* * *
McDowell moved away along the dock to make sure Fisher would be unable to hear his cell phone conversation: it wouldn’t do for his colleague to be confused as to where McDowell’s loyalties lay. McDowell had long since given up trying to make sense of who worked for whom and why. In his present line of work, the deeper you dug the more shit you came across, and it never helped make anything any clearer. Rebane might believe his paymasters were a group of like-minded benefactors, with their roots based in Eastern Europe, but that was just a naïve hope or more simply blind faith, the reality far different.
Polish, Ukrainian, Russian, American, politician, poet, banker or gangster – McDowell didn’t care whom he worked for as long as he was paid what he was due. And through some odd moral principle based loosely on honour, once McDowell had given his word then his allegiance was guaranteed – well at least for as long as the money kept coming. The fact he was presently being paid rather handsomely was merely an appropriate reward for his commitment and effort; he had worked hard to help make Erdenheim a success, and those first few months had been far more challenging, indeed far more enjoyable, than he had ever anticipated. Now the last few weeks were in sight he felt an unusual sense of regret and despite their differing personalities, the team of Rebane, Carter and McDowell had worked particularly well together.
Having reached the far corner of the dock, McDowell finally halted. A last check, just to be sure there was nobody in earshot, then he made the call.
The number was answered at the sixth ring. “Yes, Pat.” The voice was that of an elderly woman, her accent slight but still noticeable, and to McDowell’s ear not that dissimilar to Rebane’s.
“Anderson and his girlfriend are aboard the Eloise; due to set sail in just over an hour; destination Gdansk.”
“Arrival time?”
“Late Sunday morning. If the blockade is still operating, the Captain will divert to Szczecin. In either case, the plan is to then transfer them to a safe-house near Warsaw.”
There was a slight pause as the woman mulled over McDowell’s update. “I hope both are still in one piece? They’re no good to us dead.”
“You sound like Rebane; I had a bit of fun winding him up but once he can put a face to a victim he lacks the balls to do anything. Anderson’s gained a few bruises but nothing too serious. Koval’s reliable and unless they try something really stupid, they’ll both be fine.”
McDowell could almost sense the woman nodding her understanding. “On a related matter, I’ve been impressed with your choice of Jon Carter; he’s proved a crucial asset and I trust he’ll be involved in the second phase.”
“I’ve already been told to take good care of him,” confirmed McDowell softly. “You’ve no need to worry.”
“And how’s Rebane coping?”
“Not getting much sleep,” McDowell said. “But he’s keeping on top of things.”
“We need him to be fully focused in these final few days,” said the woman. “The pivotal moment could happen anytime soon, certainly less than a week, and I assume you have everything prepared.”
“Of course,” McDowell confirmed, thoughts briefly contemplating on how and where to spend his bonus. “One phone call is all it will take.”
Barvikha, Russia
Grebeshkov sat in an armchair, both feet raised, legs covered in a blanket, reflecting on how quickly he had gone from being a high-powered general in the FSB to an old man needing to be helped to the bathroom. Soon no doubt he would be feeble in mind as well as in body, remembering with clarity the events of his youth while forgetting his wife’s name, and even her face.
Still, old age had some advantages, and from the open-plan room he had a fine view of the forest, the glint of water just visible through the trees. And it was so peaceful, with the gentle tick-tock of the Swedish longcase clock often the only sound to break the silence. It was so perfect Grebeshkov had to restrain the urge to scream loudly or smash something in frustration, anything to stop himself from slowly going insane. His existence now seemed to consist of eating, drinking, sleeping and frequent visits to the bathroom; not that he felt in control over even those basic functions, his wife seemingly determined to treat him as a complete invalid. Grebeshkov could berate and bully anyone, male, female, colleague or civilian – anyone except for his wife.
Whilst technology was doing its very best to keep him informed of events elsewhere, he was forbidden from interfering. Grebeshkov had protested that he was fine, but the President’s version of recuperation was the one that counted – and that meant Grebeshkov was no longer fully in the loop, his wife even going so far as to limit his contact with the Lubyanka. He had tried taking his frustrations out on his nurse, a middle-aged woman who was far too polite to ever argue, but it had merely made him feel guilty. It was difficult but he had forced himself to read a book, listen to music, and even lose to his wife at chess. And still he felt resentful, irritated that no-one else appeared to share his sense of isolation.
So it was a relief when his wife announced he had visitors, Grebeshkov just hopeful it was someone from the FSB and not another doctor to tell him to take it easy. In fact it was a pairing he could never have guessed at – Markova’s smart uniform and good looks making Golubeva appear even more dowdy than usual.
