Chapter 13 – Wednesday, May 19th
Moscow
The nurse cast a despairing look at her erstwhile patient then strode haughtily from the room: if Grebeshkov wanted to run the risk of an infection and thus kill himself, then that was his problem, not hers. As a result the General’s transfer from bed to wheelchair was made with the inexpert assistance of two bodyguards. It was then only a short journey to the main elevators, before a final transit along the wide passageway to the hospital’s side entrance. Outside, a three-car convoy waited impatiently with engines running.
There was a slight delay as Grebeshkov struggled to manoeuvre his way onto the back seat of the black limousine, then the convoy accelerated away, heading west. The lead car used its siren in an attempt to clear the road ahead, its task made more difficult by traffic-clogged roads and frustrated drivers, the convoy stop-starting its way towards Barvikha and the government dachas. Grebeshkov would have preferred to have returned home, but with the doctors predicting a recovery time of two to three weeks, the President had been insistent, and four days enforced recuperation at Barvikha was the very least he would accept – in the present climate, the Kremlin or even the Lubyanka was no place for an invalid.
Grebeshkov had been shot twice, the first bullet striking him in his side in line with his heart, the second passing though his right thigh. The body armour had stopped the first bullet, although its kinetic energy still had the potential to kill: known as behind-armour blunt trauma, a cone-shaped layer of compressed body armour and clothing was often driven into the soft tissue, creating a surface injury that at first glance looked similar to a gunshot wound. The resultant shock-wave could on occasion cause more serious injuries depending upon where the bullet struck; in extreme cases, such as when the pulmonary artery was lacerated, the energy transfer itself was the cause of death. Fortunately for Grebeshkov, internal damage was restricted to a single fractured rib. The second bullet had missed both the femur and the femoral artery, and although there was some soft tissue damage plus bruising to the bone, the recommended treatment was nothing more than bed rest and a mix of anti-inflammatories and antibiotics.
Of dubious consolation was the fact that Eglitis and his associate had both been killed, representing belated justice for two more perpetrators of the Metro bombings. That left just one man, a sixty-year old Polish man named Bagiński, as the sole survivor from Eglitis’ original four cells.
Just for an instant, Grebeshkov almost felt sorry for Bagiński: everyone involved was fighting for a cause they truly believed in, and under different circumstances Grebeshkov might be the one pushed to extremes while trying to achieve the impossible. The only real difference between them was their motivation, each of them doing what they thought was right.
In the hours since the assassination attempt, Grebeshkov had worked hard to stay in touch with events both in Moscow and the Baltic. Eglitis’ personal effects had led in turn to his hideout, a large three-storey house east of the city centre, although the subsequent search had produced little of interest other than the usual clutch of cell phones.
With Eglitis’ death it had been hoped the threat from August 14 would decrease; however, since early that morning there had been an upsurge of terrorist attacks against government facilities – not bombs or bullets, but renewed cyber-espionage. The victims ranged from the old favourites of transportation, communications and the electric power grid, to the previously untouched targets of water supplies and hospital services, even the stock market. Life for the people of Moscow had moved on from the intolerable to the impossible, with disruption to every aspect of their daily existence.
August 14’s tactics were working to good effect, with even the most placid of Muscovites becoming frustrated and angry as they watched the city crumble around them. Industrial action was spreading, a strike by immigrant workers protesting against the government’s crackdown on its East European workforce exacerbated when Russian workers also took to the streets, demanding an even tougher stance against August 14 and its Western masters. Combined with those employees who couldn’t actually get to work, Moscow was effectively in the grip of a general strike.
With respect to the Baltic, a short-term compromise had finally been agreed in order to allow time for a more permanent solution to be found. NATO would halt reinforcements heading to the Baltic, while Poland would allow a joint American-Russian mission access to the training centre near Gdansk and to its twenty occupants, all of whom were now being held at a military facility in Gdynia. In return, Russia would permit vessels – other than those heading for Gdansk’s three fuel terminals – to enter port. That process had already started – but with merchant ships having first to be inspected and then only allowed to follow a very specific route, entry to Gdansk and Gdynia was proving to be fairly tedious. In effect, Russia was imposing a shipping-based quota system. Finally, for mutual protection amid the fear of some tragic mistake, a new no-fly zone had been established, covering the Baltic for one hundred kilometres north and east of Gdansk, with Gdansk Lech Walesa Airport and the military airport at Gdynia temporarily closed to all flights.
To Grebeshkov it looked to be more of a Russian concession than an equitable compromise, yet it was still far better than having warships throwing missiles at each other. Reaction on Moscow’s streets was universally negative, Russia’s right-wing media similarly unwilling to accept anything other than total victory – whatever that might mean. Grebeshkov’s own fears centred on a military coup, and he wondered whether to re-assign Markova to her earlier task. He quickly realised it was too late for that, and in any case his temporary home would hardly be the best place to counter Golubeva’s schemes.
