Resurrection Day

GLENN MEADE

Resurrection Day

Hodder & Stoughton

Scanned by Unknown

Proofed by The Viking

Also by Glenn Meade

Brandenburg

Snow Wolf

The Sands of Sakkara

1

Istanbul 1 October 6.15 p.m.

It wasn't the Istanbul of golden minarets and crowded alleyways, of teeming bazaars and the Telli Baba, the tiny cemetery where only one person was buried and to whom the people came to pray, but a wooden hut in a peaceful birch forest twenty kilometres from the city.

The location of the hut was secluded, the nearest neighbouring farm four kilometres away, and the site had been well chosen. The two cars drove slowly along the dirt track. Their passengers had arrived separately for the meeting and, as they moved into the hut, the bodyguards fanned out to take up defensive positions in the surrounding forest, joining the advance party of guards already hidden there since early morning, each armed with assault rifles and automatic pistols. These were hard men, watchful and ruthless, their senses honed in many bloody battles, and they were prepared to react brutally to the slightest hint of danger. In less than five minutes, they had taken up their positions.

At exactly 6.15 the meeting began.

The hut was threadbare. One room with only a wooden table, two chairs and thick curtains on the windows. The two men faced each other. One was a tall, bearded Arab wearing a linen suit and overcoat. He had the quiet stillness of a man in control of his body and his emotions. He greeted the American like an old friend, kissing him on both cheeks.

'My brother, it is good to see you again.'

'And you.'

The American was one of the US President's closest advisers. To ensure the secrecy of his visitor's identity, the Arab had been careful to use only his most trusted men. 'You managed to get away safely, without being observed?'

'It wasn't a problem.' The American had kept to his instructions, met his pick-up in the crowded back streets of the bazaar at the appointed time, before being bundled into a car and driven here. 'But I'll need to be back at my hotel within the hour. Otherwise, my Secret Service detail could get suspicious. I've taken a big enough risk as it is.'

The Arab pulled up a chair, laid a leather briefcase on the table. 'Then let us not waste any time.'

The American took a seat opposite. The Arab flicked the briefcase locks, removed a sheet of paper, handed it across. 'This is what we intend, my brother.'

The American read the contents of the paper with disbelief. 'You're not serious? You know what something like this can do? The enormous power it can wield? Its potential for devastation?'

'Of course.'

'The lives of hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions, of my countrymen will be threatened.'

'We have known each other a long time. You must believe me when I tell you it is the only way.'

The American was pale, licked his lips with fear, put aside the paper. 'What if it goes wrong and I've helped devastate my own country?'

'How can it go wrong, my brother? Our strategy is foolproof. You are a man the American President trusts. Someone he would never suspect. With you on our side and your President caught in a dilemma from which there is no escape, he will have no choice but to give in to our demands.'

The American was grim. 'You're playing a dangerous game. And if it goes wrong it has the potential to cause terrible human tragedy. It'd be nothing less than Armageddon.'

'Think of the alternative. Many more years of bloody struggle that could end in even worse tragedy. Without your help, there would be many more deaths. You know the steel of our determination. We will do whatever we must to achieve our ends. This way, it is over and done with quickly, and all our aims will have been accomplished. The injustices that have angered both our hearts for so long ... ' The Arab held up his thumb and forefinger, clicked them, ' ... finally ended. Just like that. Isn't that what we both wish?'

He saw that his words had hit their target. The American nodded his agreement.

The Arab replaced the sheet of paper in his briefcase. 'Trust me. There is no other way. And if we play this game with cool heads and strong hearts, we cannot lose.' He shut the case, locked it, regarded the American with an unflinching stare. 'Now you know what we intend, only one question remains. Are you with us?'

Outside, it was growing cold and dark. The American had gone, the car disappearing down the wooded track. The Arab pulled up his coat collar, looked out beyond the forested slopes, saw the pin-prick lights of ferry boats that moved across the black waters of the broad Bosphorus. Istanbul sparkled in the twilight. The colossal illuminated dome of the Blue Mosque was clearly visible, and the magnificent Topkapi, the ancient walled palace built by Suleman the Great, where pilgrims came to visit each day before the preserved relic of a finger bone of the Prophet Mohammad.

The venerable Turkish citadel, straddling Europe and Asia across the wide Bosphorus, has a blood-soaked history, its inhabitants ravaged by conquering armies that have come and gone over countless centuries. First the savage Mongol horsemen of Tamerlane, then the Romans, and later the Crusader knights, eager to defend the boundary which for them had marked where Christian civilisation ended and Judaism and Islam began. The Arab was conscious of this, and conscious too that the choice of Istanbul seemed entirely appropriate for a meeting that could have consequences far more dire than the deadliest of this fortress city's historic wars.

