Resurrection Day (29 page)

Collins had the siren on as they sped towards Alexandria. In the unmarked black Ford, racing out past the Pentagon towards the Leesburg Pike, they cleaved through the heavy traffic and reached Baileys Crossroads.

Collins sat in the front passenger seat, Morgan at the wheel, Kursk in the back. 'Some people call this area Little Arabia,' Morgan called out to Kursk over his shoulder, his voice almost drowned by the siren wall. 'A lot of folks from the Middle East seem to settle in either Alexandria or Montgomery County, north of DC. Don't ask me why. Birds of a feather, maybe. Iranians, Iraqis, Armenians, Lebanese, Afghans, Egyptians. You name it, they're here, man. All God's children.'

As they sped past a huge shopping mall, Kursk glimpsed a welter of carpet and Persian rug shops, massive chain stores and ethnic restaurants. Middle Eastern faces flashed by, some of the women dressed in veilless chadors, their men dark and swarthy, most sporting black leather jackets, and holding on to the hands of their handsome, brown-eyed children. They passed a restaurant called the Mount of Olives, and Morgan flicked off the siren and swung right off the main highway for a mile until they came to the entrance gates of a storage depot. 'Guess this is it.'

A billboard above the open gates said: Abe's Storage Facilities. You can't ask for more when you store! Ask about our short-let specials!

The site occupied about an acre, ringed by a fence topped with razor wire. Inside the fence was a two-storey warehouse built of breeze block, and beyond were dozens of big, brown-painted metal storage containers standing in parallel rows. Morgan drove into the parking area in front of the warehouse and braked. A dark blue Ford was parked near by, two casually dressed men standing beside it, one of them writing in a notebook. As Collins scrambled out, he recognised one of the FBI agents and went over, Morgan and Kursk in tow. 'Frank, what's the story?'

'The depot was on our checklist, Jack,' the agent said. 'When we questioned the owner, he remembered a couple who came by about five weeks ago. The guy said he was interested in renting storage for three months. He and the woman with him looked the place over. Neither gave a name. Told the owner they'd have a think about it and get back in touch but never did.'

'Descriptions?'

The agent consulted his notebook. 'He says the guy was definitely Arab, thirty-five to forty. About five-nine, a hundred and sixty pounds. Casually dressed, dark windcheater, jeans and sneakers. His hair was dyed a kind of blond, and he maybe had an earring. Apart from that he can't remember much more of the guy's description. The woman was about the same age. He wasn't sure if she was Arab or not — she didn't speak to him — but he says she could have been. Pretty, dark haired, possibly mid-thirties, maybe five-six, in good shape. Wore jeans, a brown half-length leather jacket.'

'Transport?'

'The owner's pretty sure they drove a dark green Honda Civic. He didn't take note of the plate, naturally. He'd no cause to.'

'They say what they wanted to store?'

'That's maybe the interesting part. Said they had some valuable household stuff and didn't want it messed with or stolen. The owner says most of his customers ask about security on the site, it's pretty much routine, but he thought the couple seemed overly concerned. They asked a lot of questions about how well the place was protected and exactly what kind of security he'd got in place. Like they wanted to be totally reassured no one would touch their stuff once it was locked up. That's about it.'

'So who's the owner?'

'Name's Abe Lacy. Elderly guy.' The agent smiled. 'He's been pretty helpful, except he's cheesed off about us taking him downtown to see if we can get an ID on the couple.'

'Where's he now?'

'In his office. Said he had some calls to make first.'

'Mind if we have a quick word?'

'Sure. Be my guest.'

Collins, Morgan and Kursk stepped into the warehouse office. A thin, elderly man sat behind a battered desk, eating a pink-iced doughnut from a box of Dunkin' Donuts. His shirt was open at the collar, and his braces held up trousers that looked as if they were owned by someone a size bigger. He talked on the telephone as he chomped on his doughnut, and when he saw his visitors he said into the mouthpiece, 'Gotta go, Vinny. Got someone stepped into the office. Talk to you later, pal.'

'Mr Lacy?'

'Yeah, that's me.' The man put down the phone, wiped his mouth with his hand.

Collins showed his ID. 'Like to ask you a few questions.'

Lacy looked irritated. 'Hey, I just spent the last hour talking with your buddies, for Christ sakes. What's with you guys?'

'This won't take long, Mr Lacy.'

'Your friends said the same. Took an hour. Me, I got a business to run. And now my day's gone to fuck. I gotta go downtown and look at frigging mugshots of Arabs.'

'It's important, Mr Lacy. Otherwise we wouldn't be here. If you could just tell us again what happened.'

Lacy sighed, threw aside his doughnut, licked his fingers. 'I got good storage facilities here. People come by all the time to rent. People moving house, people got goods they want to keep safe. Costs them two hundred bucks a month for our biggest container. So this guy calls by 'bout five weeks ago. Says he needs storage. Got some stuff he wants to keep for maybe three months.'

'Did he say what kind, exactly?' Collins asked.

