* * *
Positioned on the western outskirts of Domodedovo, the factory building was a decaying remnant of its former self, a victim of Russia’s blind leap into economic perestroika. For once, Grebeshkov had struck lucky, Markova’s Alpha section operating by chance in Podolsk, less than twenty kilometres to the west.
Within fifteen minutes of the missile attack, they were heading east, their journey guided by police reports detailing the likely route of the target vehicle. A final update, then the searchlight from a police helicopter directed them to where a blue Nissan rested on its side. The car looked to have crashed rounding a bend at speed, and a young woman’s body lay slumped across the driver’s seat, a blood trail leading the pursuers towards a pair of battered gates and the factory beyond.
Markova personally led the first group into the building, the six of them fanning out and moving cautiously towards the far wall some fifty metres away. Moonlight filtering down through gaps in the high roof revealed the pitted concrete and rusted metal of the building’s interior, the odour of decay hanging heavily in the air. The rubble of a decade littered the floor, a fine dust coating the discarded chunks of machinery like an early-morning frost.
Markova’s transfer to the FSB’s Alpha Group had been a well-deserved highlight of her military career; her promotion to the rank of Captain had been another – and this in a country where in many men’s eyes women were only fit to be secretaries, cleaners or whores. A loving husband, children, a real home – she had totally failed to live up to childhood ambitions and family expectations, yet she had already accomplished far more than a lifetime of innocent dreams. Some two hundred strong, Alpha considered itself the elite of Russia’s Special Forces, it primarily a specialist counter-terrorist and hostage-rescue section, Markova’s unit with hours spent evaluating scores of real-life incidents.
Abruptly a shouted warning from somewhere to Markova’s right was followed immediately after by a double report from a handgun. There was the harsh crack of a stun-grenade, more shots, then an ominous silence.
Markova moved right, a quiet voice sounding in her earpiece. “Target-one is down and tagged; target-two boxed in, single weapon only.”
Markova halted beside a large concrete pillar; further right, lying with his back against another pillar, was a young man with one of Markova’s section kneeling protectively beside him, left hand pressing hard down against the terrorist’s blood-soaked shirt. Markova searched her memory but the man’s face meant nothing, certainly not one she recognised as being on the FSB’s terror list. Directly ahead was the scarred carcass of what looked like a giant press, the hint of a shadow indicating where the second terrorist hid.
Markova gave new orders, her instructions succinct and precise, well aware that the terrorist would likely prefer suicide over the FSB’s hospitality. Almost immediately, the man stepped out into the open, firing twice, his body tensing for the expected deadly response.
From Markova’s left, two duller shots sounded, the first of the plastic rounds knocking the man’s gun arm backwards, his weapon flying out of his hand; a brief instant later the second round thudded into his thigh, forcing him to his knees.
Markova walked cautiously towards him, gun held two-handed out in front of her, two more spetsnaz moving in from either side. The terrorist lifted his head to stare contemptuously up at Markova, no words spoken, the bitterness showing in his eyes.
Markova couldn’t help but smile, it part relief, part satisfaction. Grebeshkov had insisted on a live terrorist; well now he had two.
Lincolnshire, England
The estate agent’s was close to the river, down a narrow alley and only a few yards from the town’s all-seeing landmark, the Boston Stump – or more properly, Saint Botolph’s Church. After a decade in South London, Charlotte’s move back to Lincolnshire had arisen from the desire for something more; London had become claustrophobic and the friendships she had made there seemed looser than the ties of family. Boston and Marshwick offered familiarity, together with ready-made close friends left over from the happiest of times at the High School. It was perhaps a retrograde step, almost an admission of failure, but Charlotte had few regrets, confident about the future and content with her lot.
The agency was a joint undertaking between herself and an old family friend, Charlotte the junior partner and general dogsbody. Junior partner she might be, but the ‘Welch & Saunders’ sign was a constant reminder that the move to Boston had been the correct one. By luck or good judgement, the opening of the agency had coincided with a buoyant rental market and steady house sales, and both partners considered the venture a significant success. Charlotte enjoyed the various roles, although it was sometimes hard to ignore the fact that in terms of public trust estate agents were generally fighting for bottom place along with journalists, bankers and politicians.
Her father’s death had hit her hard, bringing home the fact of her parents’ mortality. As an only child, Charlotte felt it her duty to stay strong for her mother’s sake. George Saunders had always been the rock of the family, patient and loving, rarely judgemental; now, if Jessica would allow it, that family role would need to move down a generation.
“Excuse me; do you have a map of Boston I could have?”
Charlotte looked up from her desk, the polite smile frozen on her lips as she recognised her visitor. “Mr Anderson, I was wondering when you would turn up and it seemed wishful thinking to expect you to return from whence you came.”
“I couldn’t keep away,” Anderson replied smiling. “Everyone made me feel so welcome.”
“It must be your boyish charm.” Even though Anderson’s smile seemed genuine, Charlotte felt her annoyance with him instantly resurface. “A map, you said, printed on paper? I would have thought some all-singing app would have been standard issue in your line of work.” She took out some of her irritation on the filing cabinet, wrenching open the top drawer and extracting a street map. “With the agency’s compliments. Or was this just an excuse to annoy me further?”
Anderson took the proffered map, gaze holding hers. “I didn’t create a very good impression the other day and I owe you an apology for my rudeness. Perhaps we could start again?”
“Apology accepted,” Charlotte replied without enthusiasm. “Now, if there’s nothing else?”
The smile returned, “Lunch?”
Charlotte knew she should have expected as much, but the audacity of the offer still took her by surprise. A curt and unladylike response formed on her lips, then something stopped her: Anderson had tried to make up for his initial blunder and her own rudeness had now far exceeded his.
“Thank you, Mr Anderson, but no; another millennium perhaps. I too must apologise for doubting that Adam Devereau even existed; my mother appreciated your visit and said you were very... considerate, I think was the word.”
“She’s a lovely lady,” Anderson said, “and anyone else would probably have told me to get lost, so I tried to be on my best behaviour.”
“That must have been very stressful, for you. I just hope you’re as considerate when it comes to putting some sensational spin on my father’s death.” Charlotte’s brain kept sending the message ‘be polite’ but her mouth seemed unable to heed the advice.
“I’d be happy for your mother to vet any article before it gets to print, if that would help.”
“That would be appreciated, Mr Anderson; thank you… Mum told me of your interest in Darren Westrope; sometimes people do just have unfortunate accidents.”
“Of course they do. Professional curiosity can have its annoying side and I accept I’m probably being over-dramatic.”
“Professional curiosity to some, nosy interference to others. I’m sorry, Mr Anderson, but I must get on. Try not to litter Boston’s streets with our map; it doesn’t go down well.”
“Of course,” Anderson said. He made to leave, pausing just short of the door before turning back to face Charlotte. “It’s Michael, by the way,
or Mike. And thanks for the map, Miss Saunders; in some respects I’m rather old-fashioned and I really do have places to visit.”
Charlotte couldn’t help but return his broad smile. “In answer to a previous question; it’s Charlie to a select few and most definitely not – under any circumstances – Lottie.”