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it? But it was meant in a good way… George
would generally write something in his diary, just in case there
was ever a problem.” She stood up, “Help yourself to cake and I’ll
go check; just give me a minute.”
    Anderson
waited patiently, letting his gaze wander at will around the room.
A framed photograph of a very young girl – presumably Charlotte –
occupied pride of place on the marble mantle-piece; on either side
were pictures of Jessica and George – one obviously their wedding,
the other with the Commander standing proudly in full dress
uniform. The old-fashioned three-piece suite and floral curtains
gave the sitting room a nice homely atmosphere, a quality totally
at odds with Anderson’s far-fetched fantasy of a double murder.
    Jessica
returned with a chunky hard-backed book in her hand, front cover
garishly showing bright-red blood dripping from a yellow hammer and
sickle.
    “I can’t see
anything to suggest George took the walk along the sea bank
recently,” she said as she sat back down. “But he did in fact visit
Erdenheim; the morning of March 29th to be precise. I just can’t
recall that he said anything about it at the time, so I’ve no idea
why he went there.”
    Jessica placed
the book on the coffee table in front of Anderson and gave him
another one of her sad smiles. “You’ve now got me thinking about
everything that happened over those last few weeks. George was an
avid reader and this was one of three books he ordered off the
internet, all by the same author; I think they even came by
next-day delivery. They turned up a few days before we went to
Spain but when I asked George if he wanted any of them to read on
holiday, he said not to bother.”
    “ Red Terror, Truth and Fiction ,” quoted Anderson, picking out the key facts from the
information on the dust jacket, “A detailed study of
Soviet-sponsored terrorism from 1945 to 1991; author Charles
Zhilin.”
    “All three
share the terrorism theme and they’re not at all what George would
normally read,” Jessica said, sounding confused. “This one was
sitting on top. By all means borrow it, Mr Anderson; perhaps it’s
relevant in some way.”
    Anderson
smiled his thanks while trying not to show his disappointment, one
diary entry and a hardback book little enough for two days of
effort.

Chapter 4 –
Monday, May 10th
Domodedovo, Russia
    Some forty
kilometres south of Moscow sits Domodedovo International Airport,
Moscow’s main outlet to the Western World, the three terminals
struggling to cope with some 30 million passengers per year. Around
the airport, the town of Domodedovo similarly continued its own
expansion, Russia’s planners doing all they could to ease the
plight of its home-hungry millions. Three kilometres west of the
airport, the last in a set of eight massive apartment blocks, each
sixteen storeys high, waited empty and forlorn. Despite already
being a month late, and at least one more from completion, the
second-shift had finished some fifty minutes earlier, able finally
to enjoy what little remained of the Victory Day national holiday.
The building was now left safely in the hands of its two security
guards and their dogs.
    Baranovskiy
and Nazarenko made no distinction between guards and dogs, using
silenced automatics to deal with all four. Elevator and final
clamber up onto the roof took some ten minutes, Baranovskiy coping
with the sixteen kilograms of missile and launcher, while Nazarenko
struggled with the remainder of their gear. Eglitis’ sources had
said it would be at least another hour before the guards’ absence
was noted, and even then the response would be fairly lax. However,
just in case someone should turn up unexpectedly, Katya – the third
and final member of the terrorist cell – waited impatiently on the
ground floor.
    Baranovskiy
got on particularly well with Nazarenko, liking the other man’s
confident and somewhat relaxed approach, western Ukraine home to
them both. Katya might be