* * *
As the bomb attacks became public knowledge, a wave of protests spread rapidly through Moscow’s streets. In particular, a gathering at Arbat Square began to suck in more and more people, the crowd’s numbers swelled into the tens of thousands as even the most placid of Muscovites was taken up with the passion of the moment. Activists pushed themselves to the front and a group several thousand strong broke away from the main body, streaming west along the New Arbat and towards the Russian White House. Their placards revealed that the crowd’s anger was primarily directed against the Prime Minister, regarded by many as indecisive and weak, and thus the main cause of Russia’s inability to stop the terrorists.
Two hundred metres from the White House, a double line of riot police stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shields and batons held ready, the extremists in the crowd marked out for later attention by well-armed snatch-squads. The shouts of the protestors were soon reinforced by anything from chunks of concrete to petrol bombs, the two sides becoming embroiled in a series of vicious confrontations.
With a helicopter hovering overhead, hundreds more police began to advance along the wide avenue, two water cannon punching a hole through the front rank of demonstrators. People began to stumble and fall as they tried to escape, but the police advance never slowed, batons, shields and boots being used to club the protestors back. So far, it was relatively routine; no need for tear-gas, rubber bullets or stun-grenades, and no reason to deploy the armoured vehicles presently held in reserve.
Two thousand more riot police waited directly outside the White House, most of them impatient to get to grips with the mob. Not that they felt any personal animosity towards the protestors – in fact many agreed wholeheartedly with their views – but Moscow’s Police Commissioner had decreed that the White House be protected.
And protected it was: six thousand security personnel policing Moscow’s streets, one demonstrator killed, well over a hundred injured.
Marshwick, England
Anderson was feeling guilty, well aware that he should have found a healthier lunchtime option than a ham sandwich at the Farriers. Still, the quiet corner of the bar was somewhere relaxing to review progress and plan out his next move.
Devereau might be busy in Bristol but he hadn’t entirely left Anderson to his own devices and his initial inquiry into Erdenheim had found nothing untoward, a trusted source with personal experience of the Management Centre giving it a glowing review. The Erdenheim staff had been friendly and knowledgeable, particularly Jon Carter; McDowell had delivered the standard welcome speech but that was about the limit of his contribution.
Amongst a swathe of other information from Devereau was a chronological list of Erdenheim’s courses and clients. Anderson had wondered if the Centre might have run a workshop on counter-terrorism and invited some expert as a guest speaker, but there was nothing even close. Often the company names meant nothing, no specific links able to be made, it impossible to verify whether the bookings were genuine or not. Anderson had tried to confirm who had been at Erdenheim during the visit of Anne Teacher’s brash Americans but got nowhere, it the same for the date of Yuri and Lara’s likely visit; his quick analysis of the photographs from his visit to Erdenheim had proved equally unhelpful, there nothing that stood out as being odd or unusual.
Throughout the morning the radio news had kept him up-to-date with the continuing turmoil in Russia. Domodedovo was now relegated to the briefest of mentions as details of the latest attacks were revealed – seventeen killed or missing on the MS Mikhail Bulgakov, four more deaths aboard the MS Konstantin Balmont, and one killed in the St. Petersburg bombing.
Yet, the Russian authorities were continuing to strike back, their massive media campaign at long last producing results when a Moscow shop assistant had recognised a man buying cigarettes. The man was quickly traced to the third-floor of a nearby apartment block, and in the chaos of the ensuing shoot-out, three had died, all presumed to be members of August 14. There was no mention of any arrests, although a cache of arms and explosives had reportedly been seized.
It was clearly a world away from the tranquillity of Marshwick and the relaxed surroundings of the Farriers. Coffee duly finished, Anderson set himself the task of finding more about Erdenheim’s foreign guests – preferably without upsetting anyone too important.
Moscow
Nabiyev carefully slipped on gloves and shoe covers, always conscious of the need to set the correct example. A nod that he was ready, and one of the FSB guards thrust open the shattered remains of the front door, simultaneously holding aside the police tape for Nabiyev to duck through into the apartment’s main living area. Nabiyev let the door swing half shut behind him before standing to survey a dishevelled and crowded interior, his eyes drawn to the blood-spattered sofa-bed. Just hours previously the apartment’s three occupants had been living a meaningful if slightly chaotic existence; now, thanks to one of them needing his half-hourly fix of nicotine, all three were dead.
Less than forty minutes after receiving the emergency call from the shop assistant, a six-man unit from the FSB’s Alpha Group had blasted their way through the apartment’s front door. Only one of the terrorists had been immediately visible, the man confused and barely conscious from the effects of two stun-grenades. A second terrorist had suddenly appeared from the rear room, gun blazing, joined a moment later by the third man. In the ensuing firefight, all three terrorists had been killed. It wasn’t the Alpha Group’s finest hour: despite their body armour, two of them had been seriously injured, and questions were already being asked as to why they had chosen to rush in rather than making a proper assessment. Live terrorists were considered a useful commodity, dead ones significantly less so.
