* * *
From the opposite pavement Eglitis backed away, moving south-west towards the Kremlin. As two of Grebeshkov’s bodyguards crouched over the General’s still body, a third opened fire, the shop window beside Eglitis shattering with a deafening crash. Around Eglitis the pavement emptied as pedestrians sought sanctuary wherever they could. At least one person was already wounded, his cries merging with the frightened screams of those caught up in the mayhem. A few yards away, a car had smashed into the rear of another, virtually blocking the street, a bemused driver standing beside his car and staring open-mouthed at the chaos unfolding on either side of the street.
Further back down Nikolskaya Street, a blue Lada mounted the pavement, terrified pedestrians flinging themselves aside as the car fought its way along the one-way street and past the now stationary traffic. Eglitis pressed himself into the cover of a doorway, firing twice in the vague direction of Grebeshkov’s bodyguards; then, as the Lada shuddered to a halt beside him, he wrenched open the rear door and threw himself in.
An instant later bullets peppered the side of the car, the young driver grunting in pain as blood darkened the back of his shirt. He jammed his foot back down on the accelerator and the Lada leapt forward. Another hundred metres and the man wrenched the wheel to the left, down a narrow lane and past the Epiphany Monastery. Abruptly the Lada screeched to a halt behind stationary traffic, Eglitis thrown painfully against the driver’s head-rest.
“Keep going!” Eglitis shouted. “Just get us anywhere but here!”
The driver used the pavement again, the Lada moving only a few yards before a line of parked and empty cars blocked the way ahead. A savage pull on the wheel, and the Lada smashed its way back onto the road, cars battered aside in its frenzied attempt to break free.
The driver turned as though to speak to Eglitis, then with a blood-choked sigh he slumped forward. Eglitis took a glance behind, choosing to continue on foot, half-running half-walking, gun hand held tight inside his jacket. He gave another hurried glance back, brain filtering out the innocent to focus on four men in the black uniform of the FSB’s counter-terrorist unit, plus at least half-a-dozen police. The closest was some seventy metres away, gun drawn, looking but not yet seeing his quarry. Eglitis couldn’t understand how the security forces had reacted so quickly, sensing now that he had been drawn into some sort of trap.
He raced left, heading towards the nearest metro entrance. Heart pounding, his breathing was becoming laboured and he felt his chest begin to tighten, the spasm pressing in with an intensity that drew a sudden gasp.
Eglitis staggered to a stop, sinking to his knees, fighting against the pain.
From around the corner a single policeman appeared gun in hand. He looked straight at Eglitis, then shouted something incoherent. Eglitis was barely conscious but he managed to loose off a shot, hand shaking with the strain.
The reply was instantaneous, a bullet tugging at Eglitis’ right arm, a second thumping into his side. The shock turned the angina into a full-blown heart attack and a grey-faced Eglitis collapsed to the ground, left hand clutching helplessly at his chest.
Bushey, England
Devereau was running late, the plans for his grand-daughter’s birthday apparently requiring his involvement in a long list of instructions, thus ensuring he would not suddenly cry off with a forgotten appointment or some other familiar excuse. List duly considered and confirmed, Devereau was given leave by his wife to begin his usual early morning constitutional for the newspaper. The commuter and school traffic had just about ended, a daily waste of time of which Devereau was delighted not to be a part. It was eight years since he and MI6 had parted company, Devereau being pig-headed and resigning on a matter of principle when falsely accused of fiddling his expenses and then trying to cover it up. The injustice of it all played only a small part in his reasons for leaving. What rankled most was his superiors’ lack of belief in his ability. If he had wanted to fiddle his expenses, it would have taken far more than a junior clerk to ferret it out.
That was all well in the past, and Devereau was quite proud of the freedom his new occupation gave him – no fixed base except his home, no secretary except his live-in daughter, no hour-long city commute. Thank heaven for his HTC phone: it had most of the resources of his previous office, all nicely wrapped up in one very smart pocket-sized package.
He walked at a steady pace, finding the breeze with its persistent rain more refreshing than unpleasant. In any case, Devereau was feeling rather pleased with himself, and it would have taken a torrential downpour to dampen his mood. Asking Anderson to go to Marshwick had been one of Devereau’s better ideas and it was clear there was something very unusual happening at Graythorp. Despite his cavalier treatment of Anderson, he was now as much a friend as employee, and Devereau was content to let Anderson take the lead, helping out if needed. Friends in the Security Services were nowadays few and far between and Devereau mentally worked his way through his diminishing list of Intelligence contacts, weighing up which one might know something of Erdenheim’s true role.
Some fifty yards behind Devereau, on the opposite side of the road, a stolen BMW crawled slowly along. The driver kept the BMW in second gear, making regular checks on rear-view and wing mirrors for signs of other traffic. Despite the hour, the suburban road was relatively quiet, and August 14’s second target of the day never once looked back, Devereau striding along at a surprisingly brisk pace.
