* * *
The concrete surface of the pillbox was a convenient vantage point, allowing an unrestricted if distant view of Erdenheim, a wide ledge providing a good resting place for Anderson’s forearms. The Centre’s car park was more than half-full but no sign of a white sports car, the highlight of the past hour the sight of a small van from Boston delivering farm produce.
For some reason he wasn’t that bothered, confident that Charlotte would have Marty’s surname figured out soon enough. Erdenheim might be short on clients but Marty’s house proved its enigmatic backers had plenty of money, Devereau doubtful as to whether McDowell and Carter had found the million-plus to find the Management Centre themselves. Carter had sold his computer company for several million but had invested badly, the money mostly frittered away; yet he obviously hadn’t lost any of his computer skills, writing most of the software for Erdenheim’s computer simulations.
Boredom was starting to catch up with Anderson and he moved across to the western side of the pillbox, gaze idly following the road as it meandered its way into Graythorp proper. He had spent exactly a week chasing his way around the Lincolnshire countryside but had never really taken the time to get to know the area. The only high point was the sight of the Boston Stump several miles away, and the totally flat landscape with its scarcity of trees still seemed alien to him.
Abruptly Anderson froze, listening intently. From far-off came the unmistakable whirring of a helicopter, the squat shape easy to pick up against a bright blue sky. It flew in from the south-west, heading straight for Erdenheim before angling steeply down to land on the helipad. The main rotor blade slowed, idling impatiently while the helicopter’s four passengers – each struggling with a large suitcase – stepped down on to the tarmac. McDowell and another man emerged from inside the main building to greet them; after brief handshakes, the new arrivals were escorted into the Management Centre. Anderson took a good selection of photos but wasn’t optimistic as to whether they would be of any use – even with the zoom the distance was too great for a quality shot.
The helicopter left without waiting, heading back the way it had come. Anderson watched for another twenty minutes before calling it a day, curious as to what the helicopter’s visit might mean.
Just because Erdenheim might be struggling for numbers, there was no reason to assume clients and guest speakers wouldn’t still be putting in an appearance. Even so, it was an intriguing development, and Anderson sensed it was time he actually did some proper work for a change. He had promised McDowell a feature on Erdenheim and if nothing else, it would give him a good excuse for a follow-up visit.
Moscow
The Senate building within the Moscow Kremlin appeared to be in turmoil, aides scurrying back and forth, Grebeshkov’s two armed escorts saying little as they guided him through the corridors of the President’s power base. The evening summons to the Kremlin had left no room for discussion, and it had been with a deep sense of foreboding that Grebeshkov had walked out of the FSB’s headquarters and into the waiting Mercedes. The Prime Minister had been unavailable all day, leading to rumours of a heart attack, or even that he was under arrest. The latter possibility certainly didn’t augur well for Grebeshkov, especially with his recent promotion as the PM’s Special Adviser.
The leading escort stopped by a double set of doors and Grebeshkov was ushered into the Security Council Meeting Hall. A respectful salute, then Grebeshkov was left alone with his thoughts, the room’s sombre feel totally in tune with Grebeshkov’s present mood.
Grebeshkov chose to seat himself near to one end of the long conference table. After the excessive number of meetings he had been forced to endure over the last week, it seemed fitting that he should be sacked – or would it be court-martialled – in such formal surroundings. He assumed he was about to become another casualty of the fallout from Lithuania, and the raid had turned out to be a serious error of judgement. The events of Thursday, culminating in the Moscow riot, had finally forced the Prime Minister’s hand, and even the destruction of a second terrorist cell could not prevent the inevitable. Of the twenty spetsnaz smuggled into Lithuania, four had been killed, another six wounded. Although the possibility of the dachas being booby-trapped had been considered, the reluctance of August 14 to consider suicide attacks had led the Special Forces to downplay such a possibility. And no-one had foreseen that the terrorists would create escape tunnels. Ten or more had managed to slip away before doubling back to turn the attack on its head.