Even with generous use of the siren, the thirty kilometre journey to the dacha took well over an hour, Grebeshkov’s eventual transfer into bed made easier by the presence of both his wife and a nurse. Although not quite as sumptuous as some of the government’s many country houses, Grebeshkov had been allocated a dacha of two stories and a range of modern amenities. Surrounded on all sides by a forest of pine, the dacha’s faded wooden boards and antique furniture gave it a traditional feel, its many rooms and sombre decor offering an environment of tranquillity, a place to relax and forget the troubles of the world.
However, relaxation was not high on Grebeshkov’s list of priorities. Within an hour, the first report arrived from the Lubyanka, Grebeshkov reading through the details with a frown of concentration. He had instructed an FSB team to review recent strikes and unrest to see if there was a pattern, and their initial findings left little room for doubt, duly confirming Grebeshkov’s worst fears. The team concluded that while many strikes were obviously spontaneous, others revealed a more organised approach, fermented by activists working in concert. It was even suggested that this too was a deliberate act by August 14, the terrorists’ bombs replaced by rhetoric.
Three such activists had been identified, their recent movements checked. It quickly became clear August 14’s base in Poland provided a very different but equally effective form of training compared to Lithuania, one based on creating turmoil and disorder without the need for explosives, or even a single death. Such activists could well have been spreading their poisonous message for months, twisting the attacks on Moscow’s streets to their own advantage, continually emphasising the weakness of the Government while pushing home the need for change.
A second difference with Lithuania was that none of the three agitators were from Eastern Europe: two were born in the Russian Republic of Komi, the third in the Republic of North Ossetia. The strategy seemed clear: first the bombs to create an environment of mistrust and fear, then the provocateurs to rip Russia apart. And the President’s actions in the Baltic had obligingly pushed Russia to the very edge, NATO conveniently acting as August 14’s unknowing allies. Or perhaps some in NATO weren’t quite so innocent, with Poland’s exact role still open to question.
Grebeshkov thrust the report aside and turned on the TV for the
latest on Moscow’s pain. He was met with a scene of chaos, angry protestors battering at metal railings with stone and concrete, while others fought with a cordon of riot police. The camera panned back, and Grebeshkov recognised the flattened grey modernist slab that was the Polish Embassy. The police were vastly outnumbered and as Grebeshkov watched, a set of railings split, opening up enough to let a group of protestors into the embassy grounds.
The TV picture reverted to the newsroom, the anchorwoman explaining the scenes were from an hour earlier, prompting renewed fears the military might be brought in to stabilise Moscow and prevent further disruption; although quite how the army would defend Moscow against cyber-attacks, or even wildcat strikes, was left unanswered. The TV picture flipped back to a live image of the embassy. Now the camera position was from higher up and further back: somehow the police had managed to re-establish their cordon around the embassy walls, but the street was still filled with an angry and vociferous crowd. In the background, bright against the early evening light, flames danced upwards from the embassy entrance, smoke billowing out to obscure most of the upper floor. Heard above the noise of the protestors was the occasional rattle of gunfire, although Grebeshkov could see no evidence that any of the crowd near the embassy were armed.
A voice-over detailed the protestors’ tactics, their chosen target varying almost at a whim between the American and Polish embassies, with others attacking the Kremlin and White House. Despite the police and security forces putting thousands of officers onto the streets, they were struggling to cope, the news ticker at the bottom of the screen reporting a total of at least fourteen killed since the clashes began.
Abruptly the TV image changed to the Russian President, standing stiff-backed at a podium, face grim. Grebeshkov listened carefully, feeling sad and weary, fearing what was about to come.
“Compatriots, citizens of Russia, this is a critical hour for the Motherland and our peoples. As you are all aware, for several months terrorist elements have mounted a campaign of terror and intimidation, with many innocent lives lost, hundreds maimed, our children murdered without remorse or pity. To achieve their own totally selfish ends, these same terrorists have fostered worker unrest and civil protests, bringing Moscow close to a state of anarchy. Violent protests have now spread to yet more of our great and beautiful cities.
“The present situation is of deep concern to everyone, with the security of every citizen at risk. Our economy too is now in danger, the terrorist offensive forcing factories, offices, and even schools to close. Immediate and decisive measures are needed to bring the present situation under control; we must restore the pride and honour that is an integral part of being a citizen of the Russian Federation.”
A pause for effect, then in sombre tones, the President continued. “As a result, as allowed by Articles 56 and 88 of the Constitution, I have formally declared a State of National Emergency, effective immediately. My sole purpose is to re-impose order and bring the Motherland out of this crisis. I call upon all citizens of the Russian Federation to put an end to this time of uncertainty, and render all possible assistance to the security forces...”