Grebeshkov’s wife knew the routine from old, quickly organising tea and then leaving them alone, Golubeva pulling up a chair to sit opposite Grebeshkov, Markova taking station by the window yet not quite out of earshot.
“You’re looking tired, Dmitry,” Golubeva said matter-of-factly. “But still better than I expected. I understand you’ll be back with us in a few days.”
“Three more days,” Grebeshkov responded, rather more sharply than he’d intended. Whatever words Golubeva used and however she said it, there was always a hidden message, and Grebeshkov was already on his guard, unsure what she was after. And the reason for Markova’s presence was still unclear.
“The President has asked me to pass on his best wishes for a speedy recovery, and also his congratulations.”
“Congratulations?” Grebeshkov asked curiously. “For what?”
“Your promise to catch Eglitis and his associates. You did it in just four days. That’s a very impressive record, General; you ought to be proud.”
Grebeshkov frowned, “There’s still the remaining metro bomber – the Pole Bagiński.”
“Not so,” Golubeva announced. “His body has been in the morgue for over a week. He was pulled out of the Moskva near Gorky Park and the police assumed it was drug-related. He had no papers and had been shot in the face, so identification was difficult; more so as he’d been in the river for at least two days. Perhaps he and Eglitis fell out but I guess we’ll never know. Nine terrorists dead, four in custody: a job well done, General.” Golubeva gave a thin smile, “Making yourself a target was a brave if somewhat foolish move.”
“A calculated risk,” Grebeshkov said gruffly. Such praise always made him feel ill at ease, with mistakes by the terrorists themselves playing a significant part in the FSB’s success.
Golubeva said, “You’re definitely better off here than in Moscow. The State of Emergency has had little effect, and to add to the traffic jams and strikes, several government computer networks have been hacked. We’re in grave danger of losing complete control… For the record, Dmitry, no-one blames you for Lithuania; the Prime Minister ignored your advice and the spetsnaz attack was ill-judged with poor intelligence. It was always a very risky option.” Golubeva tried to give a winning smile, but it still came across as a scowl, “You have won the public’s respect, Dmitry; they recognise your achievements with August 14, and even the terrorists fear you enough to make you a target.”
An embarrassed Grebeshkov quickly chose to return the conversation to something less personal. “Are we getting anywhere with Poland?”
“The shipping quota is frustrating for everyone but there is little sign the President’s demands will
be met. Our representatives have visited August 14’s base and apparently it is masquerading as some sort of religious sanctuary: there were no weapons, no explosives, nothing that could be described as a physical threat. We know now they are being trained to spread dissent and organise strikes, but to the world we look like idiots, seeing terrorists in every Polish village and home. August 14’s strategy of inciting worker unrest is proving particularly effective and from the hundreds arrested in Moscow we have identified five who were trained at Gdansk; we now estimate they have some sixty agents spread across Russia.”
“And all Russian?” Grebeshkov asked, shocked at the numbers.
“All Russian speaking, with perhaps one in ten from Eastern Europe. It seems they have been planning this for a year or more.” Golubeva leaned forward, her voice softening, “From your perspective, Dmitry, away from the stress of the Lubyanka, how do you assess the President’s handling of the crisis?”
The sudden change of emphasis and loaded question was typical of Golubeva, and Grebeshkov picked his words with care. “I am certainly not in the best position to judge: a diet of television news and the internet will always give a biased view. Sadly, I fear Moscow will have to undergo more pain before normality returns.”
“And the continuing blockade of Gdansk?”
Grebeshkov chose to give a more honest answer, “It will be difficult to extricate ourselves without loss of face. Even if Poland gives in to all of our demands, I doubt that will stop the terrorists already here. We should have taken up the offer of American help when August 14 attacked the British Airways’ flight. Now world opinion is against us, and I’m unclear what we can do to retrieve the situation.”
Golubeva nodded thoughtfully before bringing Markova into the conversation. “I was shocked to discover you had so few guards, Dmitry. You are still a target, and I felt Captain Markova would be best suited to provide the protection you require. I trust that is acceptable?”
Polite and helpful – Grebeshkov was starting to feel very uncomfortable. “Very acceptable, Irina; I am indebted to you.” Now he too was being ingratiating. Much more and he would throw up.
It was another twenty minutes before Golubeva took her leave, escorted out by Markova. The latter returned to stand a respectful distance from Grebeshkov’s chair, politely waiting for him to speak.
