* * *
Kolomenskoe Park is one of Moscow’s more popular attractions, serving up a different architectural wonder around every turn, from magic stones for health and happiness to the beautiful Church of the Ascension of the Lord on the bank of the Moskva. Despite the many tourists, there are still vast areas of relative peace and tranquillity well away from the security cameras where privacy is assured.
Eglitis sat on a wooden bench, listening to the church bells and soaking up the beauty of the scores of apple trees just coming into blossom. Couples and family groups were spread out across the orchard, sitting haphazardly amongst the trees, enjoying each other’s company. It was a truly harmonious scene but Eglitis still found it difficult to relax, there always that small doubt some observant policeman would see through his disguise or decide his ID was worthy of a more detailed check. Today’s meeting was important but hardly essential; nevertheless, they both believed such risks were justified, it perhaps being their final opportunity to exchange essential information and review progress.
Nabiyev was late, a fact which hardly helped Eglitis’ mood. To sit too long would draw unwanted attention: to many in these suspicious times, an old man sitting alone watching children at play was obviously a kidnapper or a paedophile, not a grandfather missing the love and laughter of his own family.
Eglitis rose stiffly, hunching over his walking stick, trying not to over-play his part. On cue, Nabiyev immediately appeared in the distance, striding purposefully along the path. Eglitis quickly sat back down, annoyed with himself for his own impatience, and annoyed with Nabiyev for lacking the good sense to be on time. He trusted Nabiyev – as much as he trusted anyone – yet he always felt the younger man was far too relaxed over the potential dangers. Eglitis had no illusions as to his own fate, merely unsure whether it would be a consequence of the demands of August 14 or the fragility of his failing heart.
Nabiyev gave a smile of welcome, his hug and triple kiss suggesting to the casual observer that Eglitis was at the very least an old friend, or more likely the two of them were father and son. Nabiyev sat himself beside Eglitis, a box of sushi offered as part-apology for his being late.
With a wave of his hand Eglitis declined, keen to keep their meeting short and to the point. “I need information not food. Baranovskiy and Nazarenko?”
“Baranovskiy’s dead,” Nabiyev said dismissively, “but Nazarenko’s still talking. We need to assume the FSB will extract everything he knows within the next forty-eight hours.” He gave Eglitis a hard look, “The attack on British Boeing was unfortunate; we cannot afford to antagonise potential allies.”
Nabiyev’s casual indifference as to the sacrifice of his fellow conspirators instantly annoyed Eglitis but he knew it would be pointless to speak his mind. “A regrettable mistake,” he said quietly. “One we must learn to deal with. Has Nazarenko told the FSB where he was trained?”
Nabiyev waved his hand uncertainly, “I get to learn some of what the drugs and beatings have revealed, but not all. As I said, it would be best to assume they will eventually discover everything.”
Eglitis gave a brief nod of agreement, “What else?”
“There’s to be saturation security coverage of a random district, changing each day. Tomorrow it’s Presnya in the centre, then Konkovo in the south-west; I’ll try to update you when I know more...”
The briefing continued, Eglitis getting a feel for how the search for August 14 was progressing. Their survival depended on staying one step ahead of the police and the FSB, and it was ironic that Nabiyev had been pulled from his role in counterintelligence to help monitor the FSB’s own investigation into August 14. Paradoxically, that had severely limited his usefulness, information often trickling down to him far too late to be of any real benefit.
After some twenty minutes, they parted as they had met, Eglitis waiting a further five minutes before shuffling his way along the path, heading south towards the Kashirskaya Metro. It was time to prove that the FSB’s recent success would do little to stop the terrorist attacks, August 14’s reach extending far beyond the confines of just Moscow.
Marshwick, England
“Michael, I’m so pleased you’ve called; come in and sit down, and I’ll put the coffee on.”
Jessica’s welcome was one not to be denied and Anderson took his usual seat on the sofa, placing the Commander’s book on the coffee table in front of him. He knew he wouldn’t be allowed to depart Marshwick with nothing more than a thank you and a simple goodbye, just hoping that he could persuade Jessica to leave McDowell and Erdenheim well alone.
