* * *
Set back like most of its neighbours some forty yards from the road, the Fletcher’s home was one of a long line of country houses which formed a lonely but exclusive outpost on Boston’s north-eastern edge. Charlotte parked at the front, walking up the block-paved drive to the elegant entrance door, brain automatically reassessing the house’s relative pros and cons while adjusting her instinctive valuation.
The door was opened on Charlotte’s second ring, Sarah Fletcher looking tired and a little flustered, the small toddler in tow shyly half-hiding behind his mother’s skirt.
“Charlie, how lovely to see you,” said Sarah with a weary but welcoming smile. “It’s been too long and I need someone adult to talk to – and that includes Ray. As I said on the phone, he won’t be back from golf until after seven, so we’ve got ages before he starts chatting you up.”
Charlotte was ushered in to the front room, Sarah sweeping toys and books aside to create a space on the settee for Charlotte. The next half-hour was spent jumping from one random topic to another, covering everything from the complex welfare of babies and toddlers, to updates on mutual friends. Sarah couldn’t be classed as a close friend of Charlotte’s, but they had known each other for some twenty years, their senior-school acquaintance renewed once Charlotte had returned to Boston. A conversation centred around children was one Charlotte was happy to accept, as virtually all of her friends had at least one child, and sometimes at least one husband.
It was almost seven before Charlotte chose to move the conversation on to something a little different. Taking advantage of Sarah being distracted by her young son, she drifted towards the bay window, staring out across the front lawn to the house opposite. “How long have you been in this house now, Sarah, is it a year yet?” Charlotte tried to make her tone one of idle curiosity.
“Just over; it’s been wonderful here, I’m so pleased we bought it. The old house was always too small and we moved just before the prices went up – well, you’ll know that better than most. How is business, Charlie; there always seems plenty of ‘For Sale’ signs?”
“Business is pretty good... The house opposite, am I right in thinking it was sold a few months ago?” Charlotte hoped she wasn’t being too obvious, and for a second she wondered whether it would be easier just to tell Sarah the reason for her sudden interest.
“That’s right, went for well over half a million. It’s a beautiful house, and the plot must be at least an acre; five bedrooms, swimming pool at the back, south-west facing of course...”
“I wondered if it might be rented, not that’s it on any list, but I believe the Management Centre at Graythorp bought it.” Charlotte knew very well who had bought it, precisely when, and for exactly how much; what she didn’t know was who lived in it. Not Carter, and not McDowell, unless he wanted a second home to add to his three-bedroom house in Marshwick.
“I don’t think it’s rented,” Sarah replied. “It wasn’t on the market for long. Chap moved in middle of February but he seems to be away a lot of the time; not that I’m deliberately nosy, I just don’t like it when a house is empty.” Sarah had finally found a suitable TV channel to keep her son occupied and her full attention moved back towards Charlotte. “Management Centre... is that Erdenheim? Weren’t they in trouble for something?”
“There was a car crash and a young man was killed; an Erdenheim van was involved but it was just an unfortunate accident... It’s a big house for just one person.” Charlotte said, working hard to get the conversation back on track.
“Not fair, is it; I’ve certainly not seen a wife. Ray’s met him but I’ve just gazed wantonly – he’s very handsome...” Sarah’s eyes started to glaze over then she gave a broad smile, “Too rich and too old for me; must be in his fifties. American, I think Ray said. I drool over him, and Ray drools over his car, what a sad couple we are.”
“Fast and sporty? I mean the car not the man,” Charlotte asked, matching Sarah’s smile.
“Very sporty and very fast; white Ferrari... well something Italian anyway.”
“And he’s there now?”
Charlotte had finally gone too far. “I think someone is hiding something,” Sarah said sharply. “What do you know that I don’t, Charlie?”
“Oh, nothing really; I’d heard that a well-known writer was working at Erdenheim and I just wondered who it was.” It was the best Charlotte could come up with on the spur of the moment, and it was worrying that Sarah’s description was edging far more towards the late Charles Zhilin than the mysterious Yuri.
“Are you telling me this visit has an ulterior motive?” Sarah asked curiously. “Should I be upset that we’re only a means to an end?”
Sarah didn’t sound upset, but Charlotte was already regretting her high-handed use of a friend. “I’m sorry, Sarah; I guess I’m the one who’s being nosy.”
“Don’t worry about it; I’m all for killing two birds with one stone as the saying goes. I sense you’re not telling me everything but I’m far too polite to pry.” Sarah’s brow furrowed, “I think I saw his car earlier, or maybe it was yesterday; in any case, I’m fairly sure he’s about somewhere.”
“I don’t suppose you know his name?” Charlotte asked, pushing her luck as far as she dared.
“Sorry, no,” Sarah said immediately. “Ray might have an idea though. Now, Charlie, what other intrigue have you got for me – whatever it is, it’s got to be better than a diet of Mickey Mouse and Curious George...”
It was another fifteen minutes before Ray breezed in through the lounge door, eyes widening appreciatively as he recognised Charlotte.
“Down tiger,” Sarah said mockingly, “Charlie’s got herself a boyfriend, so hands off.”
“He’s just a friend,” Charlotte said quickly. “I didn’t say boyfriend.”
“That’s how it all starts,” Sarah said, “There’s no such thing as a male friend for someone as attractive as you; trust me, I know.” She turned back to her husband, “Ray, what’s the man opposite called?”
“You mean DeLorean?” Ray replied, fending off his son as they began a ritual pre-bedtime play fight.
“DeLorean? Are you talking about his car? I thought it was a Ferrari?”