Even the extraction of the spetsnaz – including the dead – had been beset with problems, coming close to disaster. NATO forces in northern Lithuania had already been on standby, air and ground units consequently reacting far more quickly than had been anticipated. It was only because the two helicopter pilots had wilfully disobeyed orders, extricating the spetsnaz earlier than planned, that they had managed to cross into Belarus just minutes before being intercepted.
To complete the debacle, the intelligence gathered from the dacha complex was apparently negligible, the only significant success the capture of a lone terrorist. At least seven others had been killed, but altogether it was a poor reward for the loss of four good men, and the repercussions were only just beginning.
Despite such setbacks, Grebeshkov truly believed Moscow’s war against August 14 was being won, albeit slowly. Of the original thirteen terrorists, just six were left, including of course, the FSB’s prime target of Eglitis. With Nazarenko’s help, they now had names and faces for all six, their age profile a curious split of young and old: nine were under twenty-five, the remaining four all over fifty.
Not that August 14 was Moscow’s only problem. While Markova’s fears that Golubeva could be part of a coup were probably an exaggeration, there was enough evidence to sow the seeds of doubt, especially in the present atmosphere of mistrust. Grebeshkov had considered denouncing Golubeva in the vain hope of saving himself before immediately rejecting the idea. She could simply be acting on the President’s behalf, garnering support for difficult times ahead. Even if guilty, would ruining Golubeva really help Grebeshkov’s cause? Whatever her motives, for the moment at least, the wisest course seemed simply to say nothing.
Forty minutes he had been alone with his thoughts when the conference door was thrust open and the President strode into the room, the door pulled closed behind him. Grebeshkov stood respectfully, the President immediately waving him to sit back down.
“I’ll be brief, General,” the President said brusquely, seating himself directly opposite Grebeshkov. “Your record as an investigator in the FSB is impressive. Success which, according to Irina Golubeva, is based on old-fashioned thoroughness combined with the confidence to act as much on instinct as reason. Is that a fair assessment, General?”
“I would like to think so, Sir.” Golubeva was rapidly going up in Grebeshkov’s estimation, her unexpected praise an immediate reward for his decision not to expose her.
The President continued, “Recent events have precipitated a change in policy, General Grebeshkov; as of now, you will take total charge of the FSB counter-terrorist operation, with direct control over the Police and National Guard. All other of your responsibilities will be delegated elsewhere. I expect the remaining six members of August 14 to be caught or killed by the end of the month. Is that clear, General?”
“Perfectly clear, Sir.” What else could he say?
“The National Advisory Committee meets tomorrow at ten to discuss Lithuania. The mess there needs to be cleared up or preferably turned to our advantage. I expect you to attend.”
Grebeshkov stood as the President left, a mixture of emotions churning inside of him. It wasn’t a court-martial but it might well soon be; there were just over two weeks until the end of May – two weeks to perform a miracle.
Marshwick, England
On the market for some eight months but left furnished so it could continue as a holiday let, a short gravelled drive led up to the cottage’s front door
. Detached, cottage-style bungalow, two bedrooms, recently modernised, large plot to include small arable field, no onward chain – the agency brochure had done its best but interest had been minimal. Another of the cottage’s key features was its isolation, with the nearest neighbour being some two hundred yards back along the country road towards Marshwick.
The move from the Farriers definitely offered Anderson far more space, and it would have been foolish to spurn the convenience of a washing machine and kitchen. Both were becoming essential as he was fast running out of clean clothes and thanks to the Farriers also eating far too much. Now it would be back to a less-fattening and rather more basic menu, more down to laziness than lack of culinary skill.
It had been after six by the time Charlotte had arrived at the Farriers with the house keys. A hurried meal, then with each taking their own car to the cottage, there had been limited opportunity to chat and compare notes. Anderson thus took his time about settling himself in to his new surroundings, working hard to encourage the semi-serious banter with Charlotte which seemed to have become part of their normal routine. But there was also something else, a mutual attraction which neither now tried to disguise.
Anderson’s offering of red wine might have been rejected but their parting kiss was as tender and affectionate as Anderson could have hoped for. And with Charlotte’s work rota giving her a free Saturday, the promise of a mystery tour around Lincolnshire was something different to look forward to, a free day away from the self-imposed stress of Pat McDowell and Erdenheim.