Resurrection Day (27 page)

Alexei Kursk watched in fascination through the Ford Galaxy's windscreen as the offices and hotels of downtown Washington sped past him in furious succession, like giant rows of simulated buildings in some vast, cosmic computer game.

'Five minutes more,' he heard the FBI driver at the wheel promise. 'Shouldn't take much longer than that.'

Kursk stared absently at the buildings flashing past. He was speeding headlong down elegant alleyways of granite and glass, catching glimpses of a metropolis he had never imagined he'd visit. It was three minutes before nine in the morning, and the streets of America's capital were crowded, but even the throngs of drivers and pedestrians were not bothering to give more than a passing glance at the two unmarked FBI vehicles as they raced west off the Capital Beltway from Dulles Airport towards the city, their sirens wailing.

Kursk was riding in the back seat of the first car. His first impression, once he entered DC, was that, apart from the ghettoes on the city's fringes, downtown Washington was strikingly attractive. Colonial facades. Dazzling white granite buildings, calculated to give a look of solid power. But what shocked Kursk were the homeless. Ragged bunches of mostly black men sleeping rough on the streets, huddled up on cold park benches or in freezing doorways. He had never imagined such blatant poverty in the most powerful capital on earth.

Kursk turned his thoughts to what lay ahead. He had little if no knowledge of Washington, no native feel for the city that was under siege. He would have to rely solely on the Americans for every shred of information. He also knew they'd have their work cut out. The main problem, Kursk appreciated, was that in a big, ethnically diverse city, a terrorist cell could easily hide. The Americans now had less than six days. To Kursk, it seemed utterly impossible that they could find the al-Qaeda cell, unless they had a lucky break.

The driver turned on to Pennsylvania Avenue, and the splendid grandeur of Capitol Hill came into view. Kursk wound down the window, dazzled by the sight, and for the hundredth time in the last nine hours he reflected on his predicament. What if Verbatin was right and Gorev was among the terrorists in Washington? And what if he succeeded in hunting him down? What then? If he did, Kursk harboured a secret hope that he might somehow be able to convince Nikolai Gorev to halt this madness. Perhaps it was a vain hope. But whatever transpired, he decided he had no intention of acting as a state executioner — no matter what the circumstances. The bonds between himself and Nikolai went too deep. He simply couldn't do it.

'We're almost there, sir,' the FBI driver said politely as the Galaxy sped along 7th Avenue and swung right on to 10th Street. 'Coming up right now.'

Seconds later, they reached the unmistakable fortress-like FBI Headquarters. Kursk had seen photographs of the J. Edgar Hoover building. 'Modern brutalism,' he remembered, had been one American architect's characterisation of the structure. It didn't look brutal so much as forbidding. The car suddenly swung left, and Kursk felt a tightening in his stomach as they dipped down into the yawning mouth of the Bureau's underground carpark.

Washington, DC 12.45 p.m.

Benny Visto was having lunch at the north end of 14th, Ricky and Frankie sharing the restaurant booth, the three of them enjoying plates of sand crabs with lobster sauce, when the two men walked in. Visto recognised them immediately, Feds from the Washington field office, and smelled trouble. The men came over. The taller of the two said, 'Benny. Long time no see. How's business?'

'What business you talking about, man?'

The Fed smiled. 'Tell your boys here to take a walk. We'd like a word.'

Benny dabbed lobster sauce from his lips with a paper napkin. 'Paid twenty bucks for these crabs, man. Like to enjoy them in peace. You spoiling my lunch.'

'It won't take long. We'd really appreciate your time.'

Visto sighed. It didn't pay to fuck with the Feds. They could make life difficult. He nodded to Frankie and Ricky. 'Take five. It's cool'

Ricky and Frankie got up and went to the bar. The two men slid into the booth. Visto said, 'The fuck you gentlemen want?'

'We're looking for some people, Benny.'

'You always looking for something.'

