Resurrection Day (33 page)

Thirty miles away, at Washington's second airport, Dulles International, the man who had the enormous task of administering DC had just landed from Heathrow. Whisked through the VIP concourse, Mayor Albert Brown emitted an irritated sigh as he sat in the back of his chauffeured Chrysler Le Baron limo speeding along the Eisenhower Highway towards the District. At fifty-one, a bald, handsome black American, he was a powerhouse of a man who oozed energy. That afternoon he wore one of his usual trademark three-piece suits and colourful bow ties. Beside him sat his deputy assistant, Sid Peterson, smoking a foul-smelling cigar, the source of Brown's irritation.

'Jesus, Sid, you want to choke me to death? Can't you find a better smoke than those Guatemalan firecrackers?'

'Sorry, Mr Mayor. Cigar bother you?'

Brown grunted, waved away a pall of grey smoke. 'So what the hell is it the President wants that I have to haul my ass back from London a day early? Can't he talk over the phone?'

Peterson cracked his window, let the slipstream suck out the smoke. 'Says it's urgent, Mr Mayor. And he'd like to talk in private.'

'Next you'll be telling me we're going directly to the goddamned White House.'

'No, sir. What I've been told, first he'd like to talk to you from your comms room.'

A floor above Brown's office at One Judiciary Square, in the private chamber that housed his personal gym equipment — the room accessed only by the mayor's security swipe card — was a battery of modern communications technology that allowed him to talk via a TV satellite link directly and securely to the White House. Brown was puzzled. If the President wanted to talk that urgently, he would have asked to see him at the White House.

'The hell's up, Sid?'

'I really don't know, sir. Guess we'll have to wait and see.' Brown sighed, turned towards the limo's smoked-glass windows.

'Dynamic' was a word frequently used to describe Al Brown, and patience wasn't one of his virtues. Born in Los Angeles, the sixth son of a factory worker from the city tenements, Al Brown had suffered a harsh childhood of poverty which had given him an iron will. Graduating magna cum laude from Yale with a Bachelor of Arts in political science, he'd earned a doctorate from Harvard, and at only twenty-seven was appointed Deputy State Controller of Connecticut, with responsibility for managing the state's budget.

Later still came Washington, a position as Chief Financial Officer for the District of Columbia, and the tough mission of leading the then bankrupt nation's capital to financial recovery. Within three years, the resolute Brown had turned the District round, rescheduling loans, trimming municipal workers' excessive overtime bills, and discovering along the way the reasons why the District's books hadn't been balanced in the first place: his flamboyant boss had an abiding fondness for cocaine and expensive hookers that would eventually lose him his mayoral office.

Elected to replace him, Brown inherited a city in moral decline: corruption, poverty, filthy neighbourhoods, lousy schools, a drugs problem out of control, a spiralling crime rate and over a thousand homicides a year. But DC had always been a city with a grand vision — it was where George Washington had himself selected the site for the nation's capital on the banks of the Potomac. And the tenement kid from California had his own vision: safer streets, better education, clean and healthy neighbourhoods, affordable housing and health care.

With three years of tough, aggressive action Brown had rescued the capital. School standards were up, the streets were cleaner, corruption had diminished, crime and murder rates were down. With the help of tax breaks, billions of dollars' worth of private investment had started to pour in, run-down parts of the city were revitalised by developers, new business lured in. DC was no longer on the skids, but to finish his plan Brown needed the President to support another half-billion-dollar tax credit for the District. The President had been stalling.

