Resurrection Day (17 page)

Alexei Kursk arrived at his home in Mazilovo on the western outskirts of Moscow just after two that morning. It was a small, two-storey brick-built house on a bend near the Moscow river. Compact, simply furnished, with a living room and tiny kitchen, the two-bedroomed property had been the family home, and after his parents had passed away he'd simply continued living there, preferring it to the soulless breeze-block apartments that blighted Moscow's suburbs. Kursk had the place to himself for a week; his wife Lydia was in St Petersburg, visiting her sister, and had taken their eight-year-old daughter Nadia with her.

Nadia's farewell note to him was still on the coffee table: 'Mama and I will miss you, Papa. She says not to forget to fix the tap in the kitchen! We love you, Papa! Nadia.' Around the page, in pink marker, she'd drawn tiny hearts and flowers, and dozens of kisses. Kursk smiled. He loved his daughter to distraction, as much as he did Lydia, even after ten years of marriage. For some reason, he wanted to phone Lydia now, tell her of his dilemma, though he knew that was out of the question. He was still reeling, his mind racked by memories. He looked around the walls. There were family photographs of himself and Lydia and Nadia, and one of his parents that took pride of place above the mantelpiece. But there were others.

He went into his bedroom, found the worn, leather-bound photo album. He flicked through the cellophaned pages. There were photographs here he treasured, and one stood out, taken many years ago on the steps of Moscow's St Basil's Cathedral: Nikolai Gorev and himself, smiling for the camera, both of them eighteen, the day they graduated from high school. Kursk felt a twinge of sadness as he looked down at the image, a sadness so intense that he quickly flicked over the pages.

When he came to the photograph he was looking for he removed it from the sleeve. It was a photograph of two small boys, sitting on the winter banks of the Moscow river. Nikolai and himself, both twelve years old, their arms around each other's shoulders, looking earnest for the camera. He remembered a time six months before it was taken. It was a hot July day, the morning Nikolai Gorev's father had been cremated, the ashes contained in a small plaster urn, and Nikolai had been inconsolable. Kursk remembered walking across cornfields, led by his father, Nikolai following behind, desolate, until the three of them came to a small rise where a willow tree overhung the Moscow river. His father had handed Nikolai the urn. 'You must lay your dead to rest. Be a brave boy, now. Do your duty.'

Crying, Nikolai had scattered the ashes on the water.

Kursk's father had said a short prayer. 'It's done. Your papa's at peace.' He pulled the grieving boy towards him, gave him a solid hug. 'No more sorrow now. It's over.'

But it wasn't. Afterwards, Nikolai Gorev had built walls around himself, and in the small bedroom they shared Kursk would be woken at night by his sobs in the darkness, calling out for his father. It took a long time for the walls to come down, for Kursk to win the trust of the new addition to the family. It happened slowly, in small ways, by telling confidences, sharing a few meagre toys, standing up for each other in the school fights that plague all children, until the wary acquaintance between them became camaraderie, the camaraderie became friendship, and the friendship strengthened into a childhood bond that made them almost inseparable. Kursk had treasured those days.

'We're blood brothers, remember?'

Kursk remembered. It was the day the photograph had been taken. Nikolai had pricked his forefinger on a thorn bush and Kursk had done the same. They mingled their blood as a sign of fraternity, and for the first time in months Nikolai had forgotten his grief, his face alight with childish naivete. 'Now we're not just best friends, we're blood brothers, Alexei. That's as good as real brothers, you know? We're united for ever. Nothing can ever change that.'

Those childhood years had disappeared. He and Nikolai had long gone their separate ways. They hadn't seen each other since before the Markov affair, the tragedy of which had changed everything. Kursk knew the details, had seen the report.

In that first bitter campaign against the Chechens in '94, the Russian army had gone in hard. Atrocities were committed, innocent Chechen civilians killed, but the Markov affair had been savage in the extreme. Boris Markov was a much-decorated paratroop commander, but a man known for his brutality. A Chechen border village suspected of harbouring rebels was surrounded by Markov's troops. A shot rang out, fired by a young rebel sniper, fatally wounding one of Markov's men. Enraged, the commander had ordered a dozen men and young boys from the village rounded up — three of them as young as twelve. Unless the sniper was handed over, every one of the hostages would be executed. The sniper wasn't handed over. Markov, in a fit of rage, set up a light machinegun on its tripod and began to mow down the hostages.

One of his officers — Nikolai Gorev — arrived and intervened. By the time he managed to overpower Markov, most of the hostages were dead or dying. But it didn't end there. Markov still wanted blood. Drawing his pistol, he moved to finish a wounded, frightened young boy who had somehow survived. When Markov raised his pistol to execute him, a furious Gorev almost cut his commander in two with a burst from his Kalashnikov. The rest — Gorev's arrest and imprisonment, his escape, his defection to the Chechen cause — was history.

But now Kursk had to find Nikolai Gorev, kill him if necessary. Could he do it? Could he kill someone who had been almost like a brother to him? Kursk was suddenly afraid. For the first time since childhood he was really and truly afraid.

