Resurrection Day (3 page)

Fifteen hours later they reached Washington, DC. The apartment was in Alexandria, Virginia, seven miles from the capital.

The block was four floors, built of red brick, and surrounded by pleasant, well-kept gardens dotted with maple and oak trees, the branches already bared by the windy rigours of autumn. Karla Sharif pulled into one of the parking spaces in the grounds. She locked the Explorer's doors, led the way in through the main entrance lobby, and they took the elevator to the third floor.

The apartment was large, built when space near the capital wasn't at a premium. It had been renovated in a modern style: mushroom-coloured walls and beige curtains and inexpensive Scandinavian-style beech furniture. The Russian stepped into the large living room with its wide window looking down on to the gardens. There was a separate kitchen, and the two bedrooms had views towards Washington. For the next week the apartment would be his home.

'You've got the smaller bedroom. It should be comfortable and private enough. The bathroom's right beside you. Would you like coffee? I've got freshly roasted beans.'

'Coffee would be good, Karla.'

She led him into the kitchen, filled a small aluminium percolator, and when she had poured their coffee they went to sit in the living room. The Russian took one of the easy chairs, Karla sat on the couch facing him.

'There are some things I need to explain.' She took a set of keys from her handbag, handed them across. 'These are for the locks on the door. Always make sure you lock the door when you have to leave. We use an agreed procedure before entering the apartment — a certain way of knocking and using the buzzer just to be safe.' She told him the procedure. 'Use it every time you need to come in. There's a store near by, a 7-11, and I've written down the directions on the note in your bedroom. If you need to go out unexpectedly, tell me, or leave a note saying you've gone, so I don't get worried.'

'Who are your neighbours?'

'The apartment on our left is occupied by two Spaniards. They're both musicians. You may hear a piano playing now and then. That's Jose, he's with the Washington Philharmonic, and the boyfriend he shares with is Jaime. The other apartment on the right is owned by a middle-aged woman. She was an executive with an advertising company but isn't working right now. She's divorced, drinks a lot and stays at home most of the day. She likes to talk, so be careful if you bump into her and she gets inquisitive. I made it my business to mention casually that my boyfriend would be coming for a week, so that should put her mind at rest if she sees you coming and going. Two other things Rashid said to remind you of. You leave nothing in the apartment that might incriminate you, and always have your personal belongings packed, ready to leave at a moment's notice, in case of any danger. Do you have any questions, Nikolai?'

'Where's Rashid?'

'He said to tell you he'd meet you later. You won't recognise him. He no longer has a beard. He cut his hair short, dyed it blond, and wears an earring and American clothes.'

The Russian looked amused. 'How have you two been getting on?'

Karla Sharif flushed with a hint of anger. 'I do as he tells me. That way, there are no arguments.'

She went into her bedroom, came back with a brown paper bag.

The Russian opened the bag. Inside was a Beretta automatic pistol and three spare clips of ammunition. He checked the pistol's action and the spare magazines.

'It's been a long journey, Nikolai. Perhaps you should try and get some rest?' Karla went to go, but hesitated. 'One last thing. When do we deliver the package?'

'Tonight,' he replied. 'We deliver it to the White House tonight.'

He sat on the bed, smoking a cigarette, looking at his face in the mirror. It was the face of a man in his late thirties, boyish-looking, with dark hair and high Slavic cheekbones. His passport said he was Dimitri Pavlov, a Ukrainian from Belarus, and he had apparently lived in America for over four years and possessed a legitimate work visa. But in truth he had been born in Moscow and he was wanted by Russia for murder, bombing and assassination, all committed in the name of the Chechen cause. He had even been given the ultimate accolade by Russia's Federal Security Service, the FSB. A code-name had been assigned to him — the Cobra.

These cold facts didn't even enter his mind as he looked out of the bedroom window towards Washington. The afternoon sun had started to give way to twilight, lights coming on all over the American capital. For a while he was a boy again, seventeen years old, lying in the long grass in the Sparrow Hills above Moscow, the city stretched far below him, a girl beside him in the long grass whose name he couldn't even remember. Life seemed to hold infinite possibilities. He felt an aching, a longing to be back, as if everything in between was just a dream.

But it wasn't a dream and he wasn't Dimitri Pavlov. Tonight, his mission began. It would be the longest seven days of his life, and infinitely dangerous. He looked back at his face in the mirror. The name on his passport was a lie, of course. He was Nikolai Gorev.

