Resurrection Day (16 page)

Moscow 9 November

The Lada sedan carrying Major Alexei Kursk deposited him outside the private house in the Ramenka district just before eleven that evening. The property was impressive, a wood-and-brick dacha in its own grounds, with a double garage and a sentry box outside.

'Wait here,' he told the driver, and strode up the walkway to the entrance, where a couple of armed militiamen stood guard either side of the front door.

Kursk showed his ID and moments later found himself being escorted into a wood-panelled study by a squat, bullish-looking man whose suit jacket strained with steroid-induced muscle, one of the team of personal bodyguards who protected the head of the FSB twenty-four hours a day.

Igor Verbatin stood at a French window, wearing a dressing gown, a glass of vodka in one hand, staring absent-mindedly out at the dark gardens. He turned as Kursk was led in. 'Thank you, Georgi. You may leave us.'

The bodyguard withdrew, softly closing the door. 'Major, take a seat.' Verbatin raised his glass. 'Forgive me if I indulge myself in a nightcap. And for wondering what's so important that you asked to see me here at such an ungodly hour.'

'There's been a development in the Novikov case, sir.'

Verbatin raised an eyebrow again as he came to sit behind his study desk. 'Really? And I thought your investigations into the affair had led nowhere in over two months? It amazes me, Kursk. You have a reputation as one of our finest investigators, relentless in your work. Yet you and your men hit a brick wall, and a very thick one at that.'

'It's been a difficult case.'

'Explain this development.'

Kursk looked uncomfortable as he snapped open his briefcase. 'Whoever killed Boris Novikov is a professional, that much is obvious. Not a fingerprint was found, not a single clue, no crystal-clear motive. Novikov's security cameras weren't much use, either — a few shots of a man in black, his face covered by a mask.'

'We know all this. Go on.'

'Whatever his motive was, it stands to reason the intruder must have been observing Novikov before he struck. For days, weeks, months perhaps. So I had my men go back over the colonel's movements. Where he went, who he visited, official business or not. Visits to his bank, his businesses, government departments.'

'Get to the point, Kursk.'

'These places have security cameras and most keep the videos for months. I checked back through hundreds of cassettes, examined them diligently, frame by frame, going back over three months. It's been painstaking work, which I only completed this evening. The good news is we got lucky. Almost three months ago, at the same time Novikov was visiting his bank, a man was caught on camera, outside the building, looking like he might be observing Novikov. A week later, when Novikov's visiting the Defence Ministry, the same man turns up in footage from a street camera positioned on top of the Ministry's roof.' From his briefcase Kursk plucked two photographs and placed them on the desk. 'The really bad news is it looks to me like Nikolai Gorev.'

A stunned Verbatin examined the grainy black-and-white photographs of a man whose features were barely distinguishable, and looked instantly worried. 'Oh, my.' His voice softened to almost a whisper, hoarse with sudden anxiety. 'You're sure?'

Kursk blushed, his discomfort even more obvious. 'Very sure. I'd swear it on my mother's life. I had the photographs electronically enhanced and had several experts give their opinion. I've no doubt it's Nikolai Gorev.'

Verbatin looked up, studied his visitor's face intently. 'Of course. I completely forgot. You once knew Gorev. You and he even served together in Moscow, am I correct?'

'Yes, sir.'

A terrible thought occurred to Verbatin. His mouth twitched nervously. 'Do you now think there's a chance Novikov's safe was touched?'

'That's what worries me, considering you said it contained important papers, though nothing appeared to have been taken. But a camera could have been used to photograph the contents. And on that score my nose would be twitching if Nikolai Gorev's involved.'

Verbatin went suddenly pale. 'This is even worse than I thought. The President must be informed at once.'

A coal fire blazed in the Kremlin private office and Vasily Kuzmin, the third President of Russia, stood over it, in a sour mood, warming his hands.