The BMW’s driver let the car glide to a halt while he carefully checked the mirrors once more. Still undecided as to his next move, he wavered between a simple hit-and-run or waiting for an opportunity with a more predictable outcome. It needed to be clear-cut, and concussion or even several broken bones would simply not suffice.
Devereau gave a quick glance behind, then started to angle his way across the road. The driver made an instant decision. Seizing his chance he pressed down hard on the accelerator and the BMW surged forward.
Devereau was only a yard past the central white line when he looked to his left. For a brief second he froze, then instinctively he threw himself backwards.
The driver snatched the steering wheel to the right and there was a dull thump as metal and plastic met flesh and bone, Devereau’s body half twisting as his head smashed down onto the bonnet. An instant later his broken body was cast aside, a squeal of protest dragged from the tyres as they skidded across the tarmac. The driver immediately released the brake, before thrusting his foot back down on the accelerator.
The adrenalin was still doing its work as the driver swung the car through two right turns and out onto the main road. Now he began to wonder if he had been too clever, the shriek of the tyres must have attracted attention and already someone might be on the phone, giving details of the colour and make of the car. Yet an innocent driver would surely have slammed on the brakes, even if he later drove away in panic.
The driver forced his breathing to slow: no need to worry, it was a job well done.
Lincolnshire, England
Breakfast became a rushed affair and it was well after eight by the time Charlotte left, Anderson wasting another hour before choosing to get with grips with writing his second article on Erdenheim; this one not just for local consumption but a money-making exclusive unmasking all of Erdenheim’s many secrets. Sadly, he wasn’t quite certain as yet what exactly they were.
Anderson sat in the kitchen, paper notes resting on the table beside him, and stared at the laptop hoping for inspiration. Devereau was the expert on high-powered scandals and exposés, Anderson the apprentice with his first big case and depending upon how well their assumptions panned out, either Erdenheim was part of a covert scheme to counter August 14 or it was August 14. Ideally, Anderson wanted an opening statement that was suitably dramatic and could cleverly cover all possibilities, but with facts presently a little thin on the ground, that was proving difficult.
Anderson’s deliberations were interrupted by the crunch of a c
ar on the gravel drive. He glanced through the window to see McDowell emerge from a black SUV; no sign of anyone else. Anderson mulled over his options then dismissed the cowardly ones – even so, he only half-opened the front door.
“Mr Anderson, I hope I haven’t interrupted anything important. I’ve come with an invitation from Martin Rebane...”
McDowell’s demeanour was relaxed, his smile seemingly genuine. Anderson breathed out in relief, his grip on the door loosening. It was the only invitation McDowell needed, and in one fluid motion the door was barged open, Anderson thumped in the pit of his stomach.
Doubled over, he took a step back, unable to do anything but watch as McDowell strode across the threshold, grabbing Anderson by the shoulders and dragging him into the kitchen and up onto a chair.
Anderson sat gasping for breath and trying not to throw up, eyes fixed on McDowell as he pulled up a chair to sit down opposite, gun held casually in his right hand. Two more men appeared from outside, one starting a search of the kitchen, the other checking Anderson’s pockets, his phone and keys duly joining the laptop on the kitchen table. The rest of the cottage was next on the men’s list, McDowell seemingly content to keep a wary eye on Anderson while idly reading through his handwritten notes.
“Make yourself at home,” said Anderson, still struggling not to be sick.
“You just couldn’t let it lie,” McDowell said, with the trace of a smile, “and look where it’s got you. As soon as you sent Devereau to Uxbridge, you left us with little choice.” He glanced down at Anderson’s notes, “Martin Rebane, Klaudia Woroniecki, Aldis Eglitis and someone called Yuri – you’ve been busy.”
Anderson stayed silent, watching as McDowell’s men returned, one placing a suitcase beside McDowell, the second adding the ubiquitous Red Terror to the select pile resting on the kitchen table.
With a wry smile McDowell opened the book to a random page before abruptly snapping it shut, his tone instantly becoming more hostile, “Who else knows about Erdenheim?”
Anderson ignored the question. “Am I going somewhere?” he asked, looking down at his suitcase.
McDowell took his time answering, his voice returning to its previous more casual inflection. “Just for a couple of days. As I said, you have an invitation from Marty – not one you can easily refuse, unfortunately. And if anyone gets curious, we’ve left enough clothes to suggest you’re coming back.”
Anderson had to ask, “Is that likely?”
“Anything’s possible,” McDowell replied, with a cold smile. “I’ll ask again, who else knows the truth about Erdenheim?”
“The truth?” repeated Anderson, desperately trying to think of something that would save him. “I don’t even know what the truth is.”
“Not sure I believe you, Mike. Lie again and I’ll break your fucking arm.” The words were spoken with barely a change in tone, yet McDowell left little doubt he would be more than happy to carry out his threat.
