Resurrection Day (21 page)

In the West Wing, Paul Burton sat alone in a leather easy chair, overlooking the darkened White House lawns. He held a can of Pepsi in his hand, bought from the cold-drinks dispenser in the basement. The lights were off, except for the reading lamp on one of the side tables, and he gazed out blankly at the shadowed gardens. Accorded a rare few moments of quiet solitude, Burton was immersed in his thoughts. To many outsiders, it seemed that the White House was a dizzying place to work. Some of the brightest and best college graduates in America queued up to be staffers or interns, eager to forge a name for themselves in the most electrifying political capital on God's earth. Lured by Washington's glitz and power, they never really thought of the harsh demands their careers might ask of them. Long hours of hard work, weekends when you never got to see your family or friends; even the rare evenings you spent at home were likely to be interrupted by an abrupt summons to the White House to help deal with some kind of emergency. A Stanford graduate and former Marine officer, Burton had expected no less when he joined the President's staff as his Assistant for National Security Affairs. But of late, it seemed that he was living his life in the damned White House.

He hadn't seen his family since Friday. His wife Sally and their two young sons, Ben and Nathan, aged five and seven, had gone to her parents' home in Connecticut for a long weekend, and after the first Security Council meeting that morning he'd phoned and left a message on Sally's cellphone, telling her he was caught up in work and he'd contact her when he could. An established code for Sally not to phone him unless it was vitally urgent, and that he didn't know when he'd be home.

Burton sighed listlessly. He adored his sons. He'd discovered the joys of fatherhood for the first time relatively late in life at thirty-eight. There was innocent pleasure to be had from parenting that he'd never dreamed of. Sometimes, at weekends, he'd sleep with the boys in their room, telling them stories in the darkness, the storybook variety or the ones from his own childhood that they always wanted to hear. The Sunday before last, on his one day off, he'd spent most of the afternoon with Ben, who had dressed up in his Batman suit and insisted on his father playing Robin and wearing an old green curtain as a cape. They had charged around the garden for over an hour, Burton joining in his son's make-believe that they were Gotham City's dynamic duo battling against the forces of evil, until little Ben was exhausted, they flaked out under a tree, and Ben said, deadpan and breathless, 'It's hard work fighting baddies, isn't it, Dad?'

Burton recalled the innocent truism with a wry, fleeting smile. His years of bachelorhood had been fun, but the honest truth of it was that they paled by comparison to the love and pleasure he got from his children. And right now, that same love was causing him much anxiety.

His home was in Georgetown, barely two miles away. His boys attended school there. If Hasim's nerve gas were dispersed by design or accident, the lives of Sally and their sons would be in immediate danger. When he'd called her that morning he had desperately wanted to tell his wife to remain in Connecticut, but he remembered the President's admonition: no one moves their families out of DC, and no one gives the slightest hint that the city is under siege.

The door opened and the President came in. Burton hid his anxiety and moved to stand.

'Stay where you are, Paul.'

Strain lines creased the President's mouth as he sank into an easy chair. His energy seemed zapped.

'You spoke with Kuzmin again, sir?'

The President sighed, ran a hand over his face. Minutes after Kuzmin had stood down his bombers, both men had resumed their conversation in less charged circumstances, but not without hostility. 'I told the sonofabitch he almost gave me a heart attack. Told him again that had those bombs gone off there's no telling where it might have led. That his action was reckless in the extreme.'

'What did Kuzmin say?'

'There was no apology, if that's what you mean. No regret. And he made a precondition. If we don't neutralise the threat before the deadline's up, and have to withdraw from the Gulf, he says he retains the right to strike against Hasim, bomb al-Qaeda's bases to dust if need be. The same applies if in the meantime Hasim makes a direct threat against Russia. Kuzmin says there's absolutely no way he can allow Hasim's position of power to bring about the destruction of the Federation. And his country's prepared to suffer the consequences of any action Hasim might take, or that we might take against Russia in retaliation. Even if it means all-out war, he'll destroy Hasim and his networks.' The President ran his hand over his face again. 'The whole thing's a damned nightmare.'

'So we've got to find and neutralise the device within the time we've got left?'

'That's about the long and the short of it.'

'What about the nerve gas, sir?'

'Three months ago a former senior FSB officer turned businessman was murdered at his home in Moscow. His killer wasn't apprehended and there was no apparent motive. But then it turns out the victim had a copy of the nerve-gas formula in his safe — a research company he ran was involved in the production. It seems the formula was somehow copied by his killer.'

'Do they know who the culprit is?'