The apartment’s main room had the usual trappings of table, chairs, and TV, but along two walls stood a line of large cardboard boxes, sometimes up to three boxes high. Nabiyev began the onerous task of looking through them, trying to disturb the contents as little as possible. All weapons, explosives and phones had supposedly been removed by the FSB’s investigators once Alpha had secured the apartment, and it would be at least a half-hour before the main forensic team arrived, leaving him time enough; in any case, as one of Grebeshkov’s hated team of inspectors, he had every reason to be there. And if nothing else, it made a welcome change from the claustrophobia of the Lubyanka.
The boxes contained enough processed food to last the terrorists several weeks; there were also work clothes and various uniforms – nothing of any interest to Nabiyev. He padded back across to the large table, and one-handed casually sorted through the topping of domestic clutter, mostly magazines. Nabiyev moved on, past the sofa-bed and into the bedroom. To his surprise, there was space enough for a large wardrobe, plus two single beds separated by a chest of drawers. He was more thorough now, although still unsure what he was looking for – his visit more one of idle curiosity than fear there would be something to implicate him. In fact, it had taken an internal FSB report for him to even know the three men’s names. In this sad world of terror and deceit, ignorance was a form of security, and the terrorists had given their lives without ever learning the identity of August 14’s leader or its backers, probably not even aware of allies within Russia such as Nabiyev.
Nabiyev himself was somewhat more knowledgeable, his understanding gained at the expense of his life becoming significantly more complex. Once there had been a happy marriage, two young children, a comfortable house in Moscow’s western suburbs. Everything had been just a little too cosy, and Nabiyev had followed a selfish path, allowing career and personal ambition to dominate his every waking hour.
Eventually, his wife had walked out, taking the children with her to live close to her family in Tatarstan. Nabiyev had been first bewildered and then distraught, falsely assuming his wife was having an affair. Too late he had finally come to understand that by satisfying the demands of the FSB he had completely ignored the needs of his own family.
The torm
ent and despondency of those early weeks had eventually dulled, Nabiyev slowly coming to terms with his own mistakes, realising that his wife had had little choice. He started to look afresh at his life, concerned as to how easily he had been seduced by Russian arrogance, seeing himself almost as a collaborator. Evidence of the authoritarian and repressive nature of Russian federalism was all around him, the FSB an efficient custodian of Moscow’s will. Now, for the first time since his teenage years, Nabiyev actively sought to satisfy the needs of his conscience rather than his pocket.
Nabiyev’s profession gave him a unique – if dangerous – insight into finding fellow activists. In turn that had led to contacts from Eastern Europe. Lacking unity, their proposed strategy had initially been one of non-violent resistance and civil disobedience – that was until they had come to the attention of August 14. Nabiyev had met its leader just the once, a rushed ninety minutes at a Saint Petersburg hotel last September, and had immediately been impressed by the elder man’s passion and vision.
By the start of February, all the required elements had been put in place, Nabiyev having to tread a delicate path to keep August 14 informed as to where the various dangers lay, the FSB’s recent successes more down to basic mistakes by the terrorists themselves. August 14’s more subtle offensive, focusing now on media manipulation and cyber-attacks, was already proving to be particularly effective, the personal risks to those involved significantly less. Russia’s Government had worked hard over the previous decade to improve computer security, anticipating an attack from amateur hackers or perhaps China; consequently, it was the more vulnerable alternatives such as energy supplies, transport centres, and communications that were presently being targeted. Life in Moscow was becoming intolerable with the roads often gridlocked, other transport links cut, and phones – even landlines – subject to frequent outages.
Nabiyev turned his thoughts back to more immediate problems: the apartment’s secrets would shortly be added to those dragged from Nazarenko, and he was growing nervous that soon there were be no secrets left. Quickly he checked the rest of the bedroom, before moving on to the kitchen and bathroom. To keep up the pretence, he made written notes of anything of interest, and would later prepare a detailed report on his visit, a paper copy duly filed away.
It was another ten minutes before Nabiyev left having found nothing to worry him. As he signalled for his car, an FSB guard spoke briefly into his radio; moments later, a record of Nabiyev’s visit was automatically assigned for processing, Nabiyev’s rank ensuring it was one of the few to land in General Grebeshkov’s personal inbox.
USS John Finn
The briefing-room was small but functional, a video camera passing on the Captain’s words to a far wider audience than the fourteen officers presently seated in front of him. Commander Jack Young stood at the podium, both elbows resting on its sloping surface. Even after almost two years as captain of the John Finn, Young still felt the pressure of command; he knew that others regarded him as fastidious, even a perfectionist, but he could only relax when every problem and difficulty had found a solution.
