Resurrection Day (4 page)

With the copious blessings of Allah the all powerful and compassionate, I, Abu Hasim, address myself to the President of the United States.

I speak to you as a man of God, concerned with the suffering and oppression of the Arab peoples. For centuries now, we have been subjugated by the West, first the British and Europeans, and now by the Americans. It is my opinion, however, that America represents the most oppressive of all these occupiers, and the worst evil in mankind's history. I believe this for many reasons. Your corrupting influence extends everywhere in the Middle East. In the Arab Emirates, in Egypt, and in the lands of Jordan, Israel and Palestine. Countries in which you Americans should have no rightful place, but in which you continue to interfere, by force or influence. Most importantly, your armed forces are present in Saudi Arabia, my homeland, the land of the two holy shrines — Jiddah and Mecca, the most sacred of Islamic cities.

This occupation is unacceptable to all God-fearing followers of Islam. In Saudi, you support a regime in which the royal family — the King and his princes — corrupt themselves materially and spiritually, flouting the laws of God the Almighty, while you Americans openly rape the country of its most precious natural resource, oil. This resource, bestowed by Allah, blessed be his name, rightfully belongs to the Arab peoples, yet you Americans use it to fuel the corrupt and evil power of your economy. You do this in many other Arab lands — in Kuwait, in the Arab Emirates — where your presence was not sought or desired by the God-fearing Islamic population.

On occasions, President Booth, you and your predecessors have said you maintain your presence in these lands because you wish to establish peace in the Middle East. I say that this is a lie. Instead of helping to bring about peace you continue to aid Israel, while you murder or imprison Islamic warriors who battle for the freedom and self-determination of the Arab peoples, warriors who take up a just and rightful armed struggle against American oppression. You have even tried to kill me. But by the Grace of God the all powerful, blessed be his name, I was spared to continue his good works. Spared to honour the pledge I made long ago that I would offer myself to God's blessed cause and be a saviour of Islam.

In response to your aggression, I, and others like me, have sought to defend ourselves by attacking your military bases, your countrymen, and your interests throughout the world. This has proved ineffective. Our numbers may be large and blessed by God, but you possess the modern technology of warfare that we do not. You have also kept this same technology from the Arab world. No Arab country wields nuclear weapons or other weapons of mass destruction for their defence, and yet Israel, the mortal enemy of all true followers of Islam, is allowed to maintain such an arsenal. Why should this inequality be so? It is only so because you and your predecessors have wished it, Mr President, in order to maintain an imbalance of power in the Middle East in your country's favour. In this way, you play jailer with us. We remain prisoners to America's cause, a people in chains, without control of our own destiny. This is a situation that cannot be allowed to continue. Accordingly, it falls to me, Abu Hasim, to counter the oppression and corrupt power of America with force.

Therefore, by the Grace of God, and to honour my pledge to Allah and the Arab peoples, I send you this recording to inform you that I now possess a weapon truly powerful enough to change this unacceptable state of affairs. It is no ordinary weapon, but one that can and will cause untold devastation, and bring America to its knees. I have ordered this weapon placed in Washington, DC, the very heart of American evil. It is timed to unleash its devastation in seven days from midday today, Greenwich Mean Time, 7 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, November 18th, unless the following conditions are met:

One — the US withdraws all its troops and military support from the entire Arab Middle East region within those seven days.

Two — within the same period, the US releases all Islamic prisoners, of which I have supplied a list of names. Others on the list are held in foreign prisons. America will use its power and influence to guarantee their release.

Three — Washington must not, I repeat not, be evacuated, nor this threat made public.

Four — you, President Booth, must not attempt to leave the capital, but must remain within its confines.

I would also strongly suggest that your forces of law and order, your police and FBI, do not seek to find my weapon. If they do — if they attempt to hunt down my followers in your capital then they risk the consequences. My people have been ordered to detonate the weapon if they are under dire threat from your forces of law.

Also, if any of these demands are not met, or if any of the conditions are ignored, the blame will fall on your head, President Booth, and I, personally, will immediately trigger the weapon. If proof is needed that my threat is real, then you will find this proof at the location details of which you have been provided with.

I earnestly pray that God will deliver on you the blessings of his compassion and wisdom at this difficult hour.

The image faded to a dazzling blue, then flickered to black lines again. There was total silence in the Oval Office, and then the President, having read the translation, and completely awake now, looked at Stevens with amazement and consternation on his facts, 'What in God's name was that all about?'

'At this moment I'm as wise as you are, sir. We haven't had time to determine if it's a hoax. But it certainly looks like Abu Hasim, and sounds like him.'

The President's mouth tightened as he put down the pages he had read. Stevens couldn't fail to notice the repressed anger in his expression. As far as the United States was concerned the man in question, Abu Hasim, was the most wanted terrorist in the world. Al-Qaeda, the Islamic terror group he led, had been responsible for the savage deaths of hundreds of American troops and citizens in suicide bombings in the US, Africa and the Middle East. The President spoke, barely able to conceal his angry contempt. 'Has anyone run a voice analysis on the tape?'

