Resurrection Day (14 page)

It was raining hard at just after nine that evening as Boris Novikov's chauffeured black E-class Mercedes was waved through the wrought-iron entrance gates by the security guards. It glided up the gravel driveway and halted outside the imposing entrance to a luxurious dacha in Kuntsevo, on Moscow's outskirts. A bodyguard climbed out and held open the rear passenger door. Novikov, a rugged, elegantly dressed man with blunt features — a wide mouth, broad face and hard, deep-set eyes — stepped out of the car into the sheeting rain.

He was no longer smiling, but the source of his delight, an arousing sexual cocktail of pain and pleasure that he soon intended to enjoy, was still foremost in his mind. Another bodyguard immediately scurried forward with an umbrella and escorted him towards the entrance hall. The dacha was large even by Kuntsevo standards, eight bedrooms in all, exquisitely furnished and surrounded by walled gardens. An attentive young aide was waiting in the hallway. He helped Novikov remove his overcoat.

'Good evening, sir. Your business with the President went well?'

'No better than expected,' Novikov replied curtly. 'Has the woman arrived yet?'

'She's in your room, sir. The same lady as the last time, I believe.'

'Make sure I'm not disturbed. No telephone calls, nothing. Understand?'

The aide inclined his head. 'Of course, sir. As you wish.'

Boris Novikov checked himself in one of the gilded mirrors in the hallway. He wore an elegant dark suit, complemented by a hand-painted Louis Feraud silk tie, his ox-blood Italian leather shoes buffed like polished ceramic. His face was another matter. Brash, ugly almost, his skin pitted by old scars, an aggressive countenance that suggested he was no stranger to extreme violence.

Novikov had formerly held the rank of colonel in the FSB, Russia's domestic intelligence organisation — which, along with its sister organisation, the Foreign Intelligence Service, SVR, had replaced the KGB. Four years ago he had taken early retirement and launched himself vigorously into a number of private business ventures, some of which had won lucrative government contracts and had helped make him a wealthy man.

But tonight his mind was on more personal matters as he eagerly climbed a sweeping staircase that led up to his private bedroom suite. Stepping inside, he locked the door behind him.

The room was large and luxurious — silver and brass Russian vases, richly coloured carpets made from the finest Astrakhan wool, a hand-carved oak writing bureau, an original eighteenth-century Stavinsky oil painting of the Kremlin on one wall.

The rain hissed outside, and Novikov noticed that one of the windows was open, the curtains gently ruffled by a cold breeze. Light from a table lamp flooded through the open doorway that led into his suite, the bedroom in near-darkness. He grinned, moved to close the open window but changed his mind, enjoying the draught of cool, autumn-scented air, then strolled over to the bedroom and looked in.

The queen-size bed was draped with silk sheets and a young woman lay there on her side. Blonde, with a ravishing figure. The flimsiest pair of lace panties and matching bra adorned her slim, tanned body. Silk stockings, suspenders and glossy, knee-high, jet-black PVC boots added an erotic touch, as did the coiled, burred leather whip lying beside her on the bed.

The woman worked for one of Moscow's finest escort agencies, a beauty who could be relied on to be completely discreet. Novikov, a bachelor, liked to indulge himself in the company of young women, if necessary the finest money could buy. The young woman he had chosen tonight had the body of a goddess, and like Novikov enjoyed sex that was extremely rough, almost bordering on the sadistic, a weakness he could afford to indulge discreetly.

He licked his lips, stepped over to the bed, sat on the edge. For a moment he admired the woman's beautiful curves, smiled as he ran a hand over her bronzed silky flanks, attempting to rouse her.

'Time to pleasure me, my sweet. And tonight, I'd like to be very rough indeed. But I'm sure you'll enjoy it immensely.'

The woman didn't reply. Novikov saw that her eyes were closed. She had appeared to be resting, but he realised now that she was totally unconscious. He frowned, felt her pulse. She was alive, of that he was certain, but it seemed she was drugged. If the stupid bitch has taken narcotics, she's ruined my fucking evening.