'Some guy named Nikolai Gorev, half Russian, half Chechen. Kuzmin's agreed to send us a translated copy of his file within the hour. Apparently he's been a thorn in Moscow's side for some time. A wanted Chechen terrorist who's got a grudge against Russia.'

'Why's that, sir?'

'He's totally deranged, according to Kuzmin. The kind of man who wants to spread chaos and anarchy, just for the hell of it. Not that I expected anything less from someone who'd help to hold a city of over half a million people hostage.'

'What's the connection to Hasim?'

'Through another terrorist named Mohamed Rashid, one of al-Qaeda's finest. I seem to recall his name appearing on CIA and FBI intelligence reports. Rashid's a bloodthirsty lunatic, an Islamic fanatic who's been implicated in the bombings of our embassies in Nairobi and Tanzania, and the attack on the Cole. Kuzmin says the man's also been involved in supplying arms and equipment to the Chechen rebels on al-Qaeda's behalf. And Russian intelligence says that Rashid and this guy Gorev travelled together to Afghanistan six months ago. He also seems to think it's possible they might be involved in Washington in some way. They've both got enough skill to carry out a mission of this sort. But we'll have to wait to see Kuzmin's full report, because right now I'm as wise as you are. But at least we've got a lead. That's something.'

'Why didn't Kuzmin make a public statement before now? Or inform the Western intelligence agencies privately? A theft of that kind is a serious international incident.'

'I asked the same question. Told the sonofabitch he owed it to us to let us know. I strongly pointed out that the very fact Russia had even formulated such a weapon broke the International Chemical Weapons Treaty. Kuzmin denies that, and said the gas already existed months before Russia became party to the treaty, and was kept top secret, but my guess is that's total bullshit. And he didn't explain what the murdered ex-officer was doing with the formula in his safe. He also says his intelligence people have been hard at work trying to crack the case, but they only learned in the last twenty-four hours that Gorev was involved, and were about to inform us. It's a lame excuse. But you know how secretive the Russians are. My guess is they didn't want us knowing about their nerve gas or the fact they had broken the treaty, and hoped they could hunt down those responsible and recover the formula before word got out.'

'But this guy Gorev may not even be behind the threat to Washington.'

'You're right. But as of now he's the only lead we've got, so for that we have to be grateful. Kuzmin made another demand. If Gorev's in Washington, he wants every effort made to apprehend him. And if he's exterminated in the process, so much the better.'

'Why, sir?'

'God knows. But it's a small price to pay if it helps save this city. One more thing. Kuzmin insisted on sending us one of his top intelligence people to help with the investigation and make sure we keep our end of the bargain. He'll be arriving in Washington in the morning. Apparently he's familiar with Gorev, can identify him if need be.'

'You think the FBI will see it as an intrusion?'

'In this instance, I doubt it. They'll take whatever help they can get. But we'll need to inform Doug Stevens about this straight away, so the Bureau will know what's happening.'

The President stood, glanced at his desk clock. 'Shouldn't our psychologists be here by now?'

'They're expected by 5 a.m. at the latest, sir. We're having to fly two of them in from the west coast.'

'I've asked Kuzmin for data on this A232X — that's the code-name for the gas — so projections can be made of possible damage to the District's population if the device goes off. He assures me he'll have one of Russia's best chemical warfare scientists on a plane here with the information within the next twelve hours. Then our experts can immediately go to work on the figures.'

'What about an antidote?'

The President was grim. 'According to Kuzmin, there isn't one.'

Moscow

12 November, 7.20 a.m.

The Lada sedan carrying Major Alexei Kursk pulled up outside the private residence in the Ramenka district.

'Please wait here,' Kursk told the driver, and went up the walkway to the entrance, where a couple of armed militiamen stood guard either side of the front door. Kursk showed his ID, one of the militiamen rang the doorbell, and the major found himself being escorted into Igor Verbatin's wood-panelled study. The head of the FSB was standing by a coal fire, wearing a silk dressing gown, reading through a red-covered file. He turned as Kursk was led in. 'You may leave us, Georgi. Thank you.'

The bodyguard withdrew, shutting the door. 'Major Kursk, it was good of you to come so promptly, despite the hour. Take a seat. Can I offer you tea, coffee?'

Kursk sat in the nearest chair. 'No, thank you, sir.'

'No doubt you're wondering why I asked you here at such an early hour.'