“Captain Markova,” Grebeshkov said. “Welcome to the countryside. I am curious to know what Golubeva told you.”
“Very little, Sir. I received new orders about three hours ago: gather a team of twelve and escort Golubeva’s car here; then assume responsibility for your personal security.” Markova gave a broad smile, “The orders were countersigned by the President himself. It seems he is very concerned as to your safety, Sir.”
“That’s what’s worrying me, Captain. Perhaps I have more enemies that even I suspected...”
The Princess Eloise
Charlotte woke from an exhausted sleep to hear the steady throb of the ship’s engine. Her watch told her it was less than three hours since they’d boarded, although lack of sleep made it feel like it was actually much later. The indoor cabin was slightly disorienting, but she sensed the Princess Eloise was moving at a good speed, so it was likely they were already well out into the North Sea.
Minutes later, there was the rattle of a key in the door. In the other bed, Anderson jerked awake, pushing himself upright.
A uniformed figure entered, the man looking to be at least as tall as Anderson, mid-forties, his black beard speckled with silver.
“Captain Koval?” Anderson asked, the exhaustion sounding in his voice.
“That’s correct. No more names, please; it’s better not to know.”
“Fair enough,” Anderson said without enthusiasm. “Anything to protect the guilty.”
Charlotte would have kicked him if he’d been closer and fully fit. “We understand, Captain,” she said, keen not to antagonise their jailor.
“Your anger is quite understandable,” Koval said pleasantly. “And I genuinely regret that we have to meet under such circumstances. I would still hope that we can treat each other with civility.”
“Of course, Captain,” Charlotte said, forcing a smile. If being polite was the worst she had to put up with, then that was fine.
Koval continued, “Obviously, you are not exactly guests, but I will try to make your time here as comfortable as possible. You’ll find plenty of choice on the television – all the usual satellite channels. We can also supply you with books, DVDs, and a wide range of music. If you are short of clothes or other essentials, then we can help out there as well. Please just ask.”
“Thank you, Captain,” said Charlotte. “That’s very much appreciated.”
“The Princess Eloise is a delightful vessel,” Koval said, with a hint of pride, “and I trust you will have a pleasant voyage. I’m afraid I must lock you in your cabin at night and when we go through the Kiel Canal, but I will try to ensure you can spend some time each day either on the bridge or in our small gym. During such periods you will need to be escorted by a member of the crew. Please do not attempt to persuade them to help you in any way. Whilst your arrival in Gdansk is to be preferred, it is apparently not essential, and I would rather not have to do anything unpleasant.”
“As would we,” Charlotte said quickly, before Anderson could speak. “Although, if you were to pretend we got lost somewhere, I’m sure we could make it financially worthwhile for all of you. Just one phone call would be all it would take.” She felt it was worth a try, although she hadn’t a clue as to whom she would call.
Koval smiled broadly, and under different circumstances Charlotte felt she could have got on well with him. “Even if I believed you,” he said, “there are certain things in life that override such concerns as money. It might be sad to say this, but seeing Russia suffer brings a warm glow. If I can ensure Russia’s pain continues by transporting the two of you to Gdansk, then that is no less than my duty.”
“We get the message, Captain,” Anderson said without emotion.
“But,” Koval continued, “let’s not concern ourselves with such matters. The weather is glorious, your cabin comfortable I think; if there is anything you need, please do let me know. And perhaps in an hour or so, I can give you a tour of the Princess Eloise.”
Charlotte again was quick to respond, “Thank you, Captain; there is one thing. Do you have someone who could look at my friend; I’m worried he might have fractured a rib?”
“No doctor, I’m afraid; there are only seven of us. But I will see what I can do...”
True to his word, Koval returned in just over an hour. First on his agenda was Anderson, the Captain checking his chest and back, nodding now and again as though to convince them he knew what he was doing. Eventually, he declared that Anderson was just badly bruised, prescribing ice, ibuprofen, and deep breaths.
Their tour of Princess Eloise was next, the Captain proving to be a charming host. Even if it was only for a short while, he seemed determined to distract them from thinking of what the following week might bring. Charlotte almost convinced herself Koval’s helpfulness could eventually be turned to their advantage, then she looked again at his cool blue eyes and appreciated how false her hope was. At heart Koval was just another McDowell, albeit one who smiled often and was far more charming.