As the car drove through the suburbs, Al Brown stared out through the smoked glass. He'd come to Washington with fear in his heart over the tough job he had to do, but he'd grown to love this city. The formal brick houses of Georgetown, the youthful and zesty Dupont Circle, the vibrant Adams Morgan, a hub of Latin American, African and other immigrants from around the world. For years, parts of DC had been neglected and abandoned, but now it was a vital, busy place, one of the wealthiest cities in America. The gritty industrial strips along New York Avenue were no longer an eyesore, but coveted by developers eager to build office space. The metro area was hopping with new nightclubs, restaurants and shops, and Washington had become a high-tech mecca: over half the world's Internet traffic now passed through DC. Brown could reel off impressive figures: thirty-seven historic districts, more than fifty ethnic groups of every colour and creed, a city that was a magnet to twenty-one million visitors a year. But out there were the badlands of the Southeast — rundown, impoverished neighbourhoods with burnt-out stolen cars and graffiti-covered walls, where crack and crime still figured large. It was problem areas like this, the decaying working-class districts and the metro pockets where homelessness was still a plague, which Brown wanted to tackle next.

He could still remember the tenement days of his own childhood — the cries of hunger, argument and despair that woke him in the night. More than anything else, he wanted to help get these people out of their rut. But to do that, he needed the President's support.

The car cellphone buzzed, jolting Brown from his reverie. He turned from the window, grabbed the phone before Peterson could reach it.

'I'll take it.' He spoke a few words, then said, 'Thanks, Marion. Sure, I'll be there.' He ended the call, turned to Peterson. 'That was the President's secretary.'

'Yeah? She finally say what the man wanted to talk about?' Brown's face lit up. 'No, she didn't. But forget about talking from my office. The President wants to see me right away. And it must be pretty important — he's set up a meeting at the White House.'

'Yeah?'

'Goddammit, Sid ... ' The glow expanded on Brown's face as the relentless rain beat against the window. ' ... I've got a feeling that maybe the man's going to see sense about our half-billion-dollar tax break.'

Chesapeake 2.38 p.m.

It was raining hard when Karla pulled up outside the cottage at Winston Bay. They climbed off the Honda, both drenched, and Karla found the key under the rock and let them in the front door. Gorev was still clutching his side, a look of discomfort on his face, and Karla said worriedly, 'Are you all right?'

'I've felt better. But at least the bleeding's stopped.'

'Let me see. I'll find something to dress the wound properly ... '

'Later, Karla. We'd better get out of these wet clothes. Why don't you see what you can find upstairs for us both, and I'll get a fire going and see about something to dull this pain.' Karla went upstairs and Gorev lit the fire, piling on the logs. As they blazed, he checked the temporary dressing Karla had applied, saw that the blood had congealed on the scarf and stuck to his wound, then went into the kitchen, found a bottle of vodka on one of the shelves, and took down two glasses. When he came out of the kitchen again, Karla was standing in front of the blazing logs, wearing a skirt and a sweater, and carrying a shirt and jeans. 'They're all I could find for you.'

'I'm sure they'll do.' Gorev poured vodka for each of them, handed across a glass. 'Here, drink it down, it'll steady your nerves.' He saw the tension on Karla's face, and as she took the glass her hand was shaking.

'How could the FBI have known where to find us?'

Gorev swallowed a mouthful of vodka, shook his head in disbelief. 'I've been asking myself the same question all the way down here. Was it luck, or something more than that? I've racked my brains but I can't think of a single mistake we made that led them to us. Can you? Think, Karla. Was there anything? Anything at all?'

'No. I was more than careful. Rashid too.'

'If the Americans knew where we were, they'd have had more men, and they'd have been far more careful before they made their move. I only saw two other men with Alexei. That tells me they had to have an element of luck.' Gorev shook his head again. 'But how has me confounded.' Karla put her glass on the mantelpiece with a deeply troubled look. Gorev said, 'What's the matter?'

'There was a moment when I thought one of us might have to shoot your friend Alexei.'

Gorev's face darkened, and he lit a cigarette. 'To be honest, if it came down to it, I don't know what I would have done. But I don't think I could have harmed him, Karla. How could I? Alexei's been like a brother.'

'And what if there's a next time?'

