking on her door.
In fact, she didn’t even make it to her home…