For some odd reason Novikov remembered the open window. He turned and his blood froze.

An intruder, dressed completely in dark clothes, stood before him. He wore a black windcheater, black pants and leather gloves; a black woollen ski mask covered his entire face, except the eyes. The intruder held a silenced Beretta automatic. It was pointed at Novikov's head.

'What ... what's going on?'

The intruder spoke softly, almost in a whisper. 'Be silent. Scream, or call for help, and I'll see you in hell.'

Novikov glanced slyly at the bedside locker nearest him. For his personal protection, he always kept a Tokarev pistol in the locker recess, the magazine loaded and the safety off.

'Kill me and you'll never get out of here alive. The police will be immediately alerted. And there are bodyguards, electronic security — '

'Your security is ineffective.'

'What do you want?' Novikov demanded. The man gestured at the Kremlin oil painting. 'The safe behind. Open it.'

Novikov paled, realising what the intruder was after. 'You'll never get away with such a theft. Never. For a crime like this, you'll be hunted down like an animal. No matter where you run to. You'd be a dead man walking.'

'Do as I say,' the intruder ordered. Novikov crossed to the painting, flicked a catch, and the frame swung back to reveal a big steel wall safe with an electronic keypad. He entered the code. The safe clicked open.

'Hand me the papers inside. Then go lie on the bed, face down, and keep your mouth shut.'

Novikov did as ordered, removing a red folder from the safe and handing it to the man, then he crossed to the bed and lay face down. The man opened the folder, studied the papers inside, and smiled behind the mask.

'It seems I'm in luck, Colonel.'

Crossing to the writing bureau, the intruder switched on the desk lamp, took a miniature Japanese camera from his pocket and photographed the papers. It was all over in less than two minutes, then he replaced the folder in the safe, locked it, and swung back the painting.

There was a sharp noise from somewhere downstairs in the residence, like a door slamming. The intruder glanced behind him, and in that brief moment of distraction Novikov, still lying on the bed, looked over and saw his chance. He reached into the locker recess, managed to grab the Tokarev, brought it up smartly.

'You fucking bastard. It's you who'll go to hell!'

He managed to get off one shot, but missed his target and hit the wall, as the intruder's pistol coughed once in reply. Novikov screamed, the slug chipped his fingers, and he dropped the Tokarev, clutched his bloodied hand.

The intruder stepped over and pressed the tip of the silencer into the centre of Novikov's forehead. From below came the sound of raised voices, then heavy footsteps climbing the stairs, responding to Novikov's gunshot. He suddenly remembered he'd locked the door. There wasn't enough time to save him. He trembled. 'Who ... who are you?'

The intruder lifted his ski mask. 'Remember me, Colonel?'

A horrified Novikov stared into Nikolai Gorev's face. 'You! Oh my God!'

Gorev squeezed the trigger.

Major Alexei Kursk stood in the centre of the bedroom. In front of him, Boris Novikov's body lay partly covered with a bloodied white sheet, one end of which was held up by a lieutenant from the FSB's Investigation Directorate. Kursk studied the corpse, examined the single bullet hole drilled into the victim's forehead, noticed the bloodied fingers, then looked away to take in a discarded Tokarev pistol on the floor, the open bedroom window, and a rutted bullet mark on the wall.

'I've seen enough. So what's the story?'

The lieutenant replaced the sheet.

'The bodyguards heard the shooting just after nine p.m. When they broke down the bedroom door they discovered Novikov dead. The gun we found on the carpet is Novikov's own, licensed in his name. It's been fired once.' Kursk, a small, stocky man with a penetrating stare, examined the bullet hole in the wall, touched it with his fingertip. 'Clues or witnesses?'

'We found three shell casings on the floor. Two of them are nine-mil. Most likely from the gun that killed Novikov.'

'What about this call-girl?'

The lieutenant suppressed a smile. 'She had a regular thing going with Novikov, playing naughty bedroom games. But she saw or heard nothing. Claims someone came up behind her and jabbed a hypodermic in her arm. The next thing she knows she comes to, sees police swarming all over the bedroom, Novikov's brains on the floor, and she's screaming her head off.'

