Resurrection Day (18 page)

A flurry of icy snowflakes gusted across the cobblestones on Red Square, a bitter taste of the harsh winter soon to come, and as the clock in the Kremlin watchtower chimed out the hour, Vasily Kuzmin rose moodily from behind his office desk.

Crossing to the window, he stared out blankly at the snow falling in the courtyard below. The magnificent candy-whorl domes of St Basil's Cathedral poked their heads above the Kremlin's walls, but Kuzmin, immersed in his own thoughts, paid no attention to their splendid beauty.

An athletic, youthful man in his late forties, he wore a dark blue business suit, crisp white shirt and grey silk tie. His expressionless face and reputation as someone who rarely smiled had earned him a nickname, the 'Grey Cardinal'. But Kuzmin's mild manner hid a ruthless streak. The more unkind among his political enemies compared him to a latter-day Stalin. Those who had worked closely with him attested to their President being simply an ambitious man who wielded power quietly but decisively behind the scenes. A tough, resourceful leader who had a firm grip on Russia's parliament, the Duma. Above all, a man with a passion for the security of his motherland, which was hardly surprising considering his past.

For fifteen years Vasily Kuzmin had served in the KGB's First Directorate, much of it spent in the Stasi headquarters in Dresden, and had proved himself a loyal, trustworthy and hardworking state servant. Those same qualities had led to his rapid rise to power. It was Yeltsin, his former boss, who had introduced Kuzmin to the Russian people as his chosen successor, with the praise that he was the only man who would be able to help revive a Great Russia in the twenty-first century. For once, Yeltsin wasn't bluffing. It was Kuzmin's vision that one day he would return his motherland to its former military glory.

Behind him on the wall, among the photographs of handshakes with Western leaders, were shots of Kuzmin in his KGB uniform, visiting Russian troops on the Chechen front, sitting on the turret of a T-80 tank and in the cockpit of an SU jet fighter. Kuzmin dressed in the judo-style kit of sambo, the Russian form of self-defence, a sport in which he had won the St Petersburg championship three times. The image of an aggressive sportsman helped portray him as a tough, no-nonsense leader, a man who believed that the only way to maintain the might and unity of Russia's vast nation was with a steel rod in a firm hand.

When Chechen Islamic militants ventured into neighbouring Dagestan and attacked Russian Federation troops, it was Kuzmin who had them expelled with brute force. Later, when the Chechen problem deepened into all-out war, he had ordered the army to invade, and began a remorseless air bombardment of Grozny to crush the Islamic rebels, until hardly a brick was left standing.

Fifteen minutes earlier Kuzmin had been given yet another reminder of the danger the Islamics could pose. At exactly 12.32 a.m. he had taken the private call from the President of the United States. It had both disturbed and surprised him. Disturbed him because of the terrifying nature of al-Qaeda's threat. Surprised him because President Booth had perceived the threat as being solely against Washington and the United States. But Kuzmin's sharp mind saw something else. The menacing hand of a fanatic whose mujahidin supporters had helped to bloody his army in Chechnya and Afghanistan, slaughtering thousands of Russian troops.

And then there was the question of the source of the nerve gas at the heart of Hasim's threat, which distressed Kuzmin just as much.

Moving away from the window, he crossed back to his desk and reviewed the notes he had scribbled during the conversation with the American President, and then gave a troubled sigh. There were aspects to the frightening scenario that could directly affect Russia. The next morning at 10.30 a.m. he was due to depart for London with his wife, an important diplomatic visit that had been planned for months. He knew he needed time to assess the alarming information the American president had passed to him. The matter of complete secrecy had been stressed, but Kuzmin had informed the President that before he could even contemplate an answer to the difficult question of prisoner releases he would have to discuss it with his Security Council. Only the specially appointed council, members of the Russian government, judiciary and military, could decide on such a high-level issue which affected state security.

In the courtyard outside, he heard the throb of a motorcycle engine. His messenger had arrived. A few minutes later there was knock on the double oak doors and a presidential aide stepped in and handed him a large envelope. It was wax sealed and bore the words 'Sovershenno Sekretno — Ultra Confidential'. Prepared in an anonymous FSB office at Dzerzhinsky Square, the envelope contained two sets of pages. One was the latest intelligence report on Islamic terrorist movements in Russia, which Kuzmin had requested as soon as he had put down the phone to the American President. The second was a list of Chechen prisoners held in Russian jails.