'It's being done as we speak, Mr President. We've got recordings of his voice from journalists' taped interviews and from a number of Hasim's telephone conversations we intercepted. We can use them to verify if it's definitely him.' Stevens paused. 'I should point out that so far I've limited our operation to no more than a dozen FBI personnel. They've each been advised of the need for absolute secrecy until we get to the bottom of this.'

'What about this proof that he spoke about?'

'I dispatched a team of agents to the Union Station. They'll phone me as soon they've located and opened the locker.'

The President ran a hand over his face, stared over at the blank TV screen, then looked back at Stevens. 'You think Hasim's threat is for real, Doug?'

'I think so, Mr President. I doubt it's a completely empty threat. Why go to the effort of recording and delivering the tape if he can't back up what he says? But I guess it all depends on what we find in the locker.'

'What do you think this weapon he spoke about might be?'

'God knows, sir.'

'Who are the prisoners he mentioned?'

Stevens offered two of the pages from the package, watched as the President studied the list.

'Three hundred and eighty-five names, all males,' Stevens explained. 'I've had each of the names checked on our databases. Fourteen are Arabs being held in US penitentiaries. At least two hundred and fifty appear to be Islamic guerrillas captured during the Chechen wars by Russian forces and mostly incarcerated in Moscow. The remainder are imprisoned in Israel, except for three names on the list — two are in British jails, the other's in Moabit Prison in Germany. They're pretty much all serving long-term sentences for serious terror crimes. Bombings, assassinations, conspiracy to maim and murder. In the case of the prisoners held in the US, almost half were convicted of involvement in the embassy bombings in Africa.'

The President's face darkened. He got to his feet. 'And he wants all of them released? That's a grave demand in itself. But this business of us withdrawing from the Gulf — Hasim can't be serious?'

'He sounded pretty serious to me, sir.'

The President began to pace the room, strain on his face. 'We're talking about a withdrawal from a region of vital military and economic importance, not only to us, but to the entire Western world. Have you any idea the kind of nightmare scenarios that could materialise if we no longer had a military presence in the Gulf? Oil flow to the West would be jeopardised, and devastating economic crises could result. Not to mention the danger of Islamic fundamentalists taking over the region, and the position Israel would find herself in. We're not only talking about a change in the balance of power in the Gulf, but in the world. If Hasim thinks we can just walk out of the region, he has to be totally crazy.'

'That may be, sir, but the man's obviously got something pretty serious up his sleeve. Otherwise he wouldn't have made such earnest demands or so grave a threat. From the way he's talking, the entire Washington district may be in danger. And it's not as if we can retaliate effectively against someone like Hasim. We've learned that in the past. It's not a foreign country we're talking about here, but a stateless individual, someone whom we can't make a meaningful countermove against. We can't threaten him with sending in the Marines, or deploying our missiles or nuclear arsenal. Least of all now, if he's holding a gun to our heads.' Stevens paused, his voice tense. 'There's always the possibility this whole thing could turn out to be a hoax, Mr President, but I really wouldn't like to bet my bottom dollar on it.'

The President returned to his leather chair, reached for his phone. 'I'll call a crisis meeting of the National Security Council for eight-thirty a.m.'

'Can't we make it earlier, sir?'

'The Vice-President's in Colorado, attending a party convention, and the Defence Secretary's overnighting in Kansas, visiting family. I'd like both of them to be present, in person, for the meeting, and I reckon we can get them back in the White House by eight-thirty.'

Stevens's cellphone vibrated and he reached in his jacket. 'Excuse me, sir.' He switched on the phone, identified himself, and listened for several moments before replying. 'You're sure?' He paused, listened again, said urgently, 'I'll keep the line open. Get back to me as soon as you can.'

The President raised his eyebrows. 'Well?' "

'Two things, sir.' Stevens kept his cellphone cradled at his neck as he spoke. 'One, the voice analysis was positive — it's definitely Hasim on the tape. Two, my men are at the Union Station. They're about to open the locker.'

Fifteen minutes earlier, at precisely 3.45 a.m., Washington's Union Station was almost deserted. A heavy downpour hammered the pavement outside, and the night-shift cleaners were working away with their vacuums and polishing machines, getting ready for the busy day ahead, which would see at least one hundred thousand passengers pour through the station's doors. Dating from 1907, a magnificent neoclassical structure with graceful fifty-foot ceiling arches, soaring pillars and marble walls and floors, it was once the largest train station in the world.

