Resurrection Day (11 page)

2.10 p.m.

Within thirty-five minutes of the phone call to the White House, a flurry of cars, a blue Dodge van and two jet-black four-wheel-drives with tinted windows braked to a halt outside a cemetery in Floraville, eight miles from Washington. The small graveyard was empty of visitors and mourners that afternoon as the two dozen burly Secret Servicemen and FBI agents scrambled out of the cavalcade in a burst of activity. They immediately cordoned off the entrance, much to the puzzlement of a solitary elderly man weeding the grass verge just inside the gates. He came over to investigate, carrying a hoe. 'Hey, you fellas mind telling me what in tarnation you're doing?'

'You the caretaker, sir?' one of the men asked.

'Yep, I am.'

'A woman named Margaret Coombs. Where's she buried?'

'You talking about Maggie Coombs?'

'Maybe.'

'Guess you must be. 'Cause she's the only Margaret Coombs we got buried here. Passed away last fall.' The man pointed behind him, past the rows of headstones, towards several of the graveyard's more recent interments. 'You'll find her plot over there. Nice granite slab, if I do say so myself. Hey, who are you boys?'

One of the federal agents flashed his ID. The old man's eyes popped with interest. 'Say, what did poor old Maggie do afore she died?'

'Nothing, sir, not that I know of. Now, if you could just lead us to the exact spot we'd appreciate it. And please, don't go any closer than about twenty feet from the grave.'

The caretaker frowned. 'Sure, whatever you say. You fellas follow me. Just stay on the gravel.' He led the way along a path, keenly followed by a dozen of the FBI agents and Secret Servicemen, their feet crunching on the gravel chips. When he reached the area he had indicated, he pointed to a polished, granite-bordered headstone, almost a respectful twenty feet away, the name Margaret Coombs inscribed on it. 'That's Maggie. Never thought she might have been one for getting herself in trouble. Saw out her last days in an old folks' home outside town. Good lady. Sharp poker-player. What she do wrong?'

Very carefully, one of the Secret Servicemen took a few steps closer to the grave. Kneeling, he visually examined the bordered site, took out a notebook and cross-checked his notes with the details on the headstone. He stood, stepped away and addressed his colleagues. 'This is it. Better tell the guys back in the van to get their equipment up here.'

An FBI agent hurried back towards the entrance gates and the cavalcade, where the Dodge was parked. A Secret Serviceman turned his attention to the caretaker. 'The lady didn't get herself in any trouble, sir. Are you the only one working here?'

'Nope. Henry works here, too, but part time. Henry Folson. Lives local. He's the gravedigger. What's the trouble that the Feds are so interested in old Maggie?'

'Sir, this agent here will take you back down to the gate.'

'What in the hell for?'

'If you could just go with the agent, sir, I'd really appreciate it.'

One of the men took hold of the caretaker's arm. 'This way, sir.'

'Hey, I know the damned way! Say, what the devil's going on here?'

As the man was led away, out of earshot, the FBI agent addressed his colleagues again.

'OK, no one touch anything. I want the gravestone and border cordoned off, the surface area thoroughly inspected, and every part of the grave that can be dusted checked for prints. The same for those in the immediate vicinity. I don't care if you find a million prints on there, I want every one of them. We'll need to question the caretaker, and anyone else who's been working here in the last couple of weeks. And find out if any burials took place during the same period — I want to know if anyone's been seen around this site in particular, or behaving suspiciously in the cemetery area. Get sketch artists if you need them.' He paused, took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. 'Now, let's go help the boys get their equipment set up, find some shovels, and get this business over with.'

The White House 3.17 p.m.

'One videocassette, like the last time.' Doug Stevens held up the cassette for everyone in the situation room to see.

'There was no message with it?'

'No, Mr President. Just the cassette. Found inside a protective waterproof plastic wrapper, exactly where the caller said it would be, buried near the top of the grave. The area's still being checked out by a forensic team. There was a caretaker on the site, but he claims he saw no one disturb the grave, or anyone suspicious hanging around the vicinity of the cemetery recently.'

'This caller — what have we got on him?' Mitch Gains said. 'I presume his voice was taped?'

'Yes, sir. The switchboard initiated a recording moments after his call was received.'

'And?'

'The voice is being analysed as we speak.'

'How did the caller sound?' asked Rebecca Joyce.