The Princess Eloise was a Dutch-built multi-purpose freighter, registered in St Vincent and the Grenadines under a flag of convenience: ten years old; ninety metres long; gross tonnage just shy of three thousand tonnes. Her Boston cargo had been animal feed, and she generally voyaged between the UK and the Baltic carrying grain, animal feed, phosphates and wood products. Captain Koval was keen to recount the minutiae of the ship’s finer points, and even though Charlotte listened attentively there didn’t seem that one extra-special fact which would somehow help them to escape. To make use of a lifeboat or liferaft, they would have to disable their escort, plus whoever was on the Bridge, then launch their chos
en option and hope no-one noticed.
With an awful lot of luck it might be possible, but Charlotte was far from convinced. Sadly, there didn’t seem to be a plan B.
Moscow
To the TV crew stationed by chance in Lubyanka Square it had all the elements of a flash mob, although more properly it was referred to as a smart mob – the intelligent coordination of people through instant messaging. From all directions an organised tide of protestors swept into the square; while many held placards condemning the State of Emergency, other banners were more personal, attacking the President and accusing him of corruption and incompetence. A good proportion of the activists were non-Russians, emerging onto the streets to show their anger and frustration at the Government’s draconian policies. The security forces were slow to respond, and in any case were unsure as to where the crowd might head next – the Lubyanka itself seemed not to be the target.
Belatedly, the authorities followed August 14’s lead and blocked the cell phone services. Even as the police moved to cordon off Lubyanka square, thousands of protestors headed from there west towards Theatre Square, where another vociferous crowd was gathering. The newcomers were similarly responding to messages on various social networks; however, their anger was targeted elsewhere, their support for the President shown by the wearing of something red, representing allegiance to the concept of ‘One Russia’.
Both gatherings were in direct conflict with the new laws, and with just two hours remaining before the start of the curfew, even that was likely to be ignored, thousands still heading towards an inevitable confrontation at the very heart of Moscow.
The two opposing groups met near to the Bolshoi, bricks, fireworks and petrol bombs from both sides showing their intent. The police communications network was itself under attack and the officers in the area were far too few in number to do anything but watch. Yet more protestors swarmed in from the surrounding areas to boost both sides, arming themselves with anything that came to hand. Missiles bombarded the two front lines; at least a dozen vehicles were set alight, some used as flaming battering rams.
As police reinforcements finally started to move in from the south, water cannon and tear gas were used to separate the two sides. Slowly the protestors were driven apart, the fumes from the tear gas drifting lazily in the breeze to cover much of the square. Some protestors refused to go quietly, kicking or simply flinging the smoking canisters back towards the police lines, a scarf or forearm their only protection against the searing anguish of the tear-gas.
The situation was gradually being brought under control when shots from a building on the western edge of the square reignited the tumult, both police and protestors hit. The gunfire drew an instant response from the east, shots fired from several sources. A police helicopter was itself targeted, and as the number of injured increased, many of the protestors sought sanctuary wherever they could. The buildings surrounding the square, even the Bolshoi Theatre, were attacked, doors and windows smashed open so as to force a way inside – anything to escape the gunfire scything through the protestors from east and west. Those who tried to flee down the side streets were handicapped by the crowd’s sheer numbers and new fighting erupted as people became desperate, driven on by the screams of those they had left behind.
The rattle of gunfire intensified, automatic weapons now sounding out from all corners of the square. Theatre Square became a shooting range, with several thousand terrified panic-stricken targets. Outside the Bolshoi, a live TV feed revealed the continuing turmoil as protestors cowered beside the theatre’s stone columns, or crouched down behind fountains and abandoned vehicles. In the centre of the square a score of bloodied figures lay unmoving, a brave few trying to help them or drag them to safety.
In a totally separate but apparently coordinated attack, a swarm of protestors fought their way into the national television centre at Ostankino, the small police guard overwhelmed by the ferocity and number of their attackers. Some two dozen TV stations went off air. As if in response, the police’s tactics immediately changed and they abandoned their futile attempt to bring order through restraint. A well-armed anti-terrorist squad retook the television centre after less than thirty minutes, while in Theatre Square the security force’s own guns were now added to those of Government opponents and supporters. For another hour the square echoed to the sound of automatic fire, until increased numbers and armoured police vehicles finally managed to clear the streets.
Initial police estimates put the number of deaths at fifty-three – including twelve police – with some five hundred injured. The news reports were less optimistic, with most independent sources more than doubling the number of casualties.
By eleven in the evening, some two hours after the official start of the curfew, Moscow finally settled down for a worried night’s sleep, the security forces determined to keep the streets clear, whatever it took.