“Check my notes,” Anderson said nervously. “Devereau got nothing useful from Uxbridge. I might not have taken Rebane at his word but that doesn’t mean I know what’s really happening at Erdenheim; I had a couple of ideas but nothing definite.” It was near enough the truth and it might just be enough to protect Charlotte and Devereau.
“And what ideas might they be?”
Anderson knew McDowell wouldn’t believe him if he came up with something trivial and he just had to try and muddy the waters a little. “It was a toss-up between Erdenheim helping the FSB against August 14 and somehow trying to take advantage of the terrorists’ success; either way it seemed to explain why you were so sensitive about unwanted publicity.”
“But now you believe something different?”
“People threatening you with a gun can do that,” said Anderson softly. “I’m guessing Erdenheim is closer to August 14 than I imagined.”
McDowell stared at Anderson thoughtfully, “I’m almost convinced you’re telling the truth, Mike; for your girlfriend’s sake, you’d better hope that Rebane thinks so too...”
Five minutes later, a morose Anderson was in the back of his car on the way to Graythorp, McDowell seated beside him, the SUV following on close behind. The car stopped outside the Management Centre’s front entrance, McDowell and one of his men hustling Anderson through the door and into the small office.
There was a wait of several minutes before Rebane finally appeared, the questions of earlier repeated. Anderson stuck with his story, doing his best to emphasise that Devereau had little clue as to Erdenheim’s actual role, Charlotte knowing even less.
It was a good twenty minutes before Rebane seemed satisfied; a brief consultation with McDowell then he slid across an iPhone, the display already showing a picture.
“You recognise the image?” Rebane asked quietly.
Anderson looked, then nodded. The ‘Welch and Saunders’ sign left no room for doubt, while the timestamp showed the image had been taken earlier that morning.
“We have someone outside the estate agent’s and another watching Charlotte Saunders’ house. Co-operate, and no harm will come to her, or you. All we need is for you to convince Miss Saunders that you’ve disappeared off somewhere for a while. Now, surely that shouldn’t be too hard.”
“And you’ll kill us both if I don’t? Two more deaths will hardly protect Erdenheim.” Anderson had regained a little backbone.
Rebane looked thoughtfully across at Anderson, “Your cottage is nice and isolated; it would be tragic if it caught fire with you and your girlfriend asleep inside. I imagine it should be well alight before anyone else notices....” Rebane shrugged, “A credible scenario, at least for a while. In any event, it will give us the time we need and your lack of cooperation would have achieved nothing.”
“Charlotte might not believe me,” Anderson said desperately. “You can’t just kill her because I’m a bad actor. And if Charlotte contacts the police then what’s the point – you’ll just convince them she’s telling the truth.”
“The point is,” Rebane said forcefully, “that Erdenheim needs to be left alone, without anyone interfering in matters that are not their concern. If you think I’m bluffing, then that would be a very serious mistake. Do you not yet understand what you’re up against? We couldn’t operate as we do without the authorities turning a blind eye. August 14 isn’t just a few terrorists; it’s a united international effort to break Russia apart. Any appeal to the police would simply be classified as a crank call, or filed and instantly forgotten. Your friend Devereau has already been successfully warned off and you’re entirely on your own, no-one of importance caring whether you live or die.”
Anderson’s brain couldn’t function and he had no clue as to whether Rebane was telling the truth or not; anything seemed possible, and he was too confused to work out even the most obvious flaws. Anderson seemed to have little chance to save himself, but somehow he might still be able to save Charlotte. However, the way he felt at the moment, she would easily hear the stress – even fear – in his voice.
“I can send a text...” Anderson muttered, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I’m presently up to speaking to Charlotte, she’ll know instantly something is wrong.”
“I think the two of you have gone past the stage where a text would suffice, especially under such circumstances. If you phone her at the estate agent’s, I assume she wouldn’t expect a video call, and we can work on what you need to say... What does she know of Adam Devereau?”
“He’s just a name,” replied Anderson, not sure what Rebane was after. “She knows he’s my boss but that’s it.”
“Devereau knew George Saunders from when exactly?”
“It was years ago; twenty or more. I got the impression they hadn’t been in a contact for a good few years.”
“Yet he still sent you to pay his respects. Why was that?”
“Guilt, I guess,” said Anderson getting exasperated. “He certainly couldn’t be bothered to go himself and I owed him a fa
vour; it wasn’t anything complicated.”
Rebane seemed pleased for some reason, perhaps worried that the link between Saunders and Devereau might have been closer. “Relax, Mr Anderson; one brief call to Charlotte Saunders, and then it’s a nice sea voyage to Poland and accommodation better suited than Erdenheim to cope with unwelcome guests.”
“Somehow that doesn’t inspire me with confidence. Is to be an accidental drowning this time, or will you just wait until I get to Poland?”
“You are not the enemy here, Mr Anderson. All I need is a week, two at the most; then you will be released. If you’re lucky you might even get a few people to believe your story, just not anyone who really matters.”
Anderson remained silent, totally unconvinced, fearful of what the next few hours would bring.