Resurrection Day (40 page)

'You left him there? Are you insane?'

'I had no choice. He needed proper medical attention.'

Rashid moved over to the window, opened the curtain a crack and peered out, as if to make sure Karla hadn't been followed. When he looked back, he was enraged. 'How do we know Razan can be trusted? You said he was suspicious, that he questioned you?'

'I told him nothing. He and Nikolai are old friends. Razan wanted to help him. That was his only concern. The Chechens wouldn't think of involving the police. Besides, what was I supposed to do, let Nikolai bleed to death?'

Rashid came away from the curtain, teeth clenched in anger. 'It would have been better if you had. A wounded man is a burden in battle, even you know that, Karla Sharif. Did the doctor give him medication? Drugs of any sort?'

'Yes.'

'What if Gorev's in a fevered state and talks? What if he says something that compromises us? Did you think of that?'

'You ought to know him better.' Karla was suddenly angry, Rashid's callousness goading her, and she added with contempt, 'You don't give a damn about Nikolai. Or anyone for that matter. Do you?'

'Nothing matters but our mission. If he dies, then so be it. Inshallah.'

'You know something, Mohamed Rashid?' Karla shook her head in disgust. 'You're a cold-hearted thug, with not even a shred of decency. I don't know how you can even bear to look at yourself in the mirror.'

Rashid stepped closer, until he was almost up to her face. The pearl-handled flick-knife appeared in an instant, too quickly for Karla to move, and the flat of the blade pressed hard against her cheek. Rashid gripped her hair, yanked it back savagely as he stared into her eyes. 'Remember who you are talking to, Karla Sharif. Remember who's in charge here and what your duty is. You've had your last warning. You will follow my orders and show me respect. Or do I have to carve my words into your face?'

Karla was defiant. 'I told you before. Don't threaten me. Not unless you really mean to use that knife. Now let go.'

Rashid's face twisted maliciously. He pressed the blade harder into her cheek, suddenly enjoying a delicious feeling of power. 'Any reason why I should?'

'Look down, Mohamed Rashid. See what's pointed between your legs.'

Rashid's expression changed. His eyes moved down in surprise, saw the Beretta that Karla had slipped from her jacket pocket pointed at his groin. The Egyptian gave a manic laugh, let go of her hair, and Karla pulled away.

'You know, I think I was right when we met in Tyr,' Rashid confessed. 'That in different circumstances, a woman like you might even excite me. When this is over, who knows? Maybe we can do something about that.'

'I'd rather lie with the Devil first.'

Rashid grunted, retracted the knife and slipped it into his pocket, but Karla made no attempt to put away the Beretta. Rashid grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, snapped his fingers, held out his hand in fury. 'Give me the car keys. I have work to do.'

'They're on the table. What work?'

'That's none of your business. But I'll tell you this. The Americans are going to wish they'd never crossed us this afternoon. For that, they're going to pay this night, and pay dearly.' Rashid picked up the keys, his mouth a vicious snarl. 'You will remain here until I return. In the morning, you will bring Gorev back to the cottage, no matter what condition he's in, and no matter what Razan says, you understand me? And you'd better pray that your stupidity hasn't jeopardised us, Karla Sharif. Because if it has, I'll keep my promise. I'll see to it that son of yours never sees daylight again.'

Rashid turned off the Suitland Parkway. Five minutes later he drove the Plymouth into the weed-covered driveway of the two storey red-bricked house in Fulton Chase, in the District's South East.

The derelict rows of ghetto houses looked depressing in the rain, the wet streets deserted, and Rashid locked the car, raced up the front steps and rang the bell twice, allowed a three-second pause, then hit the bell twice again. A torn curtain twitched in the downstairs window, and a few moments later the front door opened. The big, rugged black man, Moses Lee, stood there, wearing a baseball shirt and jeans. For a second or two he didn't recognise his visitor, the earring gone, the blond hair dyed black, but then he grinned. 'See you got yourself some new hair. Surprised to see you so late, brother. You lock the car, like I been telling you?'

Rashid grunted. 'Where's Abdullah?'

'In the garage, where the man always is.'

The muddied grey Nissan van was still parked in the middle of the garage floor, and Abdullah sat guard on the wooden packing crate beside it, his pump-action shotgun resting on his lap. He stood as Rashid appeared with Moses Lee.

'We need privacy,' Rashid told Lee. 'Leave us.'

The black man shrugged. 'You're the boss. I'll be in the front room. Need me, just call.'

Lee left, cradling his Heckler and Koch, and Rashid crossed smartly to the Nissan van. Abdullah, seeing the purpose with which Rashid crossed the floor, and his altered appearance, sensed some kind of trouble and said, 'What's wrong?'

'There's something I need.' Rashid took the van keys from his pocket, pressed the alarm keypad, and the Nissan's lights flashed as the central locking disengaged. He swung open the rear doors to reveal the two sealed oil drums, their metal tops locked securely with metal bands. On the floor, attached by the slim cables connected to the drums, was the laptop computer. He climbed into the van with a sense of urgency, ignored the computer and drums, moved towards the back and located a black leather briefcase with brass combination locks.