The aide withdrew and Kuzmin broke the wax seal and scanned through the four-page list of prisoners. Then he studied the main points of the intelligence report, six pages long. His jaw tightened as he read, an almost greyish pallor discolouring his features. He put down the envelope and pressed the intercom on his desk. 'Leonid. My office, now.'

Almost as soon as Kuzmin released his finger from the buzzer the double oak doors opened. Leonid Tushin, his trusted private secretary, entered. 'Mr President?'

'My visit to London is cancelled.'

'But, sir,' Tushin wailed, 'the British have everything arranged. And their Prime Minister has important matters to discuss.'

'Send my regrets. Inform him that pressing business has arisen. Then arrange to have my car ready in fifteen minutes.'

The private secretary frowned. 'What pressing business, sir?'

'Have the members of the Security Council meet me at the Kuntsevo dacha within the hour, at no later than one-forty-five a.m. No excuses. Tell them it's a matter of the gravest urgency.' Kuzmin's mouth twisted with scorn. 'Tell them it has to do with Abu Hasim.'

Afghanistan 11 November 6 p.m.

Over two thousand miles away, the man whose name Vasily Kuzmin had uttered with such contempt was standing anxiously outside his command post, awaiting a visitor.

The dying evening sun tinted the desolate mountain landscape with amber light, and Abu Hasim, with the aid of his walking cane, stood in the cavern mouth and saw the dented, dust-covered Nissan jeep pull up below and the man climb out. Hasim waved as the visitor climbed up the slope, and when he waved back Hasim turned away and entered his lair. Moments later, the visitor moved past the armed guards and followed him in. He found Hasim seated on the floor, cross-legged on the Bokkara rug. 'Wassef, old friend.'

'Abu ... ' The man was breathless.

'Sit, Wassef. Tell me your news.'

Wassef Mazloum sat. He was a senior mujahidin commander, a tough-looking specimen with a heavily scarred face that looked as if he'd been clawed by a wild animal. His disfigurement had been inflicted by a Soviet grenade, and the metal fragments had been removed by a surgeon, but he'd sewn up the wound so badly it had left the commander with a ravaged appearance. Exultant, he took a slip of paper from inside his gown and handed it across eagerly. 'The report came from Washington, Abu. Our messages have been delivered. Mohamed says that everything goes as planned.'

Hasim took the slip of paper and read. His face barely showed a reaction, except for a spark that nickered in his soft brown eyes as he lifted his head. 'I thank Allah. This day, He has looked with goodness on the Arab peoples.'

Wassef Mazloum was still overcome, his face lit up. 'It is wonderful news, Abu. From now on, the Americans must do exactly as we say, or we have it within our power to teach them a terrible lesson.'

Abu Hasim said calmly, 'Let us not be foolhardy, Wassef.' He put down the paper, folded it neatly. 'Six long days remain. And in that time, anything is possible. But we must continue to pray for our success.'

'Of course, Abu.'

Hasim calmly turned to the wooden table and the primus stove with its silver Arab teapot. He poured thick coffee into two glass cups. Wassef Mazloum reached for his. 'I have a question, Abu.'

'You only have to ask.'

Mazloum gestured to the satellite transceiver in the aluminium case. 'I know that at the first sign of any American aggression against us, or if they fail to comply with our demands, we can detonate the nerve gas by remote control. But I am not an expert when it comes to technical matters. What happens if the satellite we use fails at the critical time we send the signal?'

Hasim sipped coffee from his cup, set it down. 'If that should happen, a simple telephone call relayed to America, and using a code word, will instruct Mohamed in Washington to detonate. Believe me, Wassef, the Americans cannot win this battle. And if they are foolish enough to attack us, they will pay the price of their folly.'

'But if we are forced to carry out our threat, they will seek revenge.'

'Of course they will. But what will it profit them, even if they kill us, and we have sacrificed our lives? By then we will have caused the Americans the greatest destruction in their history.'

Wassef Mazloum nodded, finished his coffee. 'It is clear to me now. I will pray to Allah for our success. That by His goodness and power He will help us succeed. I shall pray, too, for our people in Washington.'

'Your prayers will be needed.' For the first time there was disquiet in Hasim's voice. 'For this is a time of great danger. Though it is not the Americans we have to fear at this moment, but the Russians. They will feel threatened. They will know now we stole their formula and they will want revenge. They may even be tempted to crush us, destroy us with their missiles and bombs. In the coming hours, Moscow's reaction will decide everything.'

'What if the Russians take this into their own hands? What if they decide to strike back at us?'