'Yes, sir.' Kursk had been woken by the call at 6.50 a.m. Barely awake, but vigilant enough to be suspicious of his urgent summons to Verbatin's residence, he'd dressed and waited for the official car to arrive ten minutes later. Verbatin came to sit behind his study desk, made a steeple of his fingers, touched them to his lips. His voice softened almost to a whisper, hoarse with sudden anxiety. 'I'm afraid, Kursk, there's been another twist in the Novikov saga. And a very disturbing development at that.'

'Sir?'

'The formula we suspected of being stolen has been put to use. No doubt you're familiar with the name of Abu Hasim, the al-Qaeda terrorist?'

'Of course.'

In detail, Verbatin outlined the threat to Washington. When he had finished, Kursk was stunned. 'Hasim's message was delivered approximately twenty-four hours ago,' Verbatin added, rising from his chair. 'Needless to say, this doesn't bode well for Russia.'

'Sir?'

'Think about it, Kursk. Al-Qaeda has interfered in our Muslim regions in the past. The belief is they have designs on causing even more trouble in the future — indeed, Abu Hasim won't be happy until he has created a pan-Islamic superpower of some sort, encompassing all Muslim countries, and will do anything to attain his goal. The threat against the Americans is proof enough of that intent. After Washington, it may be Moscow's turn to suffer the same fate. Russia cannot tolerate that kind of intimidation from these mujahidin lunatics — if it is pursued to its logical conclusion, the entire Federation could crumble.'

'May I ask what the Americans intend?'

'To play along with al-Qaeda's demands for now. But obviously they will do their utmost to try to locate the device and hunt down the terrorist cell in their capital. However, with less than seven days, time isn't on their side.'

'Do they have any suspects?'

'Not yet.' Verbatin again picked up the file he was reading, slipped on a pair of glasses. 'But in that regard, we may have been able to help them.'

'Sir?'

'I've been reading through Nikolai Gorev's file again. It says here he speaks fluent English. While I'm not aware of any personal grudge he might harbour against the Americans, when you consider his involvement in the theft, his Chechen links and his non-Arab appearance, it struck me that a man like him might come in very useful to al-Qaeda in carrying out this deranged mission of theirs in Washington.'

Kursk's face darkened. 'You're suggesting Gorev might be in the US?'

'It cannot be discounted. Naturally, we passed the information on to the Americans, and the fact that Gorev was behind the formula's theft.'

'I see.'

Verbatin tapped the file. 'It's certainly not beyond the bounds of possibility that he's there now, playing a role in this monstrous threat. It's just the kind of dramatic plot that would appeal to Gorev's warped mind. Which brings us to why you're here, Kursk. You know the man better than most.' Turning to the world map on the wall, Verbatin tapped his finger on a point slightly inland on the East Coast of the United States. 'Have you ever been to Washington, Major?'

'No, sir.' Kursk shifted in his chair, had the feeling an axe was being sharpened and was about to fall as Verbatin turned back.

'But you speak fluent English. Or so I'm led to believe.'

'Reasonable, more like.'

'That will be sufficient, I'm sure. Since there's passable suspicion that Gorev could be in Washington, it has been decided that you will help the Americans. Aid them in finding these terrorists for the sake of co-operation between our two countries. And for the sake of our own national security.'

Kursk was bewildered. 'On whose orders?'

'President Kuzmin himself.'

'But my investigation here ... ' Kursk protested.

'Is suspended for now. It's imperative this threat be neutralised and the people behind it eliminated. We can't have Russia threatened next. There's another reason I want you in Washington, Major, and it's an important one, but we'll discuss that before you leave. As for Nikolai Gorev, if it turns out he's involved, personally I won't be happy until he's sent back to Russia in a body-bag. The man's a traitor of the highest order. And in this country, treachery is still punishable by death — a firing squad, no less. But a messy state trial would hardly be in our interests. Much better to try to finish this thing off-stage, with a bullet. Do you understand me, Major?'

Kursk balked. 'With respect, Colonel, I'm not a state executioner.'

'But you're a Russian citizen. Don't forget that. To what do you owe your allegiance? Your country and its survival, or this terrorist madman Gorev and the Islamic terrorists he may represent? Before I or the President are inclined to think otherwise, I'd suggest you cast no doubt on your loyalty.'

'How?'

'By helping run Gorev to ground if he's in Washington. Not only that, but finishing the matter once and for all by eliminating him. That's my final word on the matter. You'll be doing your motherland a great service. The man's been a thorn in our side for far too long.' Verbatin tossed the file aside with a nourish. 'Do as you're ordered, Kursk. Do your duty. Go home, pack your suitcase. You'll be on a specially arranged military flight to Washington leaving in just over an hour'.

Washington DC 11 November 3.30 p.m.