'Well spoken. No trace of nervousness. His accent certainly wasn't American, but he didn't sound particularly Arab, either. We'll try to get a fix on his ethnic origins, approximate age and likely social status, using our computers and experts in vocal analysis. We have recordings of known Islamic and Arab terrorists and supporters in our voice databanks, from interviews they gave to journalists, or from intercepted phone calls. We can try to find a match.'

'And the origin of the call itself?' Katherine Ashmore addressed the FBI Director.

'Internal in the USA. That's all we know for certain. The man stayed on the line for less than a minute. Just said what he had to say and hung up. The supervisor on duty tried to get a trace, but had insufficient time.'

'So we've got nothing, really?'

'No, Kathy. Apart from the fact that the call was made in this country.'

The President grimaced. 'Then let's concentrate on what we have got. The cassette.'

'There were no prints, just like the other package,' Stevens offered. 'The video mechanism was also X-rayed. It was totally safe — completely harmless.'

'That remains to be seen. I'm assuming if it's Hasim again he'll be speaking in Arabic. What about a translator?'

'I've got Ed Marshall, our Arabic expert, waiting outside. He's ready to interpret, sir.'

'OK, bring him in, and let's take a look at what's on there.'

Stevens summoned the FBI translator, and a silver-haired, distinguished-looking man entered the room. The President greeted him, and Marshall was directed to a chair near the TV to prepare himself, opening a pad and readying his pen, while Stevens turned on the TV, slid in the cassette and flicked some buttons on the remote.

The room had fallen completely still, every face mirroring the President's anxious curiosity. The TV screen turned to vivid blue, and after about twenty seconds the colour image of Abu Hasim appeared. As before, he wore a grey half-turban, a white kafiya. He sat cross-legged on the floor, staring into the camera. The tension in the situation room rose as Hasim began to speak, but Stevens hit the hold button. 'When you're ready, Ed. Just give it to us word for word.'

'Yes, sir. I'm ready.' Marshall leaned forward, Stevens cancelled the hold button, the tape rolled again, and Marshall translated the Arab's words:

Once more, I address myself to the President of America. By now, you will have had time to reflect upon my first message. Naturally, you will be considering your options and the grave decisions that you will have to make in the coming hours and days. However, you may also be questioning my determination to carry out my threat. Therefore, I wish to take this opportunity to assure you again that my threat is a very real one.

You may also be tempted to assume that I or my followers do not have the resolve to carry out our strike against America, and inflict large numbers of deaths. In that assumption, you would be very wrong. We of al-Qaeda are possessed of a terrible fury for the wrongs that have been done by your country against the Arab peoples, and I can promise that our wrath, if it must be unleashed, will be vengeful, ruthless, and decisive.

So that you may believe this pledge, and thus hasten those pressing matters that you have to attend to with all your vigour, I must therefore ask you to witness an example of the fate that lies in store for the millions of citizens living in your capital, if my demands are not fully met. To again remind you, if my deadline is passed without total compliance on your part, of the terrible calamity that will befall America.

This world in which we live is often cursed by tragedy. I see no other way to reinforce my threat than to add to that tragedy. I shall do this by showing you a vivid example of the powerful weapon which you now know we possess. But first, let me explain. Ten days ago my followers abducted fourteen American citizens in Azerbaijan. No doubt you have heard of their disappearance. Your intelligence organisations may even have told you of their fears for the men's safety. Their safety is no longer of concern.

What should be of concern is what you are about to witness. So let this serve as a warning. If you do not heed it, then the entire citizenship of Washington will be forced to suffer exactly the same fate as that which you are about to behold. Therefore, I will pray most earnestly to Allah that the President of America will have the wisdom and intelligence to see that the only course of action open to him is to comply with my wishes. And that he pursue this necessary course vigorously, before the time runs out to save his people from a terrible misfortune.

Abu Hasim fell silent. Marshall finished his translation moments later, and suddenly the Arab's image disappeared. The screen went blank, cut by rolling white lines. The CIA Director, seated directly across from the President, said urgently, 'Sir, you received my report about the Azerbaijan incident ten days ago. You'll recall that twelve American mining engineers and their two-man CIA escort were abducted in a remote mountain area in southwest Azerbaijan. We sent a team to help the Azerbaijanis find them, but so far there's been no ransom demand, no leads, nothing.' The Director was ashen. 'But that crazy sonofabitch Hasim must have kidnapped — '

'Dick, please ... ' the President interrupted, grim faced.