His men filed out into the cold evening, towards the cars, as the armed bodyguards retreated from their forest positions, silent as phantoms. The entire meeting had lasted no more than ten minutes. The Arab was the last to leave. His vehicle started up, prepared to follow the others down the dirt track, their headlights doused despite the growing twilight. As he climbed into the back of the car, he nodded to one of the bodyguards, a bearded, heavily built man, an AK47 slung over his shoulder. 'You know what to do.'

The bodyguard moved to the hut, tossed in the incendiary, shut the door, and moved into the rear of the car.

Five minutes later, as it drove back along the track towards the distant lights of the city, the Arab turned round in his seat, stared back at the hut. A flare of light suddenly glowed in the window as the incendiary ignited. The wood was bone dry, caught easily, and flames licked at the hut within seconds. No fingerprints would be found among ashes, no microscopic shred of evidence of the meeting would remain. Not that he imagined anyone would think of looking, but it was a precaution he deemed necessary. The American's treachery must never be discovered.

The Arab stared at the fire through the rear window, as if mesmerised, until it faded from view as the car drew away towards Istanbul. Beside him, one of his trusted aides said, 'Will the American do it? Will he betray his own countrymen?'

The Arab turned back. He nodded, and without speaking listed in his mind the sequence of events he had planned to the last detail, and which were about to unfold. A plan that would bring America to its knees, and change the world for ever. 'Now, inshallah,' he told himself, 'the final battle can begin.'

The shepherd saw the smoke from the hill three miles away, and trekked towards the forest clearing, as fast as his legs could carry him. When he saw the hut and the flames devouring the crackling wood, he ran another two miles to the nearest telephone.

It took almost an hour for the local police to arrive in a battered blue-and-white Renault, and by then it was completely dark and the hut had been reduced to a crumpled, smouldering mess of blackened embers. The twin beams of the car's headlights knifed the darkness, their harsh cones of light swamping the forest in the background, shining on the coiled wisps of smoke that rose eerily from the charred remains, like ghostly souls seeking heaven. When two of the policemen had picked carefully among the debris and determined that there were no bodies, the local police chief took off his cap, scratched his head and said to the shepherd, 'Who owned the hut?'

'I don't know.'

The police chief frowned. 'You don't know? How long have you lived around here?'

'Thirty years. That's why it's so odd.'

'What do you mean?'

The shepherd was baffled. 'I came this way only the other day.'

'And?'

'The hut wasn't there.'

Azerbaijan 21 October 12.05 p.m.

Through the dusty windscreen of his car Police Chief Ulan Fawzi watched as the shabby buildings and cheap hotels of downtown Baku collapsed in a slow dance of disintegration, one after another like rows of massive skittles being demolished in some gigantic bowling alley.

'Ten minutes,' the uniformed policeman at the wheel promised. 'Perhaps even less.'

Fawzi nodded absently and stared at the buildings. The illusion of their collapse never ceased to fascinate him. The glaring heat from the midday sun reflecting on the windscreen caused the mirage — made the buildings seem to cascade down into the streets in a dazzling waterfall of brick and glass.

It was five minutes past noon and the streets and markets of Baku thronged with people, but very few of them noticed the police car, two covered trucks and the grey single-deck bus speeding towards Bina Airport, ten miles from the capital. Chief Fawzi was riding in the first car, ahead of the other three vehicles. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have stayed in his office and left the job to his second-in-command, but these circumstances were far from ordinary and Chief Fawzi had a twofold reason for being here personally.

First, the airport was a den of corrupt, bribe-seeking officials and pick-pockets, so it was necessary to ensure that when the dozen VIPs arrived they were whisked through the terminal without any bother. Second, and more important, he had to ensure the VIPs' protection. If Fawzi handled it well, he figured he could count on the personal thanks of the Prime Minister and perhaps, God willing, even a raise in his salary.

The police chief turned his thoughts to what lay ahead. He was bringing with him thirty of his best men, all heavily armed. Another two dozen had already taken up positions at the airport since early morning. His main problem would come later that afternoon when he had to ensure the VIPs' safety as they travelled through the badlands of south-west Azerbaijan to their destination at Shusha, over two hundred kilometres from Baku. The region had lousy dirt-track roads, was pretty much lawless, and the mountains were often controlled by warlord bandits, army deserters and gangsters. Fawzi was no fool. He knew that the job he had been entrusted with could turn out to be a poisoned chalice. If any harm befell the men he was to protect, it would not be good for his career.

He would have to make certain that everything went smoothly, that his visitors' trip was comfortable, and that the convoy moved speedily. But his major objective was to ensure that security remained tight throughout the entire journey, and he couldn't afford any mistakes.