'Where is she now?'

'At Moscow General, being treated for shock.'

Kursk moved over to the window, held back the curtain, peered out on to expansive dark lawns, ringed by high walls.

'She's quite sure she saw nothing?'

'She seems to be telling the truth. But we'll have her checked out. Find out if she played any part in this.'

'And the bodyguards?'

'One of them caught a glimpse of an intruder dressed in black, running across the lawns just after the shooting, and climbing over the wall. After that, he heard what sounded like a motorcycle start up and roar away.'

'Have the bodyguards checked out too. Anything else I should know?'

The lieutenant indicated the Kremlin painting on the wall. 'Novikov has a safe behind there. Not unusual for a businessman of his standing who might have to work on important documents at home. But it's locked, doesn't appear to have been touched, and according to Novikov's aide, only Novikov himself knew the combination.'

Kursk crossed to the painting, pulled it back on its hinge, studied the locked safe.

'Any idea what might be in there?'

'No, sir. We also set up checkpoints all the way to Moscow, in the hope we might catch the intruder. But so far we've drawn a complete blank.'

There was a commotion at the bedroom door and the guards stepped back to allow a visitor through. Igor Verbatin, the bullish head of the FSB, looked in a foul mood. He glanced at the covered body with distaste.

'Well, Kursk, what can you tell me?'

'There's been a murder.'

'Don't be smart with me, Major. I've known that much this last hour.'

'I've just arrived.' Kursk was surprised that the head of the FSB himself should take such a keen personal interest in the homicide. 'But from the sounds of it, Novikov was killed by a masked intruder who managed to evade the colonel's tight security.'

'Novikov's safe. Was it touched?'

'It doesn't appear so. Why?'

Verbatin's face darkened. 'We'll discuss that later, Kursk, in private. Any idea who might have done this?'

Kursk shrugged. 'A man like Novikov, a former FSB colonel and a successful businessman, is bound to have had enemies. But it's early days yet.'

The FSB head fumed, then took Kursk's arm and led him aside.

'You're aware this is to be kept out of the press? That it's imperative it be kept secret for now, that the investigation is to be conducted solely by the FSB, and the police are not to be involved?'

'So I was informed. Why all the secrecy?'

'That's a matter you may learn in good time. For now, you ought to know that the President himself, Vasily Kuzmin, has taken a very personal interest in the case. You're one of the FSB's best investigators. So find the culprit, and fast. It's got top priority. You have my personal authority to use any means you have to. And I mean any, Kursk. Whoever's behind this crime simply has to be caught.'

Kandahar province, Afghanistan, 3 September

As the sun dropped towards the horizon, a solitary man climbed up a rocky slope, his lonely figure silhouetted against the dying orange light. He was tall, six foot five, with an olive complexion and brown eyes, and wore a loose grey-coloured Arab gown and a white mini-turban. Carrying a cane to aid his climb, he looked pale and sickly, his bearded face covered in sweat from his exertion.

Abu Hasim reached the top of the slope, then paused to get his breath and take in his surroundings. The landscape below was a desolate place: rust-coloured rock, parched stony mountains, craggy hills. Despite the dying sun, the air was still hot, completely windless, and the only sound was of Hasim's own laboured breathing.

Under his arm he carried a prayer rug. He unrolled it slowly. Facing south-west to Mecca, he invoked the name of Allah, the Master of the World, the All Merciful and All Compassionate, the Supreme Sovereign of the Last Judgment. Then he knelt, prostrating his body three times, touching his forehead to the ground each time, glorifying the name of God and his Prophet with each incantation.

When his ritual was over, Abu Hasim sat back on his rug, breathing slowly, immersing himself in the peace and solitude of his surroundings. At this time of evening, sundown, the mountains were a tranquil place. In the desolate landscape of his beloved Afghanistan, nature at its harshest but most beautiful, he always felt closest to God.