A handful of vagrants had taken refuge from the miserable, stormy night, joined by a half-dozen disgruntled passengers who had missed late-night trains, destined to wait until the early morning to make their connections to Virginia or Maryland, Philadelphia or New York. Curled up in sleeping bags or wandering the tiled floors, hands stuffed in their pockets to keep warm, the night-time refugees had their peace interrupted by the heavily armed FBI teams, a six-man bomb squad detail, and at least twenty District police wearing rain capes who swarmed into the Union like a force. Within seconds, the station walls rang with voices and footfalls, as uniformed officers sealed off the terminal and secured every single one of its exits and entrances.

Jack Collins, a thickset man of forty-three, his dark hair flecked with grey, was the senior FBI agent in charge. He had a walkie-talkie clipped to his chest, and like his men wore a navy blue zip-up nylon jacket, the FBI logo on the back in prominent gold lettering. His hair was drenched from the short dash through the rain from the Dodge Intrepid parked outside, and he assembled his men with a commanding tone of controlled urgency.

'I want everyone out of the station, except our people. And I mean everyone. Amtrak staff included. Check the platforms and toilets — every damned nook and cranny. I want no civilians on the premises.' He pointed to one of his men. 'Find out where the lockers are at Gate C and if someone here's got a set of master keys.'

A young FBI agent said, 'Sir, where do we move the people from the station?'

'Where the hell do you think, Grimes? Outside.'

The agent glanced out at the sheeting downpour. 'Sir, it's teeming out there.'

'I don't give a damn if there's a blizzard and five feet of snow — get this place cleared. Pronto!'

Minutes later a procession of puzzled vagrants, surly teenagers, waiting passengers and station staff were briskly escorted out into the wet night, all looking unhappy as hell. 'Gonna see my fucking Congressman!' an elderly homeless black man wearing a pair of shabby earmuffs, a tattered overcoat and filthy sneakers shouted at Collins as he went past. 'You mo'fuckers always harassin' a black man down on his luck.'

'Sorry, sir, but we've got to clear the area.' Collins smartly ushered the man along, then turned away from the protest as one of his agents hurried up, accompanied by a uniformed Amtrak police officer. The agent pointed towards an archway that led to the arrivals/departures concourse. 'The Gate C lockers are over there by the wall, sir. This is Duty Officer Vincenti, he's with Amtrak. He's got a master key that opens all the lockers.'

'Let me see it,' said Collins.

The man produced a single key attached on a ring to a chunk of grubby, heavy steel, and handed it to Collins. 'You mind me asking what in the hell's going on here?' the Amtrak officer asked.

Collins palmed the key, ignored the question. 'Come with me.'

He strode towards the left-luggage area at Gate C. Several rows of beige-painted metal lockers were set against the wall. Collins located box number 02-08. It measured about eighteen inches by twelve, and like all the others was electronically operated. He stared at the locker for a time, then turned instinctively, his practised eye noticing a security camera high up in the ceiling, aimed at the lockers. He looked round and spotted another two cameras near by, trained on the same area. 'Those cameras work?' he asked the Amtrak officer.

'Yes, sir. They're on twenty-four hours a day.'

'You mean anyone using these lockers is caught on tape?'

The Amtrak man nodded. 'We use thirty-day tapes. There's a camera room back at my office. The lockers themselves have a twenty-four-hour timer. If they're not opened within that period, we open them with the master and remove the contents. It's a security measure.'

'You're saying if someone left something in any of these lockers it would have to be within the last twenty-four hours?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I want the tapes. Every last one you've got,' Collins said urgently, and turned to the agent who had accompanied the Amtrak man. 'Take him back to the office. When you have the tapes, take them out of the station and back to your car. And take this officer outside. Let me know when you're done.'

The Amtrak officer went to protest, but the FBI agent promptly led him away. Collins turned to another of his men. 'OK, let's get the bomb squad in here, open up the locker, and get this thing over and done with.'

Collins heard a commotion behind him and turned. Striding towards him was Tom Murphy, the head of the FBI's Counter-Terrorism Division. At six foot four, he was a big-boned man of fifty-three with a bushy grey moustache, and Collins's boss. Behind him came two senior agents from FBI headquarters whom Collins recognised. 'Jack, I see you've got everything under control.'

'We're just about ready to open the locker.' Collins explained about the Amtrak security tapes and Murphy looked hopeful.

'Let's keep our fingers crossed they turn up something.'

'You mind telling me what the devil's going on, Tom? All I got was a call telling me to get a team down here fast, that someone may have left a dangerous package in the locker. I was to secure the station, liaise with Amtrak security about the locker, and have the bomb squad standing by to open it up.'

Murphy nodded. 'That's all you need to do for now, Jack. I'll take it from here on in.'

'What do you mean?'

'Just do as I say, Jack. Get the bomb guys over here, then get your men together, stay on the periphery and make sure the cops keep well back out of the way. When we're done here, stand your men down. Then you go home, get some sleep.'

Collins frowned, puzzled, as he stared at Murphy and the senior agents accompanying him.

'What's the story here, Tom?'

Murphy was grim, shook his head. 'Sorry, Jack. Orders from above. From here on, it's my baby.'