'Arabs, Middle East types, looking for identity papers, weapons, whatever. Maybe even a safe house or storage facilities in or near the District.'

'Ain't heard of no Arabs looking for shit like that.'

'Maybe they're even screwing your girls.'

Visto grinned. 'What girls you talking about, man?'

'Then maybe they're screwing somebody else's girls. You with me, Benny?'

'Me, I'd figure Arabs wouldn't be interested in screwing no street chicks. They got money, prefer the high-class kind. Escort types.'

'Then how about you ask around for us? Put the word out on the street. Maybe someone heard something. If they did, we'd like to talk. Their information could be worth a lot of money.'

'Must be important, you guys throwing cash around.'

'It is. It's very important, Benny.'

Visto suppressed the temptation to smile. The day was only half over and already he saw another golden opportunity staring him in the face. 'Man wants something, he's gotta give something in return. Some of that old quid pro quo.'

The Fed sighed. 'What have you got in mind, Benny?'

'Friend of mine's got some girls who are pretty pissed off. Got a whole stack of charges lined up against them after the cops pulled off a raid on a certain therapeutic establishment near Fourteenth early this morning. Know that friend of mine would be pretty happy if the charges against his girls went away. Money got taken too. Twelve grand, cash. Friend's pretty sore about that. Pains me to see him so upset.'

'You put the word on the street, come up with something, I'll make sure the charges disappear and your friend's money is returned.'

'Sounds cool.'

The agent slipped a piece of paper under the table. 'You can reach me at this number, day or night. You hear anything, you holler.'

Visto took the paper. 'Like a stuck pig, my man.'

The two men stood. 'Enjoy your sand crabs.'

'Do my best.'

The Feds crossed to the door and went out. Visto picked up his napkin, dabbed his mouth, his mind engrossed as Frankie and Ricky came back. 'What the fuck those Feds want, Benny?'

'Looking for Arabs.' Visto pushed aside his plate and lit up a Marlboro Light, his brow furrowed in thought. 'Middle East types.'

'The fuck for?'

'Something's going down,' Visto explained. 'Something heavy. Feds throwing money around the street, giving me a number to call, night or day, there's got to be.'

Frankie said, 'So what you gonna do?'

'Don't owe those motherfuckers nothing, so it ain't my worry. But no harm in you boys keeping your eyes and ears open.' Visto grinned across the table. 'Even if it don't turn up nothin', could be worth a man's while stringing the Feds along, throwing them some bullshit story. Might mean getting back my twelve grand and my girls busy again.' The grin widened. 'With me?'

FBI Headquarters Washington, DC 12 November 9.15 a.m.

The burly man at the head of the table introduced himself, authority flowing from his voice. 'Major Kursk, I'm Tom Murphy, head of the FBI's Counter-Terrorism Division.'

Kursk had sensed the tension the moment he entered the room. Of the four strangers who waited to greet him, each had a beleaguered look, stress showing in their eyes and around their mouths. Murphy had introduced his three agent colleagues in turn: Jack Collins, Lou Morgan and Matt Flood, a fluent Russian speaker who would act as translator, if needed. Kursk shook their hands. Each FBI man had his ID on a thin metal chain around his neck, and Kursk memorised the names. A few minutes of small talk had established that his fluency was sufficient for them to attempt to conduct their meeting in English. 'I believe you've already been made aware,' Murphy said, 'of the nature of the threat this city is facing, Major?'

Kursk nodded. 'Yes. I have.'

'Then perhaps I might begin by outlining what's been happening and where we are with the investigation.' Murphy patiently explained the sequence of events that had unfolded, from the tape being delivered to the Saudi diplomat, right up to the present. 'We had no suspects in our sights until we learned about the murder of Boris Novikov in Moscow and your investigation. So perhaps, Major, you'd like to fill us in with the details and we can go on from there?'