It was the office he had moved into after Boris Yeltsin had vacated the presidency, and one that Kuzmin had quickly made his own. Gone were Yeltsin's personal photographs, his drinks cabinets, the jumble of personal knick-knacks with which the blustering, larger-than-life former President had garnished his desk in over eight years in office. Now the room was scrupulously neat, a place of order and sober industry, virtues for which Vasily Kuzmin had a solid reputation. The only hint of a more private life was an array of personal photographs, one of which graced his desk, of himself and his wife, Irena, and their two daughters, Zoya and Tatiana.

As FSB head Igor Verbatin was led in, Kuzmin dismissed his secretary, and said to Verbatin, 'So, you believe it's Nikolai Gorev in these security videos you spoke about? The man they call the Cobra. And that he was tailing Boris Novikov?'

'Yes, sir. We think it's him, all right.'

'And that he was behind Colonel Novikov's death?'

'Considering Gorev's terrorist background, Mr President, I'd say it's quite likely.'

Kuzmin sighed heavily. 'I've heard of Gorev, of course. But refresh my memory. What's his background?'

'He's Russian by birth. His father was from Moscow, but his mother was Chechen,' Verbatin began. 'He's a graduate of Moscow University who speaks several languages fluently, English and Arabic included. He joined the KGB immediately after graduation and spent four years as an intelligence officer, two of which were spent as a lecturer at Patrice Lumumba University, where he specialised in teaching the KGB's Arab students. But Gorev appears to have been restless for action. He resigned from the KGB and later joined the army, then he took up a commission in the Hundred-and-fifth Airborne Division, reaching the rank of captain, and saw service in eastern Europe, Afghanistan and Chechnya.'

'This gets more curious by the second. What else can you tell me?'

'He's the only son of General Yuri Gorev. He passed away many years ago, but no doubt you've heard of him, sir?'

'
The
General Yuri Gorev?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I can't think of any Russian citizen who hasn't. A courageous military hero of the former Soviet Union. An officer of the highest calibre who commanded the utmost respect of everyone he served with.' Kuzmin shook his head in near-disbelief. 'So, this man is the general's son.'

'And he seems to have been cut from the same cloth,' Verbatin offered. 'In Afghanistan, Nikolai Gorev showed uncommon bravery and earned at least half a dozen medals for valour, often under withering enemy fire. Until the Markov incident when he served in Chechnya in 1994 and Gorev shot dead his commanding officer. That was the start of the slide.'

'Yes, I know all about the Markov incident,' Kuzmin said uncomfortably, as if the subject was a dark one that he didn't wish to discuss. 'Such a terrible tragedy. But go on.'

'For the part he played in the affair, Gorev was arrested and sent to a high-security military penal camp in Siberia to await trial. To make matters worse, he learned he was being charged with the murder of a fellow officer and seems to have completely flipped. Then a week later Gorev escaped from the penal camp. The military scoured the area but he'd simply vanished, and gone on the run.'

'You're telling me he broke out of a heavily guarded Siberian camp at the height of winter? Those camps are in the middle of nowhere, in the worst terrain imaginable. They're impossible to escape from.'

'Gorev's no ordinary man, sir. He not only escaped, but went on to carve out a new career for himself working for the Chechen cause. Given that he's half Chechen, the Markov incident obviously incited him to switch his allegiance. Within three years, he had to our certain knowledge been responsible for at least a dozen assassinations and bombings on the Chechens' behalf. The murder of a Moscow businessman, the car-bombing of a senior Russian army officer, the assassination of a government official in Grozny ... ' The head of the FSB took a sheet from his briefcase and handed it across. 'A list of jobs we think he was involved in. As you can see, his victims have been from every part of the political and military scene. But with one thing in common. They were all, in Gorev's eyes at least, enemies of the Chechen people.'

The President read the sheet slowly, looked up. 'So, Gorev's still allied to the Chechens.'

'Yes, sir. And on their behalf his sole intention is to spread chaos, fear and unrest in Russia, and to maximum effect. We also discovered some disturbing links to other terror groups, if you'd care to study the list.'