'Then, Wassef, we are martyrs, and Washington is a wasteland.'

Moscow

12 November, 1.30 a.m.

Ten miles from the Kremlin, in a thickly wooded forest, is Kuntsevo, one of the official dachas of the ruling President of Russia. In light snow, at exactly thirty minutes past one, a black Mercedes S600 swept in through the massive green gates and came to a halt outside an ivy-clad building that resembled an English country manor house. A worried-looking Vasily Kuzmin, seated in the back of the car next to his bodyguard, saw a clutter of official Mercedes already parked on the snow-dusted gravel. His bodyguard snapped open the rear door and Kuzmin moved quickly inside the dacha.

It was the same room in which Stalin had issued his orders for the final assault on Berlin in 1945, and where Andropov had planned the invasion of Afghanistan, thirty-four years later. A vast oval table dominated the centre, complemented by Bokkara rugs, polished antique furniture, a crystal chandelier. Of the seventeen men who stood around drinking coffee, waiting for Vasily Kuzmin, at least fifteen were his closest political allies. He greeted each of them in turn before they all took their seats at the table. 'Gentlemen, early this morning, no more than half an hour ago, I received the gravest news from the President of America.' Referring to his notes, Kuzmin recollected every single detail of his conversation with President Booth, and the horrific manner in which the Americans kidnapped in Azerbaijan had met their deaths. 'I have summoned you here urgently not only to discuss the obvious matter of what has happened to our stolen formula,' Kuzmin said, grim faced, 'but because this dire threat by Abu Hasim and his al-Qaeda may pose the most serious menace to Russia's security.'

'How, Mr President?' the Interior Minister, Anatoli Sergeyev, asked.

'If this crazy fanatic Abu Hasim were to succeed in removing the Americans from the Gulf, it would open the way for him to create the strictly Muslim, pan-Islamic region that he's desired for so long.'

'Did you tell the American President about the theft of our formula?'

'No. I wanted to inform the Council of this grave situation first.' Kuzmin stared at the faces in the room. 'And I don't need to remind you, gentlemen, that a powerful, united Islamic front is not in our interests. Our entire south-eastern flank in central Asia is buffered by Muslim lands that are allied to the Russian Federation, a region vital to our country's defences. In turn, these lands border more Islamic countries, like Pakistan, Afghanistan, Kashmir, and Iran. Many of these states already see Abu Hasim as a hero, an Arab messiah. If he succeeds against the Americans, Muslims everywhere would be emboldened by his victory. Before we knew it vast regions of our Federation would be in danger of coming under his influence, taking up arms and baying for independence.'

'You're saying we are under threat also?'

'Exactly. Al-Qaeda's threat, in my opinion, has the potential to create the gravest crisis in our country's history. Very soon, we'd be faced by Islamic-inspired uprisings in our Muslim regions, massive civil unrest, and bloody guerrilla warfare. Our army would be hard stretched to quell such a magnitude of conflicts. Believe me, Anatoli, the war in Chechnya would seem like a minor skirmish by comparison. Nor do I need to remind you that the valuable oil and natural gas resources in Georgia, Tajikistan and Azerbaijan all pass through Russian pipelines. How long do you think that would continue if these Islamic territories rose up against us? We'd face economic ruin.'

The Security Council members looked horrified, for there was solid reasoning to Kuzmin's argument. Ten per cent of the Federation's population is Muslim, concentrated in central Asia and the Caucusus, territories of the highest strategic importance to Russia. Not only in the short term, because the oil and gas pipelines were critical to her fragile economic stability, but because their vast energy resources — which made even Saudi Arabia look deprived — had barely been exploited. At some point in the future they would become a substitute for the Gulf's oil and gas fields.

'The President is right,' Nikita Volsky, the Defence Minister, agreed. 'If al-Qaeda succeeds we could find ourselves facing a terrifying scenario. Today it's Washington that's under threat. Tomorrow it might be Moscow. That madman Abu Hasim could point our own nerve gas weapon at our heads, demanding we cease our influence in central Asia.'

Sasha Pavlov, the Justice Minister, jabbed a finger in the air in front of him. 'The only way to deal with people like that is with a heavy hand. We have a right to use force to prevent this danger developing on our doorstep. The Americans would do exactly the same if they were faced with violent rebellion, if armed insurgents in Hawaii or Puerto Rico demanded independence.