Kursk spoke for ten minutes, the interpreter helping when he faltered or searched for the correct English word. When he had finished, Murphy said, 'My information is that you're familiar with this Nikolai Gorev. May I ask how?'

Kursk explained, and was greeted by a silence so stony he could hear distant footsteps out in the hall. Murphy looked startled. 'I wasn't aware that your relationship had been that close, Major.'

Kursk noticed the agent named Collins stare over at him. It struck him that he might be seen by the FBI as an intruder, someone whose presence was less than welcome. Rivalry happened between police departments, never mind federal officers from different continents.

'It leads me to ask you a question,' Murphy went on delicately. 'One I feel I must ask. Assuming — just assuming — Gorev's in Washington along with Rashid, do you feel any conflict of interest in helping to hunt him down?'

Kursk stared unblinking at the faces around the table, hid the lie. 'No.'

Murphy nodded. 'I must apologise for asking, Major. But obviously in a case as sensitive and important as this, and with time not on our side, I need to feel certain that the commitment of everyone involved is one hundred per cent.'

'I understand.'

'Very well, then let's get down to business.' Murphy had a pad in front on him and picked up a pen. 'Mohamed Rashid we already know about. The guy's in the same league as Carlos the Jackal, as ruthless a terrorist as they come, with a list of charges against him a mile long. But what can you tell us about Gorev? We're interested in knowing the kind of man we may be dealing with. His strengths, his traits or weaknesses.'

Kursk gave a detailed account of Gorev's background before he removed a file from his briefcase. 'The file contains all the information you'll need, including Gorev's photograph, the best we have, taken by a Russian journalist in Chechnya a year ago.' He handed it across the table to Murphy. 'The file has been translated, naturally.'

'We'll have copies made.' Murphy accepted the file. He placed the head-and-shoulders photograph from the folder on the table for everyone to see. 'But please, go on.'

'About Nikolai Gorev I will say this. He's a total professional, who is a highly trained special forces paratrooper. From personal experience, I know he has absolutely no fear. As for his weaknesses, I know of none, except that he is easily angered by injustice, if you can call that a weakness. And you must never lie to him. To do so is fatal.'

Murphy tapped the photograph. 'Does he have any special habits we need to know about? Drug habits, sexual habits, which might cause him to seek relief if he was in Washington?'

'I know of none.'

'Any health problems that would require him to need special medication or the services of a doctor?'

'Again, I know of none.'

'Physical marks, handicaps or scars that might be noticed if Gorev was seen in public? Anything that stands out that might make it easier to identify him?'

'Gorev was wounded in battle in Afghanistan — a bullet wound to his right shoulder that left a scar. I believe that is mentioned in the file.'

Murphy finished jotting on the pad, sighed. 'OK, let me tell you how we're going to play this.' He stood, moved to a map on the wall, and briefly explained how the centre of Washington, DC, was broken down into four quadrants, speaking slowly and clearly so Kursk had time to understand. 'The name we've given the operation is Safe District. We've already put all our available agents in the city into one of three different teams, all coordinated from this headquarters. Call them teams A, B and C. Team A will be working with the Washington metropolitan police. It'll be their job to conduct systematic searches of every area in the District. For maximum use of resources, we'll be using pairs of FBI agents, Secret Service agents or plainclothes police, all working together. We're having lists made of buildings, boathouses and warehouses, likely places where the device and chemical may be stored. The owners will be contacted and asked about the rentals of their premises, if they've had any new tenants moving in recently, if they've noticed any suspicious movements by the occupants, and so on. As well as the searches in the District, we'll have another search going on in the outskirts, doing exactly the same kind of thing. This will be carried out by Team B.' Murphy pointed out the borders of DC, indicated Virginia and Maryland, making sure Kursk had a basic grasp of the geography. 'The kinds of places I'm talking about are Crystal City, Chevy Chase, Alexandria, Arlington ... '

Kursk had no knowledge of these places, but he followed Murphy's finger as it pointed out the locations on the map.