Kuzmin regarded the sheet, then looked up, his face bleak. 'You mention here his possible involvement with Mohamed Rashid, an accomplice of Abu Hasim's?'

'Rashid is Egyptian born, one of al-Qaeda's top terrorist commanders. He's had a chequered past, working for various Islamic causes. He's advised the PLO, fought in Algeria, and later joined the al-Qaeda cause. He's an arch-terrorist, a raving Islamicist, who two years ago was sent by al-Qaeda to help train and arm the Chechen rebels.'

'You say here that Rashid was involved in the Moscow terror bombings, the al-Qaeda bombings in Nairobi and Dar es Salaam, and the attack on the USS Cole?'

'We've the best of reasons for believing Rashid was involved in both the planning and the execution in each of those incidents. It's hardly surprising. What we know of him suggests the man has a pathological hatred of America and the West.'

'Why is that?'

'The man's insane, totally unstable, and sees any non-Islamic state as a target. And you can include Russia among his list of enemies — the Moscow bombings testify to that. I also heard of one incident in Afghanistan where Rashid personally executed at least a dozen wounded Russian troops who had surrendered when their field hospital was overrun. He lined them up on their stretchers and machine gunned them to death. There's evidence Rashid was also responsible for organising these lunatic suicide squads in Chechnya that continue to massacre our troops.'

Kuzmin's jaw tightened with unconcealed anger. 'Go on.'

'To add fuel to his hatred, several years ago, when the Americans rained their missiles on al-Qaeda's camps in retaliation for terrorist acts, Rashid lost a number of comrades, including a brother. He swore revenge on the Americans, and saw it through with the savage bombings he helped mastermind. Gorev may be bad enough, but Rashid's the Devil's handyman. Capable of any insanity. Men, women, children, he'd kill them all without a shred of remorse if he thought it might advance the Islamic cause a single inch.'

'So what's his relationship to Gorev and the Chechens?'

Verbatin shrugged. 'The rebels had their backs to the wall when our troops invaded. They needed help, arms and supplies. Al-Qaeda offered it, and the Chechens accepted. Gorev was instructed to act as their middleman and had to deal through Rashid.'

'But Gorev's not a Muslim, is he?'

'No, sir, he's not, but then not all the Chechen rebels who defy us are Muslims. But that's not the point. I'm sure the psychiatrists would have fancy terms to describe Gorev's mental condition. They might even paint him as a tragic victim, or suggest that what happened to him because of the Markov incident turned him into a vengeful turncoat. But I'm not really interested. I just want to see him caught.'

Kuzmin tossed aside the list and sighed. 'You haven't had much success in that arena, have you? So where's Gorev now?'

'God only knows. We'll need to put out feelers, at home and abroad, investigate this thoroughly before we jump to any rash conclusions.'

Kuzmin looked troubled. 'This worries me. Especially if Gorev's motive was to photograph Novikov's papers. The man's already guilty of treason. This only adds fuel to the fire with another treasonable offence.'

'There's no other strong motive we can come up with, sir. We've considered every one.'

'Then there's no telling where this might lead. But not a word gets out about this, you hear me?' Kuzmin was adamant.

'But sir,' Verbatin protested, 'the Western intelligence agencies will need to know. In the wrong hands, the formula's a time bomb waiting to go off.'

'Not a word, I said. It couldn't be worse from our point of view. A former Russian army officer, turned traitor, stealing a deadly nerve gas formula from under our noses. Imagine the adverse publicity if the press got hold of that? The government would be seen as a laughing-stock, totally incompetent, unable to guard its military secrets. No, we handle it ourselves for now. Which means finding Gorev and finding him fast. We need to know what he's up to and who he's really working for. Tell me about this officer of yours you mentioned, Major Kursk.'

'He's one of our best intelligence officers. In the past, he and Gorev were close, almost like brothers. They worked together as KGB staff, even grew up together.'

'How is that?'

'Nikolai Gorev was twelve years old when his father died. His mother had already passed away. Major Kursk's father served under the general — he was a devoted personal friend, and took it upon himself to foster the boy.'