Once, he had been accustomed to a privileged upbringing. He recalled his father's palatial villas with marble floors, gilded bathrooms, palm-fringed gardens and dozens of servants. But for almost twenty years he had chosen a spartan life, had shunned vain comforts for the glory of Allah.

That same life had led him to become, in the eyes of America's intelligence agencies, the most wanted and dangerous terrorist in the world. He turned as he heard a noise below him, a clatter of stones tumbling away. In the fading light he saw a man hurrying up the slope from the camp below, clutching the hem of his gown as he manoeuvred his legs into secure footholds. When he reached the top, Hasim smiled and called out, 'Salaam alaikum!'

'Alaikum salaam,' the visitor replied, his face flushed with exhilaration. 'I hope I did not disturb your evening prayers, Abu?'

Hasim stood. They embraced, kissed each other's cheeks, like old friends. 'My prayers are completed. It is good to see you have returned safely from Moscow, Mohamed, dear brother. When did you arrive?'

'Just now. The men told me where to find you. I have great news, Abu ... '

Hasim raised a hand to silence his visitor and sat back down on his rug, cross-legged. 'Come, join me. Rest after your climb. Then we will talk.'

Mohamed Rashid sat. The two men, seated together, looked total opposites — Hasim tall and bearded, calm, his appearance almost monk-like; Rashid stocky, of medium height, fiery, quintessentially Arab. Rashid took a deep breath and trapped it in his lungs, as though trying to hold back the rush of words ready to spill from his mouth, the news that he could barely contain.

'Now, tell me the news I have been waiting for, Mohamed.'

'It worked, Abu. We have the formula.'

An exultant Rashid took the photographed papers from inside his gown, handed them across eagerly. 'The details are all here.'

Hasim took the papers, held them in awe. He did not understand the figures and chemical symbols the pages contained, but he understood their potency. His first reaction was to bow his head in silent prayer, a prayer of gratitude for the power that now lay in his hands.

'I thank Allah that you have done his work, Mohamed. I thank Him that our day has finally come. This is a great moment. How soon before we can test the formula?'

'Within days, inshallah. We will begin our work straight away. Our chemists are outstanding scientists. They will have little problem once they have the formula.' Rashid was still overcome, his face lit up. 'I still cannot believe it, Abu. Our day has finally come. Now we can challenge the Americans as equals.'

Abu Hasim said calmly, 'Let us keep our heads, Mohamed. There is still much work to be done. It is hardly over yet.' He put down the papers, folded them neatly. 'Now, tell me everything. Did all go as planned in Moscow?'

As Rashid explained, Hasim listened in silence to every detail. He didn't comment until his visitor had finished.

'The Russian has lived up to my expectations. Where is he now?'

'Below in the camp.'

Hasim paused, searched Rashid's face. 'You still don't approve of him, do you, Mohamed? His obvious talent hasn't changed your opinion?'

'He is a capable man. An adept terrorist,' Rashid began, and then a bitter tone crept into his voice. 'But his attitude and manner are irreverent. And his motives worry me, Abu. His concern is solely for the Chechen people, and the release of his men. He is not a true follower of our cause. In that regard, he is no more than a hired mercenary, and I despise such men.'

'But you forget, it was we who sought his help,' Hasim answered. 'He owes us a debt on behalf of his Chechen brothers, which he will repay. And such men as he have their uses.' He held up the papers. 'He has proved himself by bringing us these. As he will prove himself again in Washington.'

'If you say so, Abu.'

'What about the woman?'

'She has proved satisfactory, and her training is complete. Now that we have the formula and our chemists can finish their work, she will travel with me to Washington. We will leave within a week, perhaps less.'

'You trust her?'

Rashid nodded again. 'She will do exactly as we tell her. She has no choice.'

'Good. But for the sake of our cause, you must learn to put your differences aside. Now that our plan is under way, your co-operation with each other is important. You will do this for me?'

Reluctantly, Rashid nodded, bit back his discord. 'Yes, Abu. If you wish it.'

'I wish it.' Hasim stood, tucked the papers inside his gown, rolled up his prayer mat. 'Come, let us return to the camp. There are matters we need to discuss with our Russian.'