'You damned fool, Nikolai,' he said aloud, staring down at the photograph. 'What the hell have you gone and done?'

PART THREE

11 November

'Destroy Abu Hasim!'

Washington, DC, 11 November 4.06 p.m.

The President of the United States sat motionless, his hands clasped tightly together, his index fingers touching his mouth as he stared blankly at the polished table in front of him. Everyone was back in the situation room.

They had taken a fifteen-minute break — for 'reflection', as Alex Havers put it. The President had walked alone in the Rose Garden, brooding, unable to shake off the disturbing images of fourteen of his countrymen being massacred. To see death inflicted so coldbloodedly, simply to underline a madman's point, was revolting, and he'd fought hard not to throw up. The others in the room were equally affected. Since they'd reconvened, there had been an air of helplessness that had proved difficult to break.

Finally the President spoke. 'I think we can assume, first, that al-Qaeda is deadly serious. Second, that they've got a significant quantity of nerve gas hidden in or near Washington. The third assumption we can make is that this threat to disperse the gas if any word of this gets out to the press is real. On that point, obscene as it sounds, I believe Abu Hasim's done us a favour. If word did get out, this city would be in chaos. Our job's going to be hard enough without having to worry about that.'

The President paused. 'I know witnessing the deaths of those innocent men has been hard to stomach. I know many of you are angry about what you saw. I share your revulsion and anger. Our prayers will go out to the dead and the bereaved. But let me make one thing perfectly clear. What we saw must be kept secret until this crisis has been resolved. Cruel as that might seem to the victims' next of kin, there's something far more important at stake here — our obligation not to jeopardise the lives of Washington's citizens. Secrecy is absolutely paramount. Do you have any advice for us in that area, Dick?'

'The obvious things come to mind, sir,' the CIA Director replied. 'Nobody leaves anything written down on paper, or stored on their personal computers. No scraps left around for nosy secretaries or aides to read. No bedroom confessionals to loved ones, no matter how much we think they can be trusted. And if we need to talk about it outside of this office, we use secure lines. Equally important, difficult as it might seem, is that everyone tries to behave normally.' Faulks paused. 'For me, sir, the big problem is how the hell are we going to keep this from the press?'

Over a thousand American and foreign journalists were accredited to the White House. Dozens were in constant attendance there during the day, haunting the press office. The more seasoned correspondents, like skilled bloodhounds, could tell that something was amiss in the White House simply by scenting the air. And Washington was a city that thrived on scandal and rumour. Gossip about government secrets was discussed at Old Ebbitt's or the Willard, or the favoured watering holes near Pennsylvania Avenue. Everyone in the room knew that secrecy was going to be a major problem.

'What if the press secretary somehow gets hit with a question about this?' Paul Burton, the National Security Affairs Assistant, asked. 'Should we tell him, so we'll get to know of any press queries?'

'If we do he'd have a hard time trying to lie barefaced about something as big as this,' the President replied. 'If we don't tell him, his reply will come across as honest, and we'll get to hear about the query anyhow. No, I think it best we keep him in the dark. Has anyone made a list of the people outside this room who know about this?'

'Yes, sir,' the FBI Director answered. 'I've compiled a list of the names of everyone who's involved.'

'Speak to them all again. Make plain the consequences if they don't keep their mouths shut — that they may as well detonate the nerve gas themselves. If you have the slightest doubts about any one of them, lock them up, incommunicado, until this thing's over. Also, you should be aware that within the next hour the Vice-President will be moved to a secret location, to ensure his safety and the continuance of government.' The President paused. 'General Croft, I believe you have some facts to hand regarding withdrawing our forces from the Gulf?'

'Yes, Mr President. They're part of a study carried out by the Defence Department. The report was updated six months ago, so it should be reasonably valid.'

'Proceed, General.'

The general stepped in front of the lectern and dimmed the room lights. Behind him a back-lit map projection of the Middle East snapped on. The general picked up a laser pointer, circled the map with the red dot. 'At this moment, we have approximately twenty-six thousand military personnel based in the entire Middle Eastern region. That comprises navy, air force and army. Most of our forces are concentrated in Saudi and the Emirate states.' The red laser dot settled on each country in turn. 'We've also got several hundred civilian support staff in each of these countries, and added to the figures, of course, will be State Department embassy officials and staff, and CIA personnel.'

'How long would it take to disengage all those forces, personnel and their equipment?'

'That really depends, Mr President.'

'I'm not interested in depends, General. I want hard answers.'

'At absolute minimum, assuming we muster civilian transport to help carry out a smooth and orderly withdrawal, I'd say three weeks.'

'We haven't got three weeks. We've got less than seven days.'

'Sir, that kind of timeframe would be absolutely impossible. We've got a hell of a lot of military hardware in the region. We'd be talking about one of the biggest air and sea lifts since the Gulf War.'

'Then how fast can we get just our troops and personnel out of there? Does the study tell you that?'

'Sir, we couldn't just walk away and leave behind billions of dollars' worth of valuable military hardware. Some of it's highly classified equipment ... '

'I'm not concerned about the costs, General. I'm concerned about lives. Please answer the question.'