'I bear no ill-will against those of the Muslim faith who live within our borders,' Pavlov added. 'But these Islamic madmen are an entirely different breed. They can't be allowed to gain a position that would allow them to dictate to us, blackmail us, or threaten our citizens. I agree with the Defence Minister. If they win a victory against America, tomorrow it will be our turn to face their wrath. They would descend on us like a locust plague. We'll be vulnerable from the borders of Mongolia to the Caspian Sea.'

'And what do you propose to counter this threat, Sasha?' the Trade Minister, Boris Rudkin, asked. One of the few moderates on the Council, he was a middle-aged Muscovite with a large mole on his left jaw, a birthmark that press caricaturists had made much of over the years, amplifying its size totally out of proportion.

'Abu Hasim has stolen a powerful weapon of mass destruction from under our noses,' Pavlov answered. 'If he can threaten the Americans, he can do the same to us. Therefore it seems to me that what matters is destroying him and al-Qaeda before they can act.'

Rudkin had a habit of scratching his mole when worried or under duress. He was scratching it now. 'And what if Abu Hasim annihilates Washington?'

'That would be a tragedy. But it's a risk we have to take.'

'You're mad, Sasha. Totally crazy. We could end up sending the entire population of Washington to their deaths.'

'What would you rather, the destruction of the Russian Federation?'

The Finance Minister, Felix Akulev, another moderate, butted in. 'But we don't know for certain that Abu Hasim will pose us a threat.'

'For God's sake, Felix, he already does, and has for years. Didn't he send his top commander, Khattab, to lead the war in Chechnya? Support the Chechen fighters with arms and money? Didn't his comrades ravage our army in Afghanistan? And the FSB will let you have all the proof you need that Abu Hasim's mujahidin had a hand in the Moscow bombings. Do you honestly think this maniac won't take things a step farther now that he has our nerve gas? It would be the perfect irony. Being able to blackmail us with our own weapon.'

'Gentlemen, we're wasting time bickering.' Kuzmin turned to the head of the FSB. 'Igor, in your opinion, what are the chances of the Americans apprehending these terrorists in Washington?'

'Almost impossible. Time is not on their side. You can be sure Abu Hasim has planned his operation thoroughly because of the stakes. His people will have been given excellent covers. You only have to look at our own experiences to know how difficult it is to apprehend well-trained terrorists, especially in a crowded city. Have we yet caught all of the Muslim attackers responsible for bombing Moscow, years after the outrage? Or even rounded up all the Islamic guerrillas who still harangue our troops in Chechnya? The Americans cannot hunt down these people within seven days. And even if they did, the mujahidin operatives are fanatics. If they felt threatened, they'd detonate the gas, just as Abu Hasim threatened. I'd guarantee it. So the Americans have lost, no matter what happens.'

Kuzmin opened the envelope delivered to his office. 'I have here a list of Chechen prisoners in Russian jails. Most of them are hard-core Islamic rebels.'

'Surely you don't intend to release them?' Pavlov, the Justice Minister, asked.

'That decision is up to us. We may have to put it to a vote.'

'The army fought hard to capture these fanatics,' Pavlov argued. 'To set them free would be sheer madness. The first thing they'd do is rearm and start the Chechen war all over again with even more vigour.'

Kuzmin turned to Admiral Vodin, who commanded the Russian navy. 'Andrei? Your thoughts.'

'I agree. To release the prisoners would be crazy, a show of weakness. We might as well cut our own throats.'

'And what about the problem the Americans face?' Felix Akulev asked.

'The Americans! The Americans will always do what is best for them. What if the situation was reversed and we asked them to release those al-Qaeda terrorists who were jailed for blowing up the US embassies in Africa? Do you think they would consider our request? Not for a minute. When the hell did the Americans ever care about Russia? Look at what they've done to us in the past. They brought about the downfall of the Soviet empire. Helped our defeat in Afghanistan. And they knew our back was to the wall in Chechnya, yet they did nothing but criticise us over the war.'

'Mr President, there is something vital to consider here,' the Interior Minister interjected. 'The Russian people have not forgotten the loss of thousands of brave sons, brothers and fathers in the battle against the Chechens. If we release these prisoners, there would be public outrage. Our people would see the war as having been fought for nothing. I fear they would demand your immediate resignation.'

Kuzmin fell silent. Morosely, he picked up the FSB intelligence brief. 'An hour ago I read the latest reports from the FSB, and I'm afraid it's more bad news, along with the SVR's most recent intelligence. According to our agents in Afghanistan, Abu Hasim has established a number of new cells in central Asia and the Caucasus. It seems their main objective is to mount spectacular terrorist strikes against the Federation. Furthermore, it's feared an alarming number of new Chechen terror cells have been organised in Moscow. The FSB believes that suicide bombing attacks are planned on civilian targets.'