And he was going to change the world.

PART ONE

11 November

'Let this serve as a warning'

Washington, DC Sunday, 11 November 3.15 a.m.

Forked lightning lit up the darkness as the uniformed Secret Service guards waved the black Buick sedan through the southwest gates of the White House. The car glided up the avenue and halted outside the West Wing entrance. The driver climbed out, held open the front passenger door, and an elegantly dressed man with strained features — a pursed mouth and troubled eyes — stepped out of the car into the sheeting rain. Two plainclothes Secret Service agents came forward immediately and escorted the man under the off-white canopied entrance.

A White House aide, who looked as if he'd just been roused from his sleep, waited in the hallway. He helped the man remove his overcoat. 'Good morning, sir.'

There's not one solitary thing good about it, the man thought. Certainly not the lousy weather, and least of all the news I'm about to deliver. 'Has the President been woken yet?'

'I believe so, sir. Let me take you on in.'

He followed the aide along a warren of hallways until they came to an oak-panelled door. The aide stepped inside, flicked on a table light, gestured the man to a nearby armchair. 'I hope you'll be comfortable, sir. I'm sure the President won't be long.'

The aide withdrew, closing the door. The man sat uneasily in the armchair and sighed heavily, as if carrying a terrible burden. He was in one of the anterooms to the Oval Office, heavy with period furniture and solemn oil paintings of early American native scenes.

Next to it was another anteroom, one that led directly to the Oval Office, the polished oak door open to reveal a chest-high plinth topped with a bronze bust of granite-faced Abraham Lincoln, and yet more oil paintings: of Quincy Adams, and Jefferson, historic men looking down from historic walls, their portraits adding emphasis to the dignity of the presidential office just a few feet away, which the now-waiting visitor was soon to enter.

He had waited here on many previous occasions to see his President. But this cold, stormy November morning, he solemnly wished he was someplace else. Douglas Stevens, the head of the FBI, was besieged with anxiety. In a career in the service of his country that had spanned almost thirty years, it had sometimes been his duty to deliver bad tidings to his President. But of one thing he was absolutely certain. No other president in the history of the United States had ever been presented with such devastating information as he was about to deliver.

Outside, he heard the faint noise of approaching footsteps. He stood, checked himself in one of the wall mirrors. As always, his clothes were immaculate, and his body smelled faintly of fresh soap after the steaming-hot shower he'd taken at his home in Arlington almost two hours ago, after being woken by the ringing of his cellphone.

But his face was another matter. Raw fear had carved deep worry lines into his skin and added at least ten years to his appearance. He looked down at the briefcase in his right hand which contained the source of his distress. Thinking about the contents, he noticed his hands tremble, felt cold beads of sweat rising on his forehead. Normally he was a calm man, totally in control of his emotions. But he wasn't calm now. This morning, America's worst fear had finally come true.

Glancing at the bronze bust through the open door, Stevens saw Abraham Lincoln stare down with his usual sorrowful expression, as if to say: I understand the weight of your burden. You have my sympathy.

Stevens thought: Thanks, Abe. But I'm afraid it doesn't help any.

The door opened, the aide reappeared. 'The President will see you now, sir.'

They were seated in the Oval Office, the President at his desk with the American flag behind him. He wore a dressing gown over his pyjamas. His hair was rumpled, his eyes puffy after being woken from his sleep. Still a relatively fresh-looking man, and barely into his middle fifties, President Andrew W. Booth had fought his way up through the ranks of politics with gritty Texan determination, and a willingness to face up to any obstacle or crisis. But Stevens knew that this morning the man was going to be tested by a crisis far greater than any he'd ever had to deal with.

One of the night staff had left a pot of fresh coffee on the desk. Booth glanced beyond the window at the pouring rain. Tentacles of forked lightning lit up the White House lawns. He smiled slightly, indicating a chair. 'It seems quite a morning out there, Doug. Coffee?'

'No thank you, Mr President.'

'Your call said it was extremely urgent.'

Stevens nodded. 'My apologies for waking you, sir, but it's a matter that demands your immediate attention.'

'Then I guess we better begin.' The President finished pouring coffee for himself, barely awake as he sipped tiredly from his cup.