Grebeshkov only half-listened as the President finished with an appeal to people’s patriotic duty; there were no specific details as to what laws were to be strengthened or ignored, and no mention of Article 102 – the need for any such decree to be approved by the upper house of Russia’s parliament. This was the President’s last throw of the dice, if it failed then some form of martial law would be inevitable.
Moscow’s Police Commissioner was next to take to the podium. He began by reinforcing the President’s words, before detailing how Moscow would be affected: suspension of civil rights, a 9 p.m. to 5 a.m. curfew imposed, public protests and strikes banned, access to and from Moscow restricted.
Grebeshkov wasn’t convinced August 14 would be cowed by such a declaration; with their record, they might even be encouraged.
Lincolnshire, England
For far too many hours Charlotte had worried and agonised as to what to do next. Just before lunch another text had arrived from Anderson: he was in Warsaw, everything was fine, the hotel was indeed in the centre, a car would pick her up tomorrow at nine to take her to East Midlands Airport... Charlotte had believed none of it, concerned as to why a text and not a personal call from Anderson. Should she be worrying even more? The location app had stuck with the unhelpful ‘Unknown’, and out of curiosity Charlotte had sent a routine text to her mother. The app’s response to the outgoing message and the subsequent reply had been rather more impressive, Jessica duly confirmed as being safely ensconced in Dublin.
Where Anderson was concerned, Charlotte chose to remain optimistic, guessing that he might well be at Erdenheim. What if she just ignored tomorrow’s invitation to Warsaw? Would that then inspire some sort of angry response? Against Anderson? Or her as well? And could she actually do anything about it?
Whatever she eventually decided, the consequences for Anderson seemed unclear. She could do nothing – and hope that she had totally misread the situation. She could still do nothing – and assume Anderson would somehow manage to get himself out of the mess he was obviously in. For some people, the sensible choice was most definitely do nothing, but Charlotte wasn’t feeling particularly sensible at the moment. Rebane and his friends might well have murdered her father, and they’d probably tried to kill Adam Devereau; Anderson was quite likely to be next.
She could go to the authorities, but they could well be part of the problem; Anderson had even hinted that Rebane had contacts within the police. She could go to the newspapers – who would do what exactly? She could ask her mother for help or advice – but that would then put her life at risk as well. Even if she found someone with the power to act, what actual evidence did she have? Basically, it was all conjecture mixed in with some very dubious logic. One bad choice and Anderson would be dead, and Charlotte might well be next on Rebane’s list.
Charlotte wasn’t ecstatic about her final decision but her conscience would allow nothing less. Having had so little time off, even with her father’s death, her business partner was understanding when she said she needed a break; if he was surprised that Charlotte wanted to take it immediately, then he graciously kept it to himself. Charlotte negotiated a week, playing safe just in case things became even more complicated. Her mother was one such complication, Charlotte unsure exactly how much to tell her, not wanting Jessica to worry nor wishing to put her in any danger. In the end, she kept it simple, and said nothing.
The light was beginning to fail by the time she reached the car park at Freiston Shore, and she walked quickly along to the outer sea wall, before stepping carefully down to its base on the seaward side. Her outfit was rather more sombre than usual for a trip out: black jacket, black top, black jeans and comfortable boots, plus a back-pack half-full with a variety of bits and pieces. Her intention was to try and get something concrete against Erdenheim or Rebane, and her camera was thus the most essential item. If Anderson was there and a suitable opportunity arose to help him, then fair enough, but to attempt any sort of rescue would be foolish. Charlotte stayed with that thought, even though deep down she knew priorities might all-too easily be changed. And she still hadn’t quite worked out what sort of photographic evidence could possibly be considered concrete.
Despite such inconsistencies, Charlotte had convinced herself that preparation was the key, with every possibility considered and suitable back-up options prepared. As an additional precaution, she’d even removed the battery from her mobile phone – she wasn’t convinced it was necessary but with Erdenheim’s computer expertise it seemed wise to be extra careful.
The theory that Erdenheim might actually be helping August 14 no longer seemed such a ridiculous idea, especially with Moscow suffering attacks from hackers and cyber-terrorists. The Management Centre was hardly Fort Knox but the closer she got, the more the reality of what she was attempting started to sink in – and the
potential consequences. Whether it was arrogance, stubbornness, or just stupidity, she was still determined to follow it through.
Charlotte headed north, staying the seaward side of the sea wall. Despite the encroaching darkness, plus a persistent drizzle and the occasional narrow ditch, it was mostly easy going. A quick check to see where exactly she was in relation to Erdenheim, then she slid back down the sea wall for a short but uncomfortable stay. To add to her enjoyment, the rain began to bucket down.