Alarmed, Abdullah leaned into the van. 'Mohamed — what are you doing?'

'Shut up.' Sweat sparkled on Rashid's temples as he thumbed the combinations on the briefcase and flicked open the locks. Inside was an electronic timer and a twelve-volt battery, one of the flying leads from the timer connected to a detonator, embedded in a thick slab of Semtex plastic explosive. Taped to the corner of the briefcase was a remote control: a small, slim palm-sized black plastic box with a light-emitting diode battery indicator and an on-off switch, to trigger the explosive remotely, if need be, instead of using the timer. Rashid satisfied himself that the wires were not yet attached to the twelve-volt battery, or connected to the timer — that would have been dangerous anywhere near the chemical, but he would make the connections later, before it was time to set off his device. All he had to do now was make his call, and execute his plan. He had made all his preparations weeks before, in case they were necessary.

Fine beads of sweat appeared on Abdullah's upper lip, his face a worried frown. 'Mohamed — what's going on?'

'The Americans are about to learn a harsh lesson.'

7.32 p.m.

The Old Ebbitt Grill on 15th Street is two blocks from the White House. With its elegant nineteenth-century decor, casual atmosphere and private booths, the cosy bar and restaurant is a well-known District haunt, a favourite among theatre-goers, politicians and Secret Service agents alike.

It was just after 7.30 that evening when Nikki arrived at the restaurant. It was buzzing for a Monday night, and she saw at least two politicians at the bar whom she recognised. One of them gave her a wave, and she waved back. A waitress stood at the maitre d's lectern as she approached. 'Can I help you, madam?'

'I'm here to meet Brad Stelman. He's booked us a table for seven-thirty.'

The waitress consulted her booking list, looked up with a friendly smile. 'Of course. If you'd please care to follow me.'

She led Nikki towards the back of the restaurant. Brad Stelman was already waiting, seated in one of the private booths. She had been just about to call him at six that evening as she'd arranged, to see whether he had any information from his air force friend at Andrews, but Stelman had called first. In a whispered tone, he'd asked to meet her urgently, suggested she join him that same evening for dinner at the Old Ebbitt, and before he hung up he told her not to call him back at home for any reason. Curious about why he had wanted to meet in person, and not talk on the telephone, she had left Daniel at her mother's, drove across town and parked her car in the underground lot on 14th Street.

Stelman was casually dressed in an open-necked shirt, jeans and sweater, and he stood when he saw her, smiled and kissed her on the cheek. 'I'm glad you could make it, Nikki.'

Despite the smile, Nikki thought she noticed tension around Stelman's mouth and eyes. 'Is everything OK, Brad?'

'Not exactly,' Stelman said flatly. 'But take a seat, Nikki.'

The waitress offered them menus, took Nikki's coat and left. 'What's wrong, Brad? Why all the secrecy?'

Stelman patted her hand in a friendly gesture, before shaking his head with a worried look. 'How about we order drinks first? I don't know about you, but I could do with a stiff Scotch. Then we'll talk.'

Maryland 6.45 p.m.

'How long have they been dead?'

' 'Bout four hours, we reckon.'

The dark woods a mile off the Maryland Highway were lit up with powerful arc lights. Yellow crime-scene tape was strung around the area, and the headlamps of police vehicles cut through the slanting rain like silvered knives. The Maryland sheriff, a big man with a pot belly and wearing a rain cape, had marched Collins, Kursk and Morgan through the trees until they came to a large, rain-sodden clearing with half a dozen wooden picnic tables, covered with sheets of protective plastic.

Near one of them, a waterproof tarpaulin had been placed over the corpses, and the sheriff had knelt and held it up, then shone his torch on the victims underneath. 'Sure had to be a cold-hearted bastard, whoever did it.'

The two bodies were lying close together. The fair-haired boy looked no more than seventeen; the dark-haired girl by his side even younger. One of the boy's arms lay flailed across the girl's chest, as if he had been trying to protect her. It was a pathetic, bloody sight, both of them machinegunned at close range. Collins' stomach churned, and as Kursk and Morgan studied the corpses he said to the sheriff, 'What about the witness you've got?'

'He's a local, lives in the nearest town. Name's Billy Sinclair. Know him pretty well. He's a forest ranger. Been working these woods here 'bout fifteen years.'

'He's still around?'

'No, sir.' The sheriff shook his head and rain dripped off his hat. 'We sent him home after we took his statement. He was pretty distressed.'

'What exactly did he see and hear?'

'A guy wearing black leathers on a dark blue motorcycle. Maybe a Jap model, but he's not sure. Drove out of the woods at high speed just after Billy heard the shots. Had a satchel, or something like it, hanging around his neck. Dark colour, maybe black.'