Stevens's voice was hoarse, braided with fear. 'A package was delivered to the Georgetown home of a Saudi Arabian diplomat at approximately twelve-fifteen this morning. The package was addressed not to him but to you, sir — the President of the United States. As to why the particular man was chosen as an intermediary we've no idea. But the circumstances of the delivery are pretty simple. The man's doorbell rang. When he got out of bed to answer, he found the package waiting for him on the doorstep, addressed to you. That's when he decided to call the FBI's Washington field office for advice. I was contacted about the matter at one forty-five a.m. by my Assistant Director, who requested to see me urgently. We met in my office forty-five minutes later, and once I was made aware of the package contents, I knew I had to see you immediately, sir. So I headed straight here and called you on the way.'

The President frowned. 'You have this package with you?'

'Yes, sir, I do.' Stevens nicked open his briefcase, withdrew an A4-size Jiffy bag.

'Naturally, standard procedure was followed. The package was examined for any dangerous or explosive material.'

At least one hundred thousand letters and seven thousand parcels were delivered unsolicited each year to the White House. Most of the letters addressed to the American President were from well-wishers, or citizens with an axe to grind about his policies. But about five per cent were from nutcases, abusive missives or blatant 'I'm going to kill you' threats that would promptly be investigated by the Secret Service and FBI.

As for the parcels, most contained simple gifts — baked pies or cookies posted by concerned matronly citizens, anxious to nourish their President's health with home-cooked food. But a small percentage of the packages — less than three per cent contained anything from human excrement posted anonymously to sexy underwear dispatched by female admirers. It was one of the trials of being elected to the most powerful office in the land that you were the subject of reverence, revile and sexual attraction all at once.

'The package was declared safe,' Stevens added, 'but these are the exact details of the contents and the delivery. I thought you might like to see them before we get down to specifics.'

The President took the single page that Stevens offered, and read.

FBI REPORT on package delivered to Saudi diplomat Mohammed Faud, at Georgetown, November 11th.

PACKAGE:

One (1) standard A4 size Jiffy bag, addressed to the President of the United States.

CONTENTS:

One (1) standard 60-minute magnetic videocassette, of possible Far East manufacture, contained in a clear, hard plastic wallet. Recorded contents: an eight minute thirty-two second (8:32) recording.

Two (2) typed pages, all on A4 size sheet paper. The pages contain a list of Arab names.

One (1) written page, which pinpoints the location of a left luggage box — number 02-08 at Gate C, in Washington's Union Station. PRELIMINARY FORENSIC ANALYSIS OF CONTENTS: None of the three pages showed up any fingerprints during tests. The cassette also appears to contain no fingerprints or other identifiable forensic marks, internally or externally, nor have the internal mechanics of the cassette been interfered/tampered with. According to the date stamp on the visual contents, the recording on the tape was made on November 1st, at 9 p.m. NOTE: The cassette was discovered by Saudi Arabian diplomat Mohammed Faud when the package it contained was left outside on his porch at his home in Georgetown at approximately 12.15 a.m. on the morning of November 11th, having answered a ring to his doorbell. There was no trace of the person(s) who delivered the videotape, but Faud reported that he thought he heard a car start up and drive away shortly after his doorbell rang. Investigation is continuing.

The President considered the report, then sat back in his chair. 'And what exactly does this tape contain?'

Stevens gestured to a TV/video recorder in a corner, for the President's personal use. 'If I may show you, sir?'

'I take it that's the primary reason you're here, Doug.'

'Yes, sir. But a word of warning, Mr President. You better prepare yourself for a shock.'

Stevens crossed the room, switched on the TV and video, and slid in the cassette. He stepped back, holding the remote control, pressing several of the buttons until the screen nickered to blue. Seconds later, it dissolved to black lines, and then the figure of an Arab man emerged, only his head and chest visible. He appeared to be in his middle forties, his face soft, gentle looking. He wore typical Islamic dress: a grey half-turban and a white kafiya. At first, the man's dominant feature appeared to be his dark, bushy beard, streaked with grey. But on closer study it was his eyes which held the attention. Dark brown, hinting at compassion, but with the diamond-hard glint of the fanatic. It was a face President Andrew Booth was familiar with. A face that promptly caused him to clench his teeth in anger.

He directed a meaningful glance at Douglas Stevens, as if to say something, but the FBI director cut in, removing two pages from an envelope he took from his pocket. 'The words you're about to hear spoken on the tape are in Arabic, sir. I've had them interpreted by our top Arab translator, Mr Edwin Marshall. This is his translated copy, if you'd care to read it.'

Stevens handed over the pages. Almost immediately the Arab spoke directly to camera, his voice soft, almost courteous, and as he spoke the President read the translation: