Resurrection Day (38 page)

'First of all,' Al Brown began, 'Kuzmin was fucking right.' The stunned faces around the situation-room table stared at DC's mayor. 'He should have bombed the sonofabitch to hell. The man's a wanted international criminal. An insane mass murderer, for Christ sakes. You ask me, the Russians had the right idea. Annihilate him!'

'Our first concern,' a red-faced General Horton answered, 'was for the citizens of your city, Mr Mayor.'

But Brown ignored the reply, his anger in full flow. 'The man's another fucking Carlos the Jackal. Another Qaddafi. Except maybe a million times worse. Abu Hasim's held this country to ransom for years. He's killed and terrorised innocent Americans, irrespective of race or creed. He's bankrolled every fanatical Muslim terror organisation you'd care to mention. His followers have bombed our embassies, our army bases, our naval vessels. Massacred our civilians as well as our military. This is a man who doesn't give a flying fuck for the value of a human life. Who's broken every civilised law under the sun.' Brown carried on, crimson with fury. 'Who's used his personal fortune to help wage war in Chechnya, who's supported the Hezbollah and Hamas in Lebanon, Saddam Hussein in Iraq, and every Muslim fundamentalist lunatic in every country in the Middle and Far East which thinks of America as its enemy. And now he's threatening my city, my people. Listen, there's only one way to deal with a rabid dog like him and that's to put him down, permanently? Brown paused only to draw breath and then he was off again. 'But what do we do? We try to seize his bank accounts — without success. We try to pressure the Afghan authorities to find him and hand him over — without success. We bomb his camps in Afghanistan and try to kill him — without success. Can someone tell me what the fuck's going on here? We're the most advanced technological civilisation on this planet, with zillions of dollars' worth of weaponry and the best-equipped military at our disposal. And yet we still can't nail the bastard, even though we've been trying for years. Know what? We should be applauding Kuzmin right now. The man's got the right idea. Blow that province off the map. Solve the problem, zap the dirt-bag for good. But no, we're sitting around here like a bunch of fucking schmucks, and doing business with this asshole, giving in to his demands. Are we out of our fucking minds, or what?'

'There are innocent people in that region, Mr Mayor.'

'And there are innocent people in Washington. A lot more of them. Most of those diehard hillbilly tribes around Kandahar support Abu Hasim and his followers. That's why he's in hiding out there, for Christ sakes. How much fucking support do you reckon the guy's got in the District?'

'OK, so we nuke Hasim,' Katherine Ashmore, Counsel to the President, interjected. 'But what happens when we've got every Islamic country in the world crying out for our blood?'

'Islam? It's got nothing to do with Islam. That's the mistake you're making. Millions of this country's citizens are Muslims. But they don't go around blowing people up, gassing them to death, or threatening a jihad just because their fucking next-door neighbour doesn't worship Allah. It's not about religion. It's about a madman. A crazy zealot who believes he's speaking for God. Know what's even crazier? We're listening to him. Worse, we're going to do what the asshole says. You ask me, we bomb the bastard. Then we tell the world what Hasim intended. That he wanted to wipe out this capital, massacre its population. Any sane person's going to know we were in the right.' The room fell silent again. Al Brown, beads of sweat on his face, took a paper tissue from his pocket and dabbed his mouth.

General Horton said quietly, 'Mr Mayor, the only way we're going to save your city is to find these madmen and their device.'

'Yeah? And what if we don't? What the fuck happens then, General? We'll still be up shit creek.'

The phone light flashed on the FBI Director's desk. In the heated exchange between the mayor and the general, the others barely noticed. The Director picked up, listened, and for several moments questioned the caller in a whisper, then said, 'Get back to me the moment you have anything else.' When he put down the phone, he saw that everyone around the table had suddenly forgotten the argument and was staring at him. The Director's face was ashen. 'I can report that the search of the area around the Wentworth was completed less than a minute ago.'

'And?' the President asked. 'There's no sign of any device and all three terrorists have vanished.'

The President slapped his palm hard on the table, grimaced with disappointment. '
Damn!
'

'There's something else, Mr President,' the FBI Director went on. 'I've just been informed by the NSA that a message has been transmitted from Kandahar province by Hasim.'

'To whom?'

'You, sir. He wants to talk.'

Salem, New Jersey 5.40 p.m.

As the US President was being informed of the message from Kandahar, Ishim Razan was strolling along a gravel pathway, lined with manicured shrubs and miniature palms, Karla Sharif by his side. They had left the doctor to tend to Gorev, and Razan had dismissed his bodyguards. He plucked a cigar from his top pocket, lit it, blew smoke into the cold evening air. The dark gardens were lit by tiny lamps, the sky by stars.

'Safa Yassin. Is that really your name?'

'Does it matter?' The Chechen shrugged. 'Names matter little at this moment. But there are other truths that matter very much.'

'Such as?'

'What exactly happened to Nikolai? And if someone harmed him, why?' Karla shook her head. 'I mean no disrespect, but this is not your concern, Ishim Razan. Please ... I can't tell you any more than that.'

'It's my concern if a friend of mine is in trouble.' Razan halted, regarded her. 'I'm not a fool, Safa Yassin. It's obvious there's much more to all this. Yesterday, Nikolai came to me looking for the name of a man who could supply him with a police vehicle, police weapons and uniforms. I asked myself why. What would Nikolai be up to on American soil? I couldn't find an answer. But I assumed that whatever it was it had to be for the Chechen cause and asked no questions.'

'But you're asking questions now.'

'Nikolai is an old friend. Someone I owe much too, not least my life. If he's in trouble, I wish to help.'

'You have already helped, Ishim Razan. By giving us refuge and having the doctor tend to Nikolai.'

Razan sighed. 'Does it have anything to do with the man whose name I gave Nikolai? The man named Visto?'

'No.'

'Then just tell me this. Are the police involved?'

Karla hesitated, bit her lip. 'Yes.'

Razan pursed his mouth in thought. Finally he nodded, took Karla's arm, and walked on in silence. They came to a trickling brook that ran through the garden, spanned by a tiny wooden bridge, a white wrought-iron bench beyond. They crossed the bridge and Razan gestured to the bench. 'Sit, Safa Yassin.' Karla sat and pulled up her collar to keep out the chill of the cold night. Razan sat beside her. He looked up at the stars, blew a ring of smoke into the freezing air. Finally he said, 'Do you know how long Nikolai and I are friends?'

'No. He told me nothing about you.'

'Almost fifteen years. We were paratroopers together. He was the closest comrade I ever had. A fine officer, the kind any soldier would be proud to serve with. Courageous, trustworthy, someone who always kept his promises and expected others to keep theirs. And he has always been an honourable man, despite what the Russians say of him. To them, he's a turncoat, a traitor about whom they will say anything to slander his name. They call him a terrorist, but to the Chechen people he's a freedom fighter, a hero.'

'I know.'

'Have you ever been to Chechnya?'

'No.'

'Then you cannot know. The Chechen people hold him in the highest esteem. When the Russians invaded my country, when they came with their tanks and artillery and bombers to destroy my people and crush their spirit, Nikolai Gorev did more than anyone I know to protect them. He organised the evacuation of towns, risked his life to save them from Russian bombs, resisted the army with incredible bravery. Some, like me, those in the underworld, chose to remain outside the battle, helping the cause in any way we could. With the purchase of weapons, with money, by smuggling supplies. And that help is what I offer to you now. Anything I can do, any resources I have, they are yours. I do this for Nikolai.' Karla didn't reply, looked back anxiously towards the house. Razan said quietly, 'Are you afraid for him?'

'Yes.'

'The doctor will do his best. He's in good hands.' Razan's cigar had gone out. He relit it, said quietly, 'Do you love Nikolai?'

'Once. Long ago.'

'And now?'

'I ... I don't know.'

'I think you do.' She turned to look at Razan. The Chechen gave her a half-smile. 'Among my blessings, I count seven sisters. With seven sisters, a man either gets to know women, or else he's doomed. I think you love him very much.'

'Perhaps.'

'Then why do you not allow me to help him?' Karla regarded him. Beneath the tough face, beneath the dark, cunning exterior, there was a kindness she found touching. 'This is not your fight, Ishim Razan.'

'Then whose is it? Tell me that.'

Karla stood. 'Please. I've said too much already. Nikolai wouldn't want me to break a trust, even to you. I beg you not to ask me any more questions.'

The Chechen heard the hint of despair in her voice, saw her glance back again towards the house with a look of unease. He sighed, stood. 'Very well. Have it your way. But there is something I wish you to do for me, Safa Yassin.'

'What?' Karla shivered, the chilly air biting into her bones as Razan took her arm. 'Come, it's getting cold. We'll go back to the house. I'll explain there.'