A guided missile destroyer of the Arleigh Burke class, the USS John Finn was a well-armed multi-role workhorse, capable of dealing with simultaneous air, surface and anti-submarine targets. Reasonable cost plus versatility – the designers had achieved the first of their two main objectives, while struggling with the second. In part because of this design conflict the John Finn was hardly the most stylish of vessels, the line of her hull spoilt by a misshapen topping of grey-metal boxes and a spike-encrusted central mast. The advanced design tried to ensure the superstructure was relatively free of vertical and horizontal surfaces which, in combination with its covering of radar absorbent tiles, helped to keep the destroyer’s radar signature to a minimum. With her Tomahawk cruise missiles and Ballistic Missile Defence System, the open expanse of the North Atlantic or the Pacific was the John Finn’s natural environment, most certainly not the busy waterway that was the Baltic Sea.
The John Finn’s deployment to the Baltic had originally been planned for the start of the BALTOPS training exercise in June, a U.S. sponsored event involving well over a dozen nations, even Russia up until 2014. Now the crisis in Russia and the murder of American citizens at Domodedovo had accelerated the destroyer’s placement, the John Finn a gentle reminder of American power, and a symbol to steady the nerves of Russia’s Baltic neighbours.
With a casual nod and a brief, “Thank you, gentlemen,” Young brought the meeting to order. A chart of the Baltic Sea flashed into focus on the large touch screen behind him, specifically the region known as the Gotland basin: Poland and Kaliningrad to the south, Sweden to the west, the three Baltic States to the east. The overhead lights dimmed in response, and a moment later a cluster of coloured lights appeared across both land and sea.
Young continued, “We will be passing the Russian enclave of Kaliningrad, headquarters to their Baltic Fleet, early tomorrow morning. Their main base is at Baltiysk, with a second at Kronstadt on the approach to Saint Petersburg. As a courtesy, the Russians have been informed of our deployment, so expect a chaperone once we pass the Danish island of Bornholm.” With each name, the relevant location flashed briefly, the John Finn’s predicted course showing as a blue line, a cluster of Russian red to the south and east.
Young paused, gaze sweeping along the three rows of his audience. “Every country has a right to defend itself and remember the terrorists of August 14 have taken American lives as well as Russian. Unfortunately, intelligence indicates that August 14 has strong links with Poland and the Baltic States, and they of course are part of NATO. There are other countries in the mix as well, notably the Ukraine and possibly Georgia. Retaliation by Russia against any of these countries would be regarded as an over-reaction, and whilst such an event is extremely unlikely, the U.S. feels it prudent to take sensible precautions. The USS John Finn is one such precaution. Diplomacy needs time to work its magic, so that everyone at home can sleep easy in their beds.”
Again Young paused, making sure he had everyone’s full attention. “We’re here to fly the flag, not to upset or bully anyone, and not to create an international incident. Everyone needs to stay sharp... no mistakes... no miscalculations... no close shaves.”
Young straightened his back and took two paces forward, bringing him up to the edge of the front row, “Questions?”
Boston, England
Charlotte was in two minds as to how to react to Anderson’s chosen quest. Whilst she remained unconvinced by his implausible ideas, there was enough to suggest her father had indeed found something unexpected. That didn’t mean he had been murdered to keep it secret but nor could Charlotte blame Anderson for taking up the challenge. In any case, she enjoyed their repartee and was content to see how the relationship would progress. The one difficultly was that Anderson’s actions were denying her mother closure as to the events surrounding her father’s death, and that was at best unhelpful.
So unhelpful in fact that Charlotte felt the need to find her own answers, and the sooner the better. If she had to dismantle Anderson’s ideas one slow step at a time, then that was fine with her. And if he thought Lara and Yuri were important, then step one was to find a little more about McDowell’s two associates.
The pursuit of the Russian/Polish duo provided an intriguing diversion during work’s quieter periods, although progress proved significantly more elusive. Her plan was first to try and pin down where Erdenheim’s guest speakers might stay: presumably some would need overnight accommodation and the Centre itself hardly offered five-star comfort.
It was awkward at best, her prying phone calls proving that hotel receptionists were universally immune to Charlotte’s charms. And there were so many unknowns: Lara and Yuri could have been at Erdenheim for a day, or a week; and with only one of them speaking good English, they might not even be guest speakers, just potential clients or acquaintances of McDowell.
More in hope than expectation
, Charlotte moved on to holiday lets and rental properties, her expertise allowing a more direct strategy. It wasn’t until late afternoon that some lateral thinking combined with inside knowledge resulted in something productive, if not exactly ground-breaking. And for once, being an estate agent had proved to be a distinct advantage.