“No, it’s a Lamborghini,” Ray said, distracted.
“DeLorean, Lamborghini, Ferrari… You talk to him, Charlie; just remember what I said about not having an adult conversation.”
“It’s how I remember his name,” Ray said defensively. “DeLorean as in Back to the Future.”
“That makes sense,” Charlotte said equally confused.
“His Lamborghini is a supercar, like the DeLorean in Back to the Future. DeLorean equals Back to the Future equals Marty McFly; so it’s Marty from across the road. Makes perfect sense to me. Didn’t get the guy’s surname.”
Marty McFly, Martin McFly… Charlotte was just thankful it wasn’t Charles.
She left after another fifteen minutes, pleased but also a little confused. It had obviously been naïve to assume the Erdenheim house was for the convenience of guest speakers, and it made far more sense for it to be occupied on a more permanent basis. Yet this was an expensive and extravagant resource, a half a million plus house bought not for one of Erdenheim’s directors but for an American with a love of fast cars.
It was just a little odd, and for a brief moment Charlotte worried that Anderson’s intuition might actually be proving superior to her scepticism – then reason prevailed. Quite who Marty might actually be wasn’t important at the moment, Charlotte content to savour her success as a part-time private eye.
Moscow
Markova’s perch beside the tree was at best uncomfortable and – at three hundred metres – further away than she would have liked but at least it gave her an unrestricted view of the rear of Golubeva’s house, down past the walled garden and along to the wide veranda. The modern three-storey house in Moscow’s western suburbs was something for Markova to aspire to, although she had no idea why a
nyone needed so many rooms, especially when you were just an ageing woman with no husband, nor any children to nurture or support.
The National Security Advisor was Markova’s second high-profile target in five days, Moscow’s Police Commissioner having proved somewhat easier to study. It would take a month or more to check every member of the Security Committee, Grebeshkov pushing his authority to the limit in the vain hope that the spetsnaz would discover something of interest. With no-one seemingly immune from Grebeshkov’s suspicions, a second surveillance unit matched Markova some ten kilometres to the north, their latest target the general’s own deputy, a Colonel Nabiyev.
Golubeva’s house was one of a dozen which formed its own gated community, the swathe of trees on the higher ground to the rear of the properties helping ensure Markova’s presence remained undetected. Apart from two guards permanently stationed beside the wide metal gates, community security was mainly electronic, CCTV watching every possible access route. Golubeva was also honoured with two live-in bodyguards, and soon after she had arrived home an irregular police patrol had started to keep a protective eye on developments.
Markova’s orders from Grebeshkov had been simple enough: tail each Committee member in turn and make a note of anything unusual – not easy with just a team of six when twenty-four was the norm. The unofficial nature of Markova’s task meant she was effectively working with one hand tied behind her back, conscious that Golubeva likely had enough authority to finish her career for good.
There was sudden movement from behind a window on the second floor. Markova adjusted her headphones, realigning the laser microphone for the best possible sound quality, the device close to its maximum range. The voices were still too distorted to pick out anything meaningful and it would be an hour or more before she could check the computer-enhanced version. Like many assignments, it was an exasperating experience, just a few minutes activity every hour but with the constant fear you would be the one to miss something vital.
Irina Golubeva was a very popular lady, visitors – mostly middle-aged males – arriving each evening and staying for between one and three hours; never the same person, a total of eight in just three nights. The informal nature of Markova’s task meant she was having to analyse the various photographs and sound recordings herself; even so, the FSB’s facial-recognition software made identifying Golubeva’s callers a relatively simple task. Most were minor government officials, covering a range of departments, but there was also a high-powered executive from Channel One Russia. So far, the sound recordings had proved unhelpful, with half completely unintelligible, the rest revealing nothing out of the ordinary.
And what exactly should Markova regard as unusual? Earlier that evening two male visitors had joined Golubeva at a friendly dinner for three, followed by drinks on the veranda, then several phone calls all made from behind closed doors – was any of that supposed to be unusual? Markova hadn’t recognised either of the men, and having arrived within ten minutes of each other, they had left after some two hours, one having his own bodyguard and driver. Markova had no real idea what the President’s National Security Advisor’s role actually involved, so it was quite possible such meetings were nothing more than routine.
However, the latest caller was rather different to the rest: arriving some twenty minutes earlier, Markova’s team at the front of the house had noted that although not in uniform he looked to be military; mid-thirties, he hadn’t treated Golubeva with any obvious deference, his Volkswagen hire car offering no clue as to the identity of its driver.
To Markova that seemed more than sufficient to be classed as unusual. Fifty minutes later she was seated rather more comfortably than before in a black Lada, following the VW as it turned west towards Vnukovo International Airport. Markova stayed well back, the risk of being spotted a worse alternative to losing contact.
The trip was becoming more of a long-distance trek than she had anticipated but Markova persevered, the Lada’s headlights struggling to pick out the VW through the late-evening rain. The two cars sped past the turn-off to Vnukovo, eventually joining the M3 Ukraine Highway as it headed south-west.
Some seventy kilometres from Moscow, the Volkswagen turned towards the town of Naro-Fominsk, swinging right to pull up at the barrier guarding its destination. Markova kept going, gaze straight ahead, no need to read the large signs. The trend of Golubeva’s contacts was starting to become disturbing: first government officials, then TV executives, now the Russian military, or more specifically the 6th Independent Tank Brigade, 20th Army.
Markova turned back towards Moscow, working out whether to spoil Grebeshkov’s evening by phone or in person.