'Then there's the third team, C. This will be made up of mobile units, of between three to four men. Kind of like flying squads, free to move around the chessboard at will. This group will act on tip-offs, hunches, any hot information we come across from informers or any other sources. They'll also be out on the pavements, handing out money to police and FBI informers, looking for information. Drug dealers and users, criminals, prostitutes, petty thieves, fences, hustlers, the kinds of people who know what's happening on the streets. The Secret Service will be doing the same thing, but we're working closely together, sharing information on informers and street sources and making sure nobody overlaps. We've already got these teams under way, working the pavements. They're asking about any new Middle Eastern kids on the block. Naturally, we'll have to ask them to go back over their beat and add Gorev and Chechens to the list. We're also working with Immigration to track down thousands of Arab-born illegals in this country. We've got to try and locate them, and establish what they've been doing. Again, we'll add Chechens to the list.'

Murphy paused. 'This will be the most intensive FBI operation ever carried out. The devil, as they say, is in the details. And I don't intend for us to overlook a single, minute detail. Are you understanding all I'm saying, Major? Or am I going too fast?'

Kursk shook his head. A word or two he hadn't grasped, but he'd got the gist of Murphy's plan. 'No, I understand.'

Kursk could see that the Americans were trying to cover every angle that he'd cover himself in similar circumstances. Offering money to street criminals seemed absurd, almost immoral. But Kursk knew that it commonly paid off. There was really no such thing as honour among thieves. Criminals were in the business to make fast money, and where it came from didn't often matter. There were hardened gangsters he knew in Moscow who'd grass on their wheelchair-bound grandmother for the right money.

'You, Major Kursk, and Agents Collins, Morgan and Flood will work together as one of these teams, reporting directly to me. Agent Flood speaks fluent Russian if you have need of him, and Agent Morgan some Arabic. Agent Collins will be your team leader and you'll be working out of his office. Any questions anyone?'

There were none. Kursk guessed that the Americans had had their discussion time before he arrived. Murphy said briskly, 'Jack, if you'd have copies made of the files for you and the guys, and return the originals to me. Now, if you'll all excuse me, gentlemen, I've another meeting to attend.'

Murphy stood, addressed Kursk. 'I can speak for both myself and my men when I say that we appreciate your help, Major. If you need to talk with me at any stage about anything, don't hesitate.'

'One question. My firearm. Your people were to arrange the necessary authority for me to carry it in Washington.'

'That's all been taken care of, Major.' Murphy looked at the faces around the table. 'I'll leave you folks to get acquainted before you get under way. It's going to be a long hard slog ahead. So good luck to you all.'

They moved to Collins' office. Kursk noticed a single photograph on the desk. Of Collins on the front lawn of a suburban house, his arms around a smiling young man in naval uniform and a pretty dark-haired woman whom he supposed was Collins' wife. Kursk guessed the young man was their son.

'Take a seat, Major.' Collins was businesslike. He explained that it had been arranged for Kursk to stay in one of the apartments the FBI kept on 7th Avenue for visiting guests and police officers. 'Once we get through here, and if you need to unpack, Lou can show you to your accommodation.'

'Thank you.' Kursk sensed a distinct coldness in the American's tone. 'But I can do that later. I would prefer if we start work immediately.'

'Good. I'll have copies made of Gorev's file, then we can make a start.'

Collins left the room. Morgan said, 'Coffee, Major?'

'Thank you.'

Morgan poured mugs from a percolator in the corner. 'Are you long with the FBI, Agent Morgan?'

'It's Lou. Ten years.' The black agent smiled as he handed Kursk a coffee. 'It's good to have you aboard, Major. You ever been to Washington before?'

'Never. But please, call me Alexei.' Kursk sipped his coffee, saw Collins disappear at the other end of the open-plan office beyond the glass-fronted door. 'I have a feeling your friend thinks my presence here is unwelcome.'