“Coffee will be ready in a minute,” Jessica said, returning from the kitchen. “Now, how are you? What about a bite to eat? You can’t go back to London without something inside you. Or did you eat at the Farriers? Is it London, or did Charlotte tell me you were heading off somewhere else?”
Anderson randomly picked which questions to answer, “I’m fine, Mrs Saunders; I’ll have something to eat later, and it’s Bristol.”
“Jessica, please... Bristol, of course; now I remember.” She gestured towards the book, “Did it help after all?”
“I’m afraid not; certainly nothing leapt out at me.”
“It could have been an impulse buy, I suppose, unlikely as that seems. It took my husband three years to propose and another two to actually walk down the aisle. George being impulsive meant having to plan less than a month ahead.”
Anderson tried to match Jessica’s smile, but he needed first to apologise. “I got carried away with the idea that your husband’s death might not be an accident. I’m sorry; it was just a foolish notion.”
Jessica’s reaction was to give Anderson an even wider smile and he feared she was actually going to hug him.
“Thank you, Michael,” Jessica said warmly, “for such a gracious apology. I assure you, such concerns are totally unnecessary. I actively encouraged you and we must both share any fault. I still believe there’s some mystery here and these books are not something George would normally buy: he’s much more Bernard Cornwell than Tom Clancy. With non-fiction, it’s virtually all antiques and naval history. I can’t imagine there’s even a single book on terrorists or terrorism.”
She paused, as though making up her mind about something. “I always find a strong coffee and a good lunch helps focus one’s thoughts; let’s see if we can solve this conundrum together.”
He’d been through the front door barely a minute and Jessica was already taking charge, Anderson not yet off the hook. There seemed little harm in giving it one more go, past assumptions put aside at least for the moment.
Anderson still wanted to check the ground-rules. “If there’s no ulterior motive for the Commander to order Zhilin’s books, then we’re simply wasting our time with a lot of pointless conjecture. Are you sure you want to do that?”
Jessica’s response was immediate, “Most definitely, Michael; we’ve gone this far, and I’m looking forward to a bit more outrageous speculation. Don’t worry, I promise not to be shocked or upset by any of your more outlandish ideas.”
“Sadly,” Anderson said, “ideas are a bit lacking at the moment, outlandish or otherwise.”
“In which case, do we need to bite the bullet and read all three books? It’s only one each if I volunteer Charlotte.”
Anderson’s pained look was enough to veto such an idea. The events described in Red Terror were decades old, the youngest of those involved well into their seventies; the other two books covered more recent times but that merely opened up scores of lines of inquiry. Somehow there had to be a simpler way.
It became a working lunch, Anderson wasting five minutes in a search for other editions of Zhilin’s books but there was only ever the one, not even a paperback or eBook alternative – an indication as to Zhilin’s rather limited appeal. The ridiculous was discussed along with the feasible, the Russian links argued over, nothing ignored, but it was again proving a fruitless exercise in conjecture, there
too many unknowns to come close to something that made reasonable sense.
Eventually the tone from Anderson’s phone provided an essential distraction, Devereau the caller. “Mike, where are you exactly?” he asked, sounding impatient.
Anderson lied, “About halfway to Bristol; just stopped for something to eat. Shouldn’t you be getting on a plane or something?”
Devereau ignored the question, “Did you finish pursuing whatever it was you were after?”
“Yes and no; could be something but it’s proving difficult to get anywhere.”
“And it has to do with George Saunders? How he died?”
Anderson might not have mentioned his inquiry was related to Saunders but Devereau had no problem reading between the lines. “There are certain aspects that needed following up.” He didn’t want to get into specifics, not without something concrete.
“Forget Bristol,” said Devereau. “I’ll deal with it. Get yourself back to Marshwick. You seem to have upset someone with influence and they’re rather keen to find out more about you. Fortunately, I too have friends in high places, but no-one’s telling me who’s asking questions or why. Upsetting important people is always a good sign, so you must be doing something right. Phone me tonight with an update…”
Things were looking up thought Anderson wryly; his leads might be so thin as to be virtually invisible but the number of his allies was growing almost daily.