Everyone in the situation room stared at the TV as the rolling lines suddenly cleared and the video came to life again. A room appeared on the screen. It looked like some kind of laboratory chamber, but starkly empty, the pale-coloured walls bare. Half of the nearest wall was glass fronted, stretching from approximately waist height to the ceiling. In the farthest back wall was a closed door. Slowly, without a noise, the door opened. As if in a daze, a line of men began to file in.

Their casual attire was filthy and dishevelled. Pathetic-looking creatures, the men appeared exhausted and disoriented. Some of their faces were badly bruised and their eyes swollen, as if they had been beaten. The youngest looked barely in his twenties, the oldest perhaps fifty.

The door closed behind the men. The fourteen Americans stood silent, huddled in the centre of the chamber like a group of frightened schoolchildren, some with their heads bowed, others staring dazedly at the walls, or through the glass window towards whoever, if anyone, was on the other side of the camera. There was still no sound. Deliberately or otherwise, the event wasn't being audibly recorded. Most of the men looked fearful, bewildered as to why they had been ushered, into the room. Two of the captives, whose faces appeared more heavily bruised and battered than the others, could barely stand.

The CIA Director suddenly recognised them, jabbed a finger at the TV. 'Sir, those are my two men. Greg Baktarin and Joe Calverton.' Anguish flared in Faulk's voice. 'I can't believe this. If Abu Hasim intends to kill — '

'Quiet please, Dick!' the President interrupted again, and continued to focus on the screen, his jaw tightening in barely controlled fury.

Quite suddenly, the stocky figure of what appeared to be a man crossed in front of the camera, moving slowly towards the glass window. He wore a white biohazard suit, thick white rubber gloves, and a gas mask shielded his face. In his left hand, slightly outstretched, he carried what appeared to be some kind of laboratory apparatus, no more than the size of a small lunch box. The confused men could only stare as the figure in the biohazard suit halted, and pulled open a chute-like metal drawer positioned just below the window. Very delicately, he placed the apparatus in the chute. For a few moments he lingered, his gloved hands remaining inside the metal drawer, working cautiously, as if he was adjusting some critical mechanism. When he had finished, he gingerly shut the drawer and promptly retreated out of the frame.

Around the situation-room table, the President and his advisers stared in silence, each dreading in their hearts what was to come. Seconds passed, stretched into what seemed an eternity, but nothing happened. Then, suddenly, it seemed as if a furious, malevolent force invaded the chamber.

The men inside began to twitch and jerk, their bodies convulsing like crazed marionettes in some obscene dance. Mouths yawned in silent screams of terror. They no longer looked or behaved like humans but like rabid animals, features distorted, racked by expressions of deranged agony. Within seconds, their eyes bulged grotesquely, their lips and nostrils bubbled a milky froth. Victims staggered or rolled on the floor, clawed and scratched their bodies until they drew blood.

'Oh my God ... those poor bastards,' breathed John Feldmeyer, the Defence Secretary.

This time the President didn't suppress comment but watched in mute horror while fourteen innocent men were gassed to death in front of his eyes. In less than two minutes, it was over. Twisted bodies lay where they had fallen. Alone, in corners, or slumped together, a twisted matrix of corpses.

The tape clicked. The screen went blue.

Everyone in the situation room turned to stare at the President, as much in confusion as seeking from him some kind of guidance. They saw tears fill his eyes for the fourteen lives he had witnessed being extinguished. He didn't speak. It was Katherine Ashmore, his Counsel, who seemed to echo his thoughts, her voice trembling unashamedly. 'May God have mercy on their souls.'

There was a long, unbroken silence, and then a visibly shocked Mitch Gains regarded the others round the table. 'If Hasim carries out his threat, it'll be nothing less than the worst devastation to befall this nation. On the same scale as Hiroshima or Nagasaki.'

The President, his fingers bone white as they gripped the table in front of him, seemed totally overwhelmed. Very slowly, he turned to stare at the circle of shocked faces. And when his question was finally uttered, it was in a dismayed, agonised voice, addressed to them all. "How? How in God's name could he get his hands on such a murderous weapon?'

PART TWO

21 July — 9 November

Beginnings

Lebanon, 21 July