'We'll have to make sure there isn't. From now on, we only go out when we have to, take no unnecessary risks. You can be certain the Americans will be searching everywhere, leaving no stone unturned.'

Karla's eyes were filled with anguish. 'But what's happened changes everything, Nikolai. Surely you see that? No matter how this turns out, whether we succeed or fail, there's going to be no way out of this for us, is there? The Americans will know who we are. And what good is it even if Josef is released? The Americans would find us, no matter where we tried to hide.' Her face was white. Despair had crept into her voice, and she looked on the verge of tears.

Gorev tossed his cigarette on to the fire, put out a hand, gently touched her arm. 'I've no answer to that, Karla. At least not right now.'

'But we're finished, aren't we? No matter what happens?'

'I didn't say that. There's always a way. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that anything is possible in this world.'

'Then what are we to do?'

'You're asking the wrong man. The next move's up to Rashid. But after what's happened I have a feeling he may have something unpleasant in store for the Americans.'

'What do you mean?'

'It's obvious now we can't hang around Washington for much longer without the risk of getting caught. It stands to reason Rashid will want to put pressure on the American President, make him see sense a lot quicker.'

'How?'

'Anything's likely where Rashid's concerned. And that's what worries me.' Gorev put down his glass. As he moved to pile another log on the fire, his face suddenly twisted in pain. He bent double, clutched his side again, his legs buckling as he collapsed in a heap on the couch.

'Nikolai ...' Karla moved to help him. Gorev was deathly pale as a surge of blood gushed between his fingers. 'Find something to stem the flow. Quickly, Karla.'

Karla hurried upstairs and came back with a bed-sheet and scissors. 'Let me look.' She knelt, cut away part of Gorev's bloodstained shirt and removed the scarf, dabbed the flow from the wound, and paled when she saw a jagged piece of metal jutting from the flesh, still seeping blood. 'It looks more than a flesh wound, Nikolai. There's shrapnel lodged in the tissue. You'll need a doctor.'

'We'd be asking for trouble.' Sweat coursed down Gorev's face. 'You know that, Karla.'

'What if there's more shrapnel?'

'Worry about that later. Find some pliers or tweezers, or whatever you can to take it out. And get some hot water.'

'I might only make things worse ... '

'For God's sake, don't argue, Karla.' She went into the kitchen, boiled a kettle, came back with a basin of steaming water, then found a small pair of tweezers in her tote bag. 'It's all I've got.'

'It'll have to do. Tear up some of the sheet. And be ready to plug the wound when I tell you.'

'Nikolai, I can't do this.'

'If you don't I'll do it myself. Get ready.' Karla cut strips off the sheet. Gorev parted the wound with his fingers so she could see the jagged metal splinter protruding from his flesh.

'Do it, Karla. Now.' Karla gripped the metal with the tweezers and started to ease the shrapnel out. Gorev clenched his teeth. 'Get it over with. Pull harder.'

Karla gave a tug, the splinter started to move again, and then it was out. A stream of blood oozed from the wound, gushed on to the floor.

'Stem it, Karla. Quickly.' She balled a cotton strip, stuck it into the gaping hole and kept it there, pressing hard. After a minute the cotton was soggy with blood and she replaced it with another, soaked in vodka to sterilise the wound, and finally the bleeding started to subside.

Gorev grimaced. 'Bandage it up.' She wrapped some cotton strips around his stomach, tied them tightly, and Gorev eased himself back on the couch. He looked weak, on the edge of exhaustion, his eyelids half open, the loss of blood showing on his face, which was racked by raw pain, glistening with sweat. Karla dabbed his brow.

'I've come through a lot worse. Don't worry, Karla.' She tried to stand, but Gorev grasped her arm. 'Where are you going?'

'There has to be someone who can help.' Karla was ashen with concern. 'Rashid's people? Or your Chechen friend, Razan?'

'No.' Gorev was resolute, despite his agony. 'If the bleeding starts again, we'll think about it. But for now, let me rest.'