'So where's Kursk now?'

'Waiting outside, sir.'

'Does he know what we intend?'

'Not yet, sir. He's been told some of the facts, but nothing about our plans.'

'Then bring him in.'

Alexei Kursk was led into the room and crossed to where Kuzmin sat. Verbatin made the introductions. 'Mr President, this is Major Kursk.'

Kursk stood there, slightly awed by his surroundings. 'You sent for me, Mr President.'

'Major,' Kuzmin began, 'I've just been hearing about your rather special relationship with this terrorist, Nikolai Gorev.'

'It's been a number of years since I last saw Nikolai Gorev, sir.' Kursk looked uncomfortable. 'Our paths have long gone different ways.'

'Nevertheless, you've confirmed it was he in the photographs.'

'Yes, sir. It looks that way.'

'We also suspect Gorev's motive may have been to steal a valuable state secret in Boris Novikov's possession. But first, I must caution you. What you are about to hear is a matter of the utmost secrecy.' Kuzmin turned to Verbatin. 'Proceed.'

Verbatin addressed Kursk. 'As you know, Major, a nation's defence depends heavily upon its arsenal of weapons and their efficacy. Limited as Russia is by the various weapons treaties with the US, we have little scope for pursuing new defence strategies to protect our country, except in secret. There is also the matter of expense and benefit — new weapons can cost a fortune in terms of expenditure on research and development. The exception is chemical weapons. They're probably one of the cheapest to manufacture. You may already have heard of some of the nerve gases already in our arsenal, such as VX and Sarin, which are incredibly deadly. But let me give you an example.'

Verbatin picked up a carafe of water from Kuzmin's desk. He poured a drop into a glass, then held up the glass, swirling the meagre amount of liquid. 'Imagine if this were VX. The cost of manufacturing such a quantity would be in the region of six thousand roubles — two hundred US dollars. Not a huge sum. Especially if I were to tell you that this amount of VX, properly dispersed, could wipe out a thousand enemy troops. However, our military scientists, working with a private chemical research company that was run by Boris Novikov, have gone a step farther. Recently they developed a new, top-secret chemical weapon, one that far surpasses the potency of any other in our arsenal. Code-named Substance A232X, its potency is truly devastating. With this same amount of liquid — this small drop — the capacity for human destruction would increase tenfold.''

Verbatin paused to let his information sink in. Kursk was astounded. 'And you're telling me Boris Novikov had the formula in his safe?'

'He had been attending a series of meetings at the Defence Ministry to discuss research matters, and on the night he was killed had just returned from a meeting with the President on the same subject. His possession of the formula was entirely appropriate in this case — his company had helped enormously in the research, and Novikov himself was a graduate chemist long before he joined the FSB, and was thoroughly involved in the project.'

Verbatin put down the carafe and glass. 'Nothing as potent as this nerve gas has yet been developed by any other country, including the US. Which means that Russia possesses the supreme chemical weapon of mass destruction in the world. What's more, the manufacturing process is relatively simple and uses mostly easily available chemicals. So much so that were the formula to fall into the wrong hands — and by that principally I mean terrorists — I dread to think of the consequences.'

'Which brings us to why you're here, Major,' Vasily Kuzmin said. 'Since we strongly suspect Gorev may have stolen the formula, we want him found. Your special relationship will no doubt give you an insight into this man's mind, deranged as it is. That's an advantage to be exploited. The head of the FSB will co-ordinate a specialist intelligence team, in conjunction with the SVR, whose purpose will be to hunt down this criminal terrorist, be it at home or abroad. We'll have our Muslim agents in Chechnya and abroad on full alert to be on the lookout for Gorev. You, Kursk, will be part of that team, and your task will be to pursue him with the utmost vigour. Find him, no matter where he is. And ascertain what he's done with the formula.'

'And then, sir?' Kursk looked ill at ease.

Kuzmin fixed both his visitors with a cold stare. 'I should think that's obvious. This man is a menace and a traitor. He must be eliminated.'