'Household stuff. But hey, what's it to me? Unless it's drugs, stolen goods, or he's stashing corpses in there, I don't want to know. He comes by here on the Friday. Arab guy, like I told your friends. Didn't give a name.'

'You're sure he was Arab?'

'Mister, this neighbourhood's a fucking bazaar. I know a towel-head when I see one. I told him the spiel, that I got the cheapest rates in town. You go elsewhere it's gonna cost you more. So the guy says he wants to see a container, the biggest one we got.'

'You show him?' Morgan asked.

Lacy nodded. 'The guy paces it out. Like he knows exactly how much space he's gotta have. Then he wants to know if we ever tamper with the stuff in the storage bays. I tell him no fucking way, or words to that effect. Once he pays, it's his private property, he's got the key. We keep a master in the office, sure, but unless it's an emergency and flames are coming out of the fucking container or the cops got a warrant to make me open it up, no one touches his stuff.'

'Go on, Mr Lacy.'

'Then he keeps asking about security, and if we got guards on the place. I tell him the place is alarmed, supervised twenty-four hours, seven days a week. That after close-up I got a private security company comes by on patrol, and they got German shepherds that frighten the fucking shit out of me. Guy seems happy enough. He goes to the car, comes back with the woman. Maybe mid-thirties, maybe a little more or less. Hard to tell, exactly. I gave your friends a description. Then they both look the container over, like they're trying to make up their minds.'

Collins took the photographs of Mohamed Rashid and Nikolai Gorev from an envelope. He handed Lacy the shot of Gorev first. 'You ever seen this guy before? He ever call by here, ask about storage?'

Lacy slipped on a pair of spectacles which he took from his shirt pocket. 'Naw.'

'Does he in any way resemble the man who called?'

'You're kidding. He don't look Arab, for Christ sakes.'

'Just thought I'd ask. Could this have been the man?'

Lacy took the grainy photograph of Mohamed Rashid, shrugged his bony shoulders. 'Hard to say. For a start, the guy I remember had dyed blond hair, maybe an earring. And this ain't exactly a fucking terrific shot, is it?'

'No, but think hard, Mr Lacy. Take your time, study the face. Try and think back.' Lacy pondered, shrugged. 'Mighta been. Then again, might not. Really hard to say. I didn't get much of a look at his features. Besides, it was five fucking weeks ago.'

'You can't be more certain than that?'

'Naw. Sorry, pal.' Lacy shook his head as he handed back the snapshot and Collins sighed. 'What about the woman, you get much of a look at her?'

'Seemed pretty, little I saw of her. Some of those Middle East gals are lookers, know what I mean? Big brown eyes and sexy figures, until they get past forty — start to pile on the lard and grow fucking moustaches.'

'So what happened after the couple looked the place over?' Morgan asked. 'Guy seemed undecided about something. He and the woman start whispering.'

'They spoke in English?'

'I couldn't hear. Then she walks back to the car and the guy says to me, "I'll think about it, and give you a call." Or words to that effect. I tell him to let me know as soon as he can 'cause I got people interested all the time. Guy never calls back. Didn't expect him to. Once a guy says he'll think about it, usually he already has.' Collins glanced around the warehouse, stacked with wooden crates and boxes. A young Mexican-looking man in his twenties, wearing dirty overalls, had a box of tools out and was busy working on a fork-lift truck. 'Who's that?'

'Enrico. Looks after the place when I'm not here. Handyman, storeman, deputy manager, you name it.'

'Was he here the day the couple came by?'

'Stuff from a house move. All the furniture, maybe. Or most of it, you pack it in good and tight.'

'That what most people put in here?' Enrico shrugged. 'Sometimes firms use them. To store equipment, machinery maybe. Stuff they got no room for on their premises. They got lots of uses.'

They walked around the container for a couple of minutes, until finally Collins stepped back. 'OK, I guess we've seen enough. Thanks, Enrico.'

The two agents were still by their car, and Collins went over with Morgan, leaving Kursk trailing behind with Enrico as he padlocked the container. 'What do you think, Jack?' one of the agents said to Collins.

Collins shrugged. 'Hard to tell. Maybe it's something, maybe not. We'll have to wait and see how Lacy gets on with the mugshots, take it from there. You'll let me know straight away, Frank?'

'Sure. We'll go get him right now.' As the two agents moved back to the warehouse, Collins looked over at Kursk. He was thirty feet away, chatting with Enrico, the two of them smoking cigarettes. After a few more minutes, Kursk left Enrico and came over. He tossed away his cigarette, nodded back towards the Mexican. 'He thinks he saw something.'

Collins frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'He thinks he saw the couple in the car drive by here, as if they were studying the warehouse.'

'I thought Lacy said Enrico was off that Friday?' Morgan pointed out. Kursk nodded. 'He didn't see them that day. It was several days before.' Collins shot a glance at Enrico. 'So what exactly did he see?'

'Something important.'

Washington, DC 12 November 11.58 a.m.

Mohamed Rashid walked for three blocks, towards Beacon Hill and the White House. The call to his cellphone had been brief. Once passwords had been exchanged he'd been given a time and a place for the meeting. One p.m. at H Street. The coded message meant Rashid needed to deduct an hour to get the true time of the meeting, which was noon. And he deducted two letters to give him one of the three designated meeting places near the White House that his contact had preselected in the preceding weeks. Only he and Rashid knew the locations. The reference to H Street meant they were to meet in the underground carpark on F Street. When he reached F Street, Rashid entered the public carpark through the pedestrian entrance and went past the ticket machine and down the concrete stairwell to the first level. That Monday morning the carpark wasn't busy, and he saw the light grey Volvo parked near the emergency doors. The driver was seated inside, his face in shadow. Rashid had a newspaper under his arm, his signal that he wasn't being followed and the meeting was on. A second later he got the return sign: the Volvo's headlights flashed. As he approached the car cautiously, his right hand was on the Glock pistol buried in his pocket. He couldn't see the driver's features — the man wore an overcoat, the collar pulled up, and a thick woollen scarf covered the lower half of his face. Rashid yanked opened the Volvo's rear door and climbed in.

Alexandria, Virginia 11.45 a.m.

'Let's go over it again, so there's no misunderstanding.' They were in the unmarked Ford, Enrico in the back with Collins, who had spoken. Morgan and Kursk in front. There was an air of tension in the car as they drove through a warren of back streets towards old Alexandria. Not the well-kept, eighteenth-century tourist waterfront area of pretty, clapboarded town houses, but down near the harbour in a run-down neighbourhood. Kursk saw clutters of takeaway restaurants, ethnic stores and the blue-painted dome of a neighbourhood mosque rising up in the near distance. 'Wednesday I work late at the warehouse,' Enrico explained. He was still in his overalls and smelled of oil and grease. 'I had to take my daughter to the hospital the day before, so Wednesday I have to do work late to make up. When I finish, I drive out of the warehouse and lock the gates. It's about seven-thirty.'

'Go on,' Collins prompted. 'I was tired, man. Been working hard all day. So when I go to pull out into the traffic in my pick-up, I don't see this other car go by until I almost crash right into it. But the driver, see, she was looking in at the warehouse compound. The same with the guy she was with. Like they were checking it out, not watching the road. I slam on the brakes just in time and she swerved to miss me. It's my fault, but the woman, she didn't hoot her horn or get angry, just waved me on, no big deal. In this city, man, people get real mad you almost cause an accident like that, call you an asshole. But not this lady, she kept her cool. And she was a good looker.' Enrico pointed to Kursk in front. 'That's why I remember when your friend ask me if I ever seen a couple near the warehouse, driving a green Honda Civic. I remember the woman, for sure. Dark hair, very pretty. The kind of woman you notice. Know what I mean?'

'You're sure it was a guy with her in the car?'

Enrico nodded. 'No question. And it was definitely a green Honda Civic she drove. I remember real good, 'cause Friday I saw it again.'

'Tell me.'

'Friday, I go with my wife to pick up our daughter from the hospital in Fairfax. We drive back home to Alexandria. I take a left at Fairmont Avenue to stop and get a fill of gas. When I pay and walk back to my pick-up, that's when I see the green Honda again.'

'What time?'

'About one, maybe one-fifteen.'

'It was definitely the same Honda Civic?'

'I'm pretty sure. It was stopped at the lights, the same woman driving, maybe the same guy in the car with her, and when I pull out of the gas station I'm right behind them. She drives for maybe a quarter-mile and I'm still behind her, going in the same direction, towards Clifton Street, down near the harbour. After a little while, the Honda turns off and I see the couple drive into an apartment block. Then I see them get out of their car and walk towards the block, like they was going inside.'

'But you can't remember the block?'

'I only move here five months ago from Pittsburgh.' Enrico shrugged. 'I don't know this area too good. Most of the streets look the same.' Collins opened the envelope, showed the photograph of Mohamed Rashid. 'Was this the man she was with?' Enrico stared at the grainy photo, shrugged again. 'That's a pretty fuzzy shot, man. Is hard to say. I got a feeling the guy maybe had blond hair. And I really only remember the woman. I didn't see the guy too good. Just a glance, that's all.'

'But she was Middle Eastern looking, you're sure about that?' Enrico shrugged. 'Maybe. But she could have been Latino. About thirty, maybe thirty-five. Hard to say with women.' Collins showed the photograph of Nikolai Gorev. 'What about this guy. You ever see him near the warehouse before?'

'Naw. Never.' Collins sighed, put away the photographs and handed the envelope to Kursk as Morgan drove into a maze of narrow streets that led down to the harbour. The buildings were mostly old apartment complexes and shabby red-bricked town houses — a bustling, working-class neighbourhood, the pavements busy with kids and adults. 'Is around here somewhere,' Enrico said. 'One of these streets. You keep driving, man, maybe I'll remember the block.'

Washington, DC 12.11 p.m.