Fifteen miles away Mohamed Rashid turned his Yamaha off Highway 4. Thick forest lay on either side; he saw a placard that said Picnic Area and swung the motorcycle on to a narrow forest track.

He had left Alexandria far behind, crossed into Maryland, and there hadn't been a sign of anyone following him, on the road or in the air. He had escaped safely, of that he was sure, but he was still seething with rage, his anger like a living thing. He drove into the forest for a couple of hundred yards and came to a deserted clearing with half a dozen rough-hewn log benches and tables. He was alone, no one to disturb him, and he switched off the Yamaha's engine and dismounted. He took his backpack and went over to one of the benches. Pine scented the air, and the woods were peaceful. He opened the backpack, lifted the laptop out of its carrying case and placed it on the bench in front on him.

How? How had the Americans found his apartment? The question rattled around inside his head, fuelling his anger. Logic told him it had to be chance, but this didn't dilute his feeling of rage. The first thing he intended to do when he returned to the cottage was alter his appearance. He had bought several different hair dyes in case of necessity: the blond hair would go, and so would the earring.

He connected the collapsible satellite dish to the port at the back of the computer, switched on, and after a few seconds the Windows program loaded. With its nickel-cadmium batteries, the laptop was good for five hours' solid use without having to be recharged, but he needed no more than five minutes. He aligned the dish, then typed an outline of his report, making sure to include everything in his message — the catastrophe that afternoon, and his recommendations about how to proceed next. When he had finished typing the message, he scrolled through it a couple of times to make certain he was happy with the text, then hit the 'send' key and the signal was gone into the ether in less than two seconds.

Nine thousand miles away in Afghanistan the coded transmission would be received almost instantly. If the Americans picked up his seconds-long signal, they'd have a problem decoding it. Even with their most powerful computers, it would take them weeks at least to crack the code, the Pakistani programmer had assured al-Qaeda, and he had no reason to doubt the man, a brilliant cryptologist. But what was more worrying, and more dangerous, was the time the transmitter was actually 'on air'. Receiving an incoming signal didn't pose the slightest problem to Rashid — it was simply being snatched from the ether, and no one could tell who it was being received by, or where. The dangerous part was when he was transmitting, or acknowledging a received signal. If the Americans were lucky, they could triangulate his signal with their computers and fix the exact location of his transmission. But they had to be very lucky and very fast, because his transmission was so brief. Even so, he had been instructed never to transmit from the same place twice, an instruction he had rigidly adhered to, altering his transmission locations every time by a minimum of ten miles.

He switched off the laptop. He was still seething. The day had been a disaster. But not a complete disaster. If he had his way, the Americans would be given another harsh example of al-Qaeda's power. One that would make them agree to the demands immediately. As he began to pack away the computer he heard the crack of a twig behind him. Startled, Rashid reached into the backpack, gripped the butt of the Skorpion machine-pistol, cocked it but held it out of sight, down by his side.

Two hikers came out of the woods, wearing green rain capes and backpacks, a dark-haired girl and a blond young man — they looked like teenagers. Rashid wondered how long they'd been in the woods, observing him. The couple halted in their tracks, ten yards away, on the narrow trail that led towards the clearing. Rashid was in their path; they would have to move by him to pass. They seemed uneasy about the presence of a stranger in the woods, and the girl suddenly grasped the boy's arm. He smiled nervously.

'Hi.' Rashid nodded a reply. The boy looked awkward, unsure of what to say next. He glanced past Rashid, towards the picnic bench. 'That a laptop you got there, sir?' Rashid nodded again. 'Hey, it's got a satellite dish, right?'

'Yes.'

'Looks cool.' The couple started to move, but anxiety suddenly sparked in the boy's eyes when he noticed the machine-pistol by Rashid's side. 'Is ... is that a gun, sir?' This time Rashid didn't reply. He raised the Skorpion.

Chesapeake 2.55 p.m.