The Will Of The People
* * *
The ornate office was something to aspire to: birch panelling, luxurious leather chairs, antique oak table, electronic gadgets aplenty, even a mini-bar. To Anderson, it seemed an eminently appropriate environment in which to enjoy his new role as Erdenheim expert, although it was disappointing that his personal space was restricted to just a small section of the table. The remainder of its surface was occupied by a newly-assembled and complex array of computers, three fresh-faced members of the FSB making a final check to ensure everything was as it should be.
Their officer sat at right-angles to Anderson, impatient to begin. She had introduced herself simply as Captain Markova, and despite her excellent English had pointedly curtailed Anderson’s various attempts at small-talk. Persistence had eventually helped him discover that he was now ensconced in the Senate Building, part of the Kremlin complex between the Arsenal and Building 14 – not that Anderson was much the wiser, but it sounded rather less intimidating than the FSB’s Lubyanka.
A few hours after Eskov’s morning interrogation, Anderson had been offered a simple choice: co-operate fully and Charlotte would be on her way home; refuse and they’d both be coping with Russian hospitality for the foreseeable future. Anderson didn’t harp on about International Law, or even protest that they were both innocent of any wrongdoing – he just accepted with good grace, knowing that it was the sensible way forward and a means of assuaging his guilt over Charlotte’s involvement. He had been allowed a few brief minutes to say his goodbyes to Charlotte and by now she should already be on a plane to Heathrow. Anderson hadn’t really known how much to tell her, and he hadn’t wanted to justify or explain – still, he felt more at ease, happy that at least Charlotte was safe.
As to what would eventually happen to Anderson had been left unsaid, his freedom presumably dependent in part on the nature and extent of his co-operation. It was only then that he had learnt of Erdenheim’s destruction. Shock had been his first reaction, followed soon after by despair: with Russia disclaiming all responsibility and Erdenheim a burnt-out shell, finding evidence to corroborate Anderson’s innocence now seemed unlikely. Captain Koval might just about know enough to help Anderson’s cause, but would he be that considerate? And in any case did the Russians themselves really care whether Anderson was innocent or not? It certainly seemed of little interest to the good Captain Markova.
Anderson’s relocation to the Senate had happened mid-afternoon, the transfer executed with a worrying degree of secrecy. He had even been given a smart FSB uniform to wear, the colour scheme of military blue-green matching those of his four Russian companions. Anderson was now starting to feel slightly more optimistic, keen to exert his new-found influence, even if it was somewhat temporary. And an attractive woman in uniform as his overseer seemed a fairly encouraging bonus. Sadly, Markova’s sidearm only served to emphasise her secondary custodial role, and a constant reminder as to Anderson’s true status.
Final checks complete, Markova deigned to explain to Anderson his part in their enterprise, it assumed his knowledge of Erdenheim would help in the continuing search to identify more of the Rebane’s associates, even Yuri. It was to be a team effort, led by Markova, aided by Anderson, with each of Markova’s three associates linked to a network of helpers – their exact number and whereabouts left open to conjecture. Not quite Erdenheim, but close enough.
Official resources, such as the FSB’s intelligence database and Interpol, were available at the touch of a button, but not for some reason Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service or its military affiliate. If required, certain other data sources could be accessed, although there were limitations – details as yet unspecified.
Markova made no attempt to hide the fact that their undertaking was covert in nature, but quite why the need for such secrecy and why the Senate rather than the Lubyanka were not matters Anderson chose to dwell on, putting them down to normal Russian paranoia. Anderson just hoped he could be of some use, ignoring the fear that he was actually colluding with the enemy – his twenty years for treason could wait until he’d finished his ten years in the Siberian gulag.
Markova initially focused on Anderson’s own computer files, his Erdenheim folder simply downloaded from the cloud. The FSB’s facial-recognition software took just seconds to analyse all of the relevant photos, with only the images from the helicopter flight producing probable hits, four more Americans – three working in counter-terrorism, one a software designer – added to the list of Rebane’s associates.
Markova duly kept Anderson apprised as to progress. For the time being there were no national security issues, the results merely reinforcing Anderson’s own research. Without any photographic links to Yuri, the FSB was left with little choice but to rely on Anderson’s dubious brand of assumptions and guesswork, it still not absolutely certain that Lara really was Klaudia Woroniecki.