As the car sped down Izmir Street and swung left towards the airport, Fawzi felt a tightening in his stomach. He mentally checked over the list of precautions he would have to take if the convoy was to reach Shusha safely before nightfall.

12.55 p.m.

The wheels of the Boeing 757 hit the runway with a squeal as they touched down at Bina International Airport. The aircraft taxied to the apron, the engines died, and a mobile passenger staircase was quickly wheeled into place. On board the specially chartered 757 that afternoon were only fourteen passengers. They were Americans who had flown in late the previous afternoon to London's Heathrow from New York's Kennedy Airport, before their onward journey to Baku.

When the tired-looking passengers came down the steps, Chief Fawzi introduced himself to the American in charge of the US delegation, then shook the hands of each of the passengers in turn, welcoming them to Azerbaijan. All were male and ranged in ages from their middle twenties to early fifties. Casually dressed, some of them carried video cameras over their shoulders or clutched plastic bags of duty-free. Fawzi knew from his briefing that two of the delegation were with the CIA, there to ensure the protection of their American countrymen, and his practised policeman's eye could spot them easily: two burly men with restless eyes and weapon bulges under their jackets. One of the two CIA men presented his ID. 'Sir, I'm Greg Baktarin, with the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States. And this is my colleague, Joe Calverton.'

'Pleased to meet you, sir,' Calverton told the police chief.

The two men were in their early thirties, clean cut and ultra-polite. Fawzi thought the man named Baktarin had the look of someone with Azerbaijani blood in his veins, as his surname suggested. He was darkly handsome and tall, but unlike a typical Azerbaijani the CIA man was well fed, with perfect teeth, not a gold crown in sight. A lucky bastard whose parents had had the good fortune to emigrate.

'You have no need to worry.' The police chief offered his best smile. 'Everything is under control.'

'Sure, but if we could just take a minute to go through the security you've got in place,' Baktarin said in perfect Azerbaijani. 'We'd very much appreciate it.'

Fawzi produced a map, patiently explained the route, and the fact that thirty of his men, well trained and heavily armed, would be guarding the delegates during the trip. 'The roads are bad, but apart from that I expect no problems,' Fawzi offered.

The CIA men studied the map, cautiously assessing the information, until finally Baktarin gave a grudging nod. 'I guess we're in your hands. Are you ready to proceed?'

'At once. The convoy is waiting.' Fawzi couldn't tell whether the CIA men were entirely happy, but he himself was reasonably positive that the journey would go without any major hitch, despite his earlier anxiety. It was a straightforward operation, no more than a baby-sitting job, and he had every confidence in his men. There was no real danger likely on the trip. He had taken all the right precautions — alerted every police and militia station en route to ensure that their sector was vigorously patrolled, and be on the lookout for any trouble from bandits or brigands. But it had done no harm for Fawzi to strike the fear of God into the police commissioner by pointing out the possibility of danger from bandits attacking the convoy. Therefore, once the job was successfully done, the commissioner would be all the more grateful. 'This way, gentlemen, please.'

Fawzi escorted the Americans to the terminal through a private entrance used for visiting VIPs and government ministers. Two senior customs officials and an immigration officer, under Fawzi's withering stare, processed the visitors in record time. The British air-crew had remained on board the aircraft. When the Boeing had refuelled they would fly back to London, returning to Baku in three days' time to pick up the passengers, their business completed. Fawzi led the Americans out through the terminal into the cloudless, sunny afternoon, the temperature still a warm twenty-three degrees, hot for November. The route was lined at intervals with his men, all the way out to the convoy and the waiting single-deck grey bus.

The Americans filed on to the bus and, when Fawzi had made sure they were comfortable and that their luggage was safely aboard, he moved to his car at the head of the convoy, feeling pleased with himself. Everything so far had gone like clockwork. He gave the order and his men clambered into the two covered trucks. Then Fawzi raised his hand, blew a whistle, and proudly led the convoy out of the airport.

Bina Airport wasn't busy that afternoon, only three arrivals since midday, but the elderly cleaner noticed the armed police everywhere. He tried his best to look busy, sweeping the dust in his path with a heavy broom. He whisked the refuse into a long-handled metal dustpan.

He counted the number of passengers who had come down the Boeing's steps, remembered the descriptions of the vehicles they had climbed into, the number of policemen who guarded them, the kind of weapons they carried — Kalashnikovs and sidearms and the exact time the convoy left the airport. Then he made his way up the stairs to one of the public telephones at the rear of the departures terminal. He inserted a coin in the slot, dialled the number, and heard it ring over two hundred kilometres away in Shusha.

4.30 p.m.