Morgan shook his head. 'Nothing to do with that, Alexei. Remember the terrorist attack on the USS Cole in the Gulf of Aden?'

'Of course.'

Morgan nodded to the photograph on the desk. 'Jack's son was among the dead. He was barely nineteen, a navy seaman.'

A shocked Kursk regarded the photograph, picked it up. 'I'm ... I'm sorry.'

'He was Jack's only son. A tragedy like that can hit a man hard.' Morgan put down his coffee. 'Our intelligence tells us Mohamed Rashid helped plan the operation, chose the target, picked the people. All with Abu Hasim's blessing. Seventeen young Americans died the day the Cole was blasted. Some of them no more than kids, barely out of high school. I guess that makes it personal for Jack. If Rashid's out there, he wants him pretty bad. And that includes whoever's helping him, old friend of yours or not.'

Kursk could think of nothing to say. Collins suddenly came back. He saw the photograph in Kursk's hand. Kursk put it down, embarrassed. A look passed between them. Collins said, 'The copies are on their way. We'll have a read through them, then maybe you can answer any questions we might come up with. After that we'll drop your bags off at your apartment and take a drive out to Alexandria.'

'I'm sorry?'

'It's a district in Virginia, south of the Potomac river,' Morgan explained, indicating the area on the wall map, 'where a lot of Middle Eastern and Arab emigres live. So it's one of the places we want to look. If Rashid or Gorev are in town there's always a chance they might be hiding out in a safe house somewhere in the area.'

'If they are,' Collins said to Kursk, 'you can be sure they'll be keeping a low profile. But they'll have to show their faces at some stage — maybe go to a store for food and supplies, visit a restaurant, buy gas if they're driving, take a taxi or public transport, or go for a walk in the streets.'

Collins removed an envelope from his drawer and took out a grainy black-and-white photograph, handed it to Kursk. 'This is one of the few shots we've got of Rashid, taken by a Mossad agent a few years back. It's pretty lousy, but it's all we've got to work with. We'll show the photographs of Rashid and Gorev to whatever FBI informants we've got in the district, have them keep their eyes open, just in case they make an appearance. After that, we'll find out what's been happening with the Arab suspects we're keeping a watch on, and see if anything's turned up.'

Kursk finished studying the photograph, handed it back. 'As you wish.'

Collins' desk phone buzzed. He picked it up. Kursk couldn't hear the caller, but he heard a hint of urgency in the reply. 'What's the address?'

Collins jotted something on his desk pad. 'OK, we're on our way.' He put the receiver down, tore off the scribbled note.

'You got anything, Jack?' Morgan asked.

'Maybe, maybe not. The list of warehouses our guys have been checking out — one of them's turned up something.'

Hundreds of warehouses had been visited since 8 a.m. that morning, but without any initial success, as federal agents scoured the District and outlying regions in Virginia and Maryland for a likely hiding place for the device.

Morgan nodded. 'So what have we got?'

'The owner of a storage depot in Alexandria claims an Arab guy and a woman called to his office about five weeks ago, looking to rent a storage facility.'

'What happened?'

'They looked the place over, said they'd think about it, but never came back. We've got a couple of guys checking out the warehouse and questioning the owner. It might do no harm if we tagged along, showed him photographs of Rashid and Gorev.'

Morgan got up off the desk. 'I'll get a car from the pool, meet you guys downstairs.'

He headed out the door and Collins grabbed his jacket. Kursk said as delicately as he could, 'Your friend, he told me about your son ... '

Kursk wanted to say more, if only to offer some words of sympathy, but he faltered as Collins fixed him with a stare that was almost frightening. 'One thing you better know, Major, and it's nothing personal. No matter what way you look at it, Nikolai Gorev's in the same boat as Mohamed Rashid. A terrorist linked to al-Qaeda. So I'll tell you something straight out, and for nothing. If they're both in Washington, and we find them, they're going to have a debt to pay.'