Markova spoke briefly in Russian to the young man next to her; moments later she twisted her laptop around to allow Anderson to view the screen.
“Flight details,” she reported nonchalantly, “for the helicopter company used by Erdenheim, filtered by trips to Graythorp. Fourteen in total; no passenger names, just how many. The last trip was Wednesday, May 19th; the one before that was Friday, May 14th, which would be the one you photographed.”
Anderson was suitably impressed, although he assumed the database hadn’t just that moment been hacked. His gaze settled on a different entry, the date a good match to the possible arrival of McDowell’s two drinking companions.
Markova appeared to have read his thoughts, “Two passengers picked up from Heathrow, Sunday April 25th, 13:30; return flight from Erdenheim to Heathrow, Wednesday April 28th, 10:00.”
Whilst they now had some idea as to when Yuri and Lara might have arrived at Heathrow, only the airlines’ own reservation systems could supply more specific answers. Anderson realised he probably knew more than most about the intricacies of the booking process. The flow of data between airlines, travel agents and other agencies was a complex interplay between different systems, coordinated by several global distribution companies. Each booking resulted in a unique passenger name record (PNR), and although fears about unauthorised use – or even over-use by government agencies – had resulted in restrictions as to what information a PNR held and for how long, it still included all relevant booking and passport information. A PNR wasn’t erased even if a booking was cancelled. A list of PNRs would thus be a good starting point for any search, although futile without the matching passport photo.
Markova was still one step ahead of Anderson. “We can access the passenger name records for airlines operating out of Heathrow, but the more records we hack the greater the chance of being detected; the intrusion systems will then immediately send out a global alert. We would need to synchronise any attempts and restrict the search to specific carriers or agencies. With our present resources, that means no more than three.” Markova broke off to check something else, “Apparently, there is a booking profile for those terrorists entering Russia by plane.”
A questioning look from Anderson and she read out the key facts, “Bookings always made online using a credit card, no more than three days in advance; single seat booking; never first-class, usually business-class rather than economy; airline invariably a flag carrier, primarily Finnair, Lufthansa, and LOT; never Aeroflot.”
Anderson nodded his understanding, unsure how much faith to put in any such analysis. “The terrorists you’ve caught,” he asked thoughtfully, “did they all have genuine digital passports?”
Markova nodded, “Names and other details were false but they corresponded to the passports’ biometric data; none were stolen.”
“And all EU or Russian?”
“The majority, but not all.” Markova was quick to grasp what Anderson was suggesting. “You want to use the passport details from the PNRs to access the corresponding passport photographs? If the passport is genuine with the record stored in a na
tional passport centre, then that should be possible, even if the names are false. But that could involve dozens of passport centres.”
Anderson wasn’t quite so pessimistic, “Hopefully we can filter the possibilities down to just a handful.”
Markova chose to consult further, eventually nodding in agreement. “Again, we would need to limit any such search to just three national passport databases. Accessing them could prove difficult…”
Despite Markova’s caution, Anderson was starting to sense nothing was beyond the FSB once it got its teeth into a problem. Their first task was to produce a target list of airlines, reducing the hundreds of flights arriving at Heathrow on the morning of April 25th, and those departing on the afternoon of the 28th, to more manageable proportions.
Anderson had become blasé about such tactics, willing to cut a generous swathe through the various possibilities. Markova was rather more judicious, their final compromise eliminating those flight arrivals without a corresponding return departure, plus flights arriving at Heathrow from west of Brussels, east of Moscow, or south of Milan.
Anderson waited patiently, making good use of the contents of the mini-bar as an alternative to the regularly proffered tea. On Markova’s laptop, the flights’ spreadsheet flickered erratically as rows were deleted, until just over a hundred remained – still far more than Anderson would have liked. And still far too many airlines, even if they just picked out the flag carriers. And was it even safe to assume that the terrorists would always ignore Russia’s Aeroflot? Anderson had asked if Aeroflot could be added as an extra to the choice of three airlines, but apparently not; it was the same with the passport data, Russia’s data centre having to count as one of the magic three.
Anderson knew they were already restricting the search far too rigidly, but under the present limitations there seemed little choice. He studied the list of flights, worrying that the more popular airlines might not necessarily be the right ones to check.