The head of the SVR, Russia's foreign intelligence service, Misha Androsov, nodded. 'I have also seen the report just this afternoon, Mr President. What worries me is that now their friend Abu Hasim has the formula, the Chechens may not use just simple explosives but our own nerve gas. These Islamics didn't hesitate to use the gas to murder the kidnapped Americans. Their Chechen comrades would have even less hesitation using it against our troops and cities.'

Kuzmin's face twitched with outrage. 'The report also contained a reference to Nikolai Gorev, the man known as the Cobra, whom we suspect of killing Boris Novikov and stealing the formula. It's rumoured by one of our Chechen agents that Gorev travelled to Afghanistan six months ago in the company of Mohamed Rashid, one of al-Qaeda's top henchmen. The alliance of these two men has also been corroborated by our intelligence sources in Chechnya. It leads me to wonder if both of them aren't somehow directly involved in this monstrous threat in Washington.'

'What does the American President intend to do? Has he reached any decisions?'

'I asked him the same question,' Kuzmin told the Interior Minister. 'He intends pulling out fifteen per cent of his Gulf forces immediately.'

'The American President is an imbecile. He's already giving in to blackmail.'

'Or buying time, Anatoli. We'd probably do the same if we were in his shoes. But ultimately I fear he will have to agree to Abu Hasim's demands. The position he's in, military force is not a realistic option. The President himself made that clear.' Kuzmin looked across the table at General Butov. 'General, you have remained noticeably silent. What are your feelings?'

Yuri Butov was one of Kuzmin's most senior army commanders. At sixty-three he was a veteran of the wars in Afghanistan and Chechnya, and a much-decorated military legend. An impressive figure, well over six feet tall, with watery blue eyes and a mane of white hair, he carried himself bolt upright. His only son had been killed in the battle for Grozny, a loss that had aged the general at least ten years.

'I'm afraid feelings have nothing to do with it, Mr President, only facts. Abu Hasim stole from us the formula for a weapon of mass destruction. Let us be frank here. He may just as well have taken one of our nuclear warheads.'

'But getting the formula back will achieve nothing,' Kuzmin argued.

'That's not the point, Mr President. Rather, do we stand back and allow his criminal act against our country to go unpunished? Three months ago we didn't even know if our formula had been stolen, or who might have been behind its theft. Now we know, and have identified the guilty parties. I would suggest the time has come to administer the severest punishment. Having fought two wars against these Mamies, I've learned to my cost that they are capable of anything, madmen who think nothing of sacrificing their lives for their cause. How do you face that kind of fanatical sacrifice in an enemy, except by crushing him totally? The Interior Minister is right. The gas could be used as an ultimatum. Either we pull our armies out of the Muslim provinces, or they will use our own weapon against us, killing tens of thousands of our troops or wiping out our cities.'

Butov paused. 'A fundamental issue is at stake here. In 1979, the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan to crush an Islamic rebellion, led by the same Abu Hasim and his like. We were defeated, and twenty years on there is no Soviet Union. What remains is being threatened by the same mujahidin forces. What began as an untreated wound has become a slowly spreading cancer. Are we to repeat the biggest mistake we made in Afghanistan by not crushing our enemy when we had the chance? Unless we wield the scalpel now, cut out this malignancy once and for all, then be assured that in less than five years, there will be no Russia.'

'What punishment would you suggest?'

'Annihilate them. If the Americans cannot act decisively, then we must. We have much more at stake here. Tens of millions of Muslims living within our borders, the militants among them growing bolder by the day. The only answer is to crush them completely, or face defeat and ruin.'

'In your professional opinion, Yuri, is a surgical strike against Abu Hasim possible? One that could kill him.'

'I believe so. But it would have to be swift and brutal.'

'How brutal?'

'Not a ground attack, because the Afghan terrain is too hostile. And a heavy nuclear strike is out, for obvious reasons. The fallout in neighbouring countries would win us no friends. However, we have powerful conventional bombs and missiles that can destroy with great precision. And low-grade nuclear devices which, if delivered by missile and primed for a ground-level burst, would contain the resulting blast and secondary damage to within perhaps ten square miles. A ten-kiloton warhead, for example, which would be the same size as the bomb dropped on Hiroshima.'