'He's sure the motorcyclist was male?'

'Billy seemed pretty certain. Said the person's build didn't look at all like a woman's.'

'Did he get a look at his face?'

'No, sir, the guy had a black helmet on, and the visor was down.'

'You said the witness heard gunshots?'

'Two automatic bursts, one right after the other, that sounded like a machinegun. Less than a minute before the motorcycle sped away.'

'What time?'

"Bout two-thirty. He was just about to head home early.' The sheriff pointed behind him, towards a gap in the trees. 'There's a track over there that leads back to the main road from the picnic area. Billy was about thirty yards in off the track when he saw the motorcyclist shoot past, in a damned big hurry.'

'Did the killer see him?'

'Billy doesn't think so. He found the bodies a couple of minutes later, and got the call to us straight away. We got here within ten minutes, and I had a state-wide bulletin out less than five minutes after that, and passed it on to Virginia and DC.'

'What about the search locally?'

'We've got every available man on the lookout on every highway and minor road in the county for a dark-coloured motorcycle, any make or model, and with the bare description we had of the rider. The same goes for every town in the county within a twenty-mile radius. We even had a chopper up within an hour, doing a thermal check on the woods for miles around in case the guy was hiding out in the area, but so far we've turned up no suspects. Looks like our killer got clean away.'

'Did the witness say if he heard the motorcycle drive into the area? Or anyone else, maybe?',

The sheriff shook his head. 'Says he didn't. But whoever did it could have been here for a time before the shooting.'

'Have your forensic guys finished checking the area?'

'Not yet. The rain hasn't helped, but over there by that picnic bench they found a couple of single tyre marks and some smudged footprints they took mouldings of. It looked like the killer was standing over the bench, or sitting down at it, doing something.'

Collins looked over at the bench. A sheet of white plastic had been placed on the ground beneath it, and held down with stays. 'Anything else?'

'Twelve nine-mil shell casings right near the bodies.'

'You find any traces of fresh food on the bench?'

'Nope, nothing fresh. But there's lots of prints there, for sure, and it's going to take time to lift them all. We get lots of folks passing through, using this area.'

Collins stared down again at the two bodies, then scanned the surroundings. The rain dripped down through the trees; his hair and jacket were drenched. 'OK, we've seen enough for now.'

Kursk and Morgan stepped back and the sheriff let go of the tarpaulin and stood. 'You mind me asking why the Feds are interested?'

Collins moved towards the bench where the sheriff had indicated the tyre marks and footprints had been found. 'No reflection on your men, but I'd like to have our forensic people down to have another look.'

The sheriff looked suddenly irked by the Bureau's intrusion. 'The hell for?'

Collins turned to him. 'Because the deaths could be linked be a serious federal crime. Have the local press been here?'

'Been and gone.'

'The victims' next of kin?'

'We'll keep the parents away until we get the bodies to the morgue. They were too devastated anyway, like you'd expect.'

'One more thing, and it's important. You keep any mention of the Bureau out of the press.'

'Why?'

'Because if the killer gets to hear the Feds are sticking their noses in, it may have serious consequences. You've got to trust me on this. It's vital. A word gets out, it causes big trouble. You better tell your men.'

The sheriff frowned, shrugged. 'OK. Whatever you say.' He nodded towards the forensic van. 'I'll go have a word with my boys. If you need me, holler.'

With another frown, the sheriff moved off into the rain. Morgan said, 'What do you think, Jack?'

Collins scanned the clearing and the picnic benches. 'It's got to be one of them. The timing, not much more than an hour after the Wentworth, and the fact the killer drove a motorcycle. Then there's the automatic weapon, the nine-mil shells. It's just too much coincidence. The kids must have seen the guy's face, or interrupted something. But what? Whoever did this, they didn't stop for a picnic, that's for sure. They had to be up to something, maybe something important. Otherwise, why murder those two kids?' Collins glanced over at the covered teenagers' bodies. Angrily, he turned back to Kursk. 'So much for Gorev not being just another heartless killer. It looks to me like he's overstepped the mark again.'

'You can't be certain it was Gorev who did this.'

'Maybe not. But you can judge a man by the company he keeps. And in Gorev's case, that makes him guilty as sin, even if he didn't pull the damned trigger.' Collins' face was tight as he turned to Morgan. 'Get our forensic guys down here, pronto. Have them go over the scene again with a fine-tooth comb. And we better search the area for any hidden dumps or stashes, see if anything's been dug up around here.'

'Like what?'

'Your guess is as good as mine. Get our WMD guys down as well, with their sniffer equipment. Remind them to be discreet.'

'You think the chemical's been hidden around here?'

'Who knows? Then find me a map of Maryland. The bulletin went out about twenty minutes after the shooting. Whoever it was escaped on the motorcycle, maybe they just got lucky and managed to avoid the net without being spotted. But there's always a chance they had a safe house to go to, somewhere not too far from here.'

The White House 7.25 p.m.