'The study has a scenario in which all personnel and a minimum amount of vital equipment are evacuated.'

'How long, General?'

'Ten days, minimum. But there's a problem, sir.'

'Which is?'

'We start a pull-out that big, the world's going to know about it. Airspace in the region's going to get clogged. Sea lanes are going to fill up. I've no doubt, sir, that if we really had to get out of the Gulf hell for leather we could move every single soldier, airman and sailor from the region within seven days. Maybe even a lot faster if we hired in extra civilian aircraft to help ferry them out in a hurry. But I guarantee that after a couple of days or even less, it's no longer going to be a secret.'

'And the markets will smell trouble,' Mitch Gains added. 'Wall Street will go crazy.'

'To hell with the markets. Could we start a withdrawal right now? Move out, say, a percentage of our troops without too much notice being taken?'

'What kind of percentage, Mr President?'

'Twenty.'

'That kind of movement's going to get noticed. Not only in the press, but in Congress. People will want to know why.'

'Then what percentage, in your estimation, could we safely pull out without attracting much attention?'

'Perhaps ten, maybe fifteen per cent, tops. But even then I couldn't guarantee it wouldn't get noticed.'

'Is there any way we can mask it and avoid questions being asked?'

The Defence Secretary, John Feldmeyer, interrupted. 'The Christmas season's less than six weeks away. The army could say it's trying to facilitate troops who want to spend time with their families. It's a reasonably plausible excuse.'

'Then do it,' the President ordered. 'Commence the removal of fifteen per cent of our forces.'

'But, sir ... ' The general flushed.

'You heard me. Get them out, General. Starting as soon as this meeting's over. But leave our listening posts intact for now. We're going to need as much intelligence as we can get.'

'Should we really be going this way so soon, sir? Shouldn't we give it more time before making that final a decision?'

'Time's what we don't have. Issue the necessary orders. But they'll be your orders, not mine. Don't make a big deal of it. But get things moving.' The President looked at the others. 'General Croft made an important point. If we have to pull out all our forces, we can't keep it a secret for very long. That's something we'll have to try to relay to Abu Hasim. He can't expect our troops just to disappear from the Middle East. There's going to be questions asked. The media will want answers.'

'Why the hell don't we just nuke the bastards?' Rivermount's livid voice interrupted. 'That'd stop those sons of bitches in Afghanistan setting off their device.'

'General Horton, I believe you can best answer that question.'

Horton, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, stepped towards the podium. He hit the remote and a map of Afghanistan appeared on the screen. Outlined in black were the surrounding borders: with Pakistan, Iran, Kashmir, the Russian Federation's independent republics of Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan, and a narrow strip in the north-east that adjoined China. Beyond those were the greyed-out border areas of India. 'All our latest intelligence suggests that Abu Hasim is somewhere in Kandahar province, Afghanistan.'

The general directed the laser dot to Kandahar, almost three hundred miles south-west of Kabul. 'However, to verify it, we'd have to send people in on the ground, which would take a couple of days at least, and that's being optimistic in the extreme. But let's say we located him in one of his camps and to be certain of annihilating him we dropped a nuclear warhead. We could destroy Hasim and his camps, wipe them off the map, no question. But the radioactive fallout wouldn't be contained. It could drift with winds, to Kabul, the capital, and over the border to Pakistan. We'd put the lives and health of millions of people at risk. And remember, it's a volatile region. Third World by Western standards, but countries like Pakistan and India are bitter enemies with nuclear weapons of their own. If we nuke, they're going to be less inclined not to use their own atomic weapons in any future regional conflict that arises. God knows what we could start. The whole thing could snowball and the lives of billions of people be put in jeopardy.'

'You're telling me we can't hit Abu Hasim?' Rivermount asked.

'We could, but the risks far outweigh the likely results. We've no real friends in the region. If we nuked, we'd have even less. Every Muslim country in the world would be out for our blood. Every American citizen a target.'

Rivermount fell silent, his question answered.

Rebecca Joyce spoke up. 'Mr President, I'd suggest that every one of the countries that holds terrorists on the list be informed. They may have ideas on which of Hasim's people are involved.'

'Isn't that taking a risk?'

'But a calculated one, if we send it eyes-only to the Russian President, and the others. The Germans, the Israelis, the British. They may be able to come up with something.'

The President considered. 'Very well, we'll do it. In regard to the Russians, I'll speak to Kuzmin personally, just as soon as our meeting's over, and fill him in. But we'll keep the Israelis out of the picture for now. They're likely to go apeshit if they get an inkling of this. And we'll need someone who can get a message to Hasim. Tell him our problem regarding keeping a complete withdrawal secret and out of the press.'

'What if he won't agree to talk?' Paul Burton asked.

'Once we tell him we want to discuss ways of accommodating his demands, but that we need more time to work out the details, my guess is he'll have to. If nothing else, it may buy us time.'

The men around the room looked mentally fatigued. The President stood. 'We meet back here at eleven p.m. Until then, we better all pray we can find answers. Because right now, it looks to me like Abu Hasim's got us by the balls.'

Moscow

12 Novemberl 12.47 a.m.