When they entered the back annexe, they found the doctor standing over the washbasin, scrubbing his hands, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Gorev lay unconscious on the bed, his stomach heavily bandaged. The doctor dried himself with a towel, came over. 'It's done. Fortunately, the operation wasn't as troublesome as I thought. The shrapnel nicked his gut but I've managed to clean out the wound and suture the laceration. There's no more shrapnel, so far as I can tell. But we'd need an X-ray to be certain.'

'How ... how is he?' The doctor saw Karla's concern. 'His pulse is steady enough. But he's quite weak, and a litre or more of blood would do him no harm. I've drawn a sample and will come back tonight to administer the transfusion.'

'His chances?' Razan asked.

'I wish all my patients were in such excellent physical shape.' The doctor smiled. 'He's not going to die, that's for sure. But he'll need to rest up.'

'For how long?' Karla asked.

'Several days at least.'

'That ... that's impossible.'

'Not if you want him to make a full recovery. Have him on his feet too quickly and you risk disturbing the sutures, and God knows we don't want that.'

Karla went over to the bed. Gorev was in a deep sleep, his forehead covered in perspiration. She pulled up a chair beside him, wrung a cloth from a bowl of water by the bed and dabbed his brow. 'When will he wake?'

'When the anaesthetic wears off, in about an hour or two. But hell still be groggy. I'd suggest no food for now, just water if he wants it.'

'He definitely can't be moved tonight?' The doctor looked at Karla as if she were insane. 'Absolutely not. He needs rest, and lots of it.' He packed up his bag, turned to Razan. 'I've left some painkillers and antibiotics with Eduard. He's well capable of looking after the patient until I get back. In the morning, we'll review his progress.'

'My thanks, Arkady.'

The doctor grinned, suddenly invigorated, stubbed out his cigarette. 'No need. It was a thoroughly interesting evening. Like working the battlefields again.'

After the doctor had gone Razan led Karla to a drawing room at the front of the house. He poured a couple of malt whiskies from a Waterford crystal decanter, handed her a glass. 'Take it. You look like you could do with one.'

Karla took the crystal tumbler and Razan raised his drink. 'To Nikolai. Let's hope he makes a speedy recovery.' The Chechen swallowed his whisky, crossed to the window, looked out at the darkened lawns. 'Naturally, he'll remain here to recover, for however long he needs. He'll be safe and well looked after. You are free to stay with him.'

'That's not possible. Not tonight.'

Razan looked back. 'Then you may return at any time you wish. But try to take him from here without my permission and you risk my anger, Safa Yassin. Are you clear on this?'

Karla put down her glass. 'Have I any choice?'

'None. I value Nikolai's life too much. You still refuse to tell me what's going on?'

'I can't.'

'You're a stubborn woman, did anyone ever tell you that?'

'It has nothing to do with stubbornness. Nikolai would tell you the same.'

Razan came back from the window, picked up a telephone from a side table. 'Tell Yegori to come in here.'

Moments later the door opened. The Chechen who had forced Karla into her car entered the room, crossed to Razan. 'Ishim?'

Razan whispered something into his ear and the bodyguard left. Karla, puzzled, addressed Razan. 'You said there was something you wished me to do?'

Razan slapped his glass down. 'We'll get to that. You know what still bothers me? There's something odd about all this, Safa Yassin. Something very odd indeed. My old grandmother used to say that whenever she felt a headache coming on she sensed trouble. And right now, my head's splitting.'

The Chechen bodyguard came back into the room, carrying a pair of cellphones and Gorev's Beretta pistol. He handed them to Razan, who said to Karla, 'The gun is Nikolai's, I believe?'

'Yes.'

'Take it.' Razan offered her the pistol. 'For all I know, you may have need of it.'

Karla slipped the Beretta into her pocket.

'Now I will tell you what I wish you to do. You refused my help, but again I offer it.' Razan handed Karla one of the cellphones. 'One each. If you need me for any reason, night or day, my number is stored in the cellphone's memory. You simply call. If Nikolai's condition worsens for any reason, and I need you, I do the same. Do you understand me, Safa Yassin?'

'Yes, I understand.'

'Good. Yegori will take you to your car.'

Razan was standing at the window minutes later, smoking a cigar, watching the red tail-lights of the Plymouth disappear down the driveway. He turned from the window as the door opened behind him and Yegori returned.

'You're clear about what you have to do?'

'Yes, Ishim. The men are ready.'

'Do it.'

Alexandria 5.30 p.m.