Markova was first to speak, “BA and Lufthansa, plus one other? Finnair?”
“The Polish Airline, LOT,” Anderson said positively.
Markova shrugged but didn’t disagree. A quick consultation with her colleagues, and then their computer skills were finally put to a more stringent test, the booking databases hacked for passenger name records covering the relevant arrivals and corresponding departures. Anderson hoped he wasn’t expecting the impossible: even if they could have checked every return flight, Yuri or Lara might simply have chosen a different way home, such as flying indirect via somewhere like Spain or the more convoluted option of Eurostar.
The minutes dragged by, Anderson’s hopes resting on a virtual tug of war between the FSB and the airlines. One of August 14’s most potent weapons was being turned against it, the hacking skills of Markova’s team hopefully comparable to Jonathan Carter’s.
A meal of cold meat, boiled potatoes, eggs and salad eventually arrived, together with tea and coffee. Despite the half-empty mini-bar Anderson tucked in, not quite knowing when or where his next meal might be.
It took the team just over an hour to complete the Heathrow task. The lists were then compared, matching names extracted, the PNR used to filter out anyone who didn’t book online less than four days in advance and pay by credit card.
“Still over eighty matches,” Markova announced. “Mostly British, Dutch and German.” She kept tapping away, talking as she did so, “Ignoring the cancellations and no-shows, there are eighteen men of the right age; ten women; twelve different nationalities. Taking out economy class would help.”
Anderson nodded his agreement, despite worrying that they were already well over-loaded on assumptions.
The updated listing appeared on Markova’s laptop: five men, three women; six nationalities.
Anderson felt they were getting somewhere, although Markova’s body language suggested she was far from convinced. It was still too many nationalities for a passport check, and they went through the whole process a second time, looking to find a logical way to reduce the numbers still further.
The number of possibilities remained fixed at eight...
Anderson decided it was time for a leap of faith. “The man’s native language is either Russian or Polish; so forget the British, Dutch and Czech options. That would leave us with Polish or Ukrainian. Again, ignore the Dutch woman and we have German or Polish. We could check the national passport centres for Germany, Poland and the Ukraine, and pray we’ve got it right. It’s either that or nothing.”
Markova frowned, trying not to let Anderson’s cavalier approach rush her into making a decision. “It seems reasonable,” she said finally. “And, as you say, we have nothing else.”
Again it was sit and wait. Even with a passport photo, there was still no guarantee the FSB’s facial-recognition software would come up with a suitable match. Anderson tried to remain positive, wandering around the office, peering at every picture for what seemed the hundredth time, before sitting down once more to think about what tomorrow might bring – at least it would be summer in Siberia.
Markova suddenly leant back in her chair to give Anderson a winning smile, “Klaudia Woroniecki flew with Lufthansa from Hamburg under the name of Lena Brandt, returning the same way; German rather than Polish passport.”
Anderson was pleased but hardly ecstatic – it was an awful lot of effort to prove something Charlotte had suggested a week ago.
Markova glanced down again at the screen, eyes confused.
Eventually Anderson was forced into asking the obvious, “You have the man?”
“It would seem so. Maxim Demanov; Ukrainian passport; age 42; flew with Lufthansa from Kiev.”
Anderson persisted, “I presume that’s not his real name?”
Markova stood up, snapping the laptop shut, face revealing nothing. Ignoring Anderson, she keyed the radio microphone attached to her lapel, speaking briefly, before rapping out new orders to her three associates.
Anderson sat in confusion, watching silently as the others began to pack up their equipment. He instantly reverted to feeling insecure, not knowing what new secret had been revealed, Markova’s apparent irritation suggesting it wasn’t good news.
Abruptly the office door was opened, two more uniformed figures entering to stand behind Markova.
“Gennadi and Nikolai will take care of you,” Markova said dismissively. She gestured at the taller of the two men, “Nikolai spent two years in the United States, so you’ll find his English is acceptable if a little rusty. Thank you, Mr Anderson, for all your help.” A final word of command, then she strode out of the office, closing the door firmly behind her.
Anderson looked from one large Russian soldier to the other, heart sinking, thoughts racing through a half-dozen differing interpretations of ‘will take care of you’.