Resurrection Day (41 page)

'The one thing you can't do is criticise him. That's imperative. Tell Abu Hasim he's wrong, call him a crazy sonofabitch or a terrorist lunatic, and you risk blowing what may be our only chance of dialogue clear out of the water.'

Professor Janet Stern put down her coffee cup, leaned towards the President. His anxiety was obvious; there were dark rings under his eyes from lack of sleep. He wasn't sitting at his Oval Office desk, made from salvaged oak timbers from HMS Resolute, but on one of the couches, Stern perched beside him. The President's closest advisers were all back in the room, seated in a semicircle around the couch, along with the CIA's Franklyn Young.

'We're not exactly asking you to lick ass.' Stern gave a tiny flicker of a smile, and carried on. 'Though I guess it's coming close to it. But the idea here is to get a dialogue going. The first few minutes of contact are obviously vital, so any criticism of him on your part is going to be a negative. It's going to make Abu Hasim hostile, get his back up, make him even more determined to carry out his threat. So you've got to be very careful not to incite him by saying the wrong thing.'

'Janet's right, Mr President,' Franklyn Young added. 'We can't afford to balls this up. It's maybe the one chance we're going to get.'

'So what do I say to him? How do I approach this?'

'You tell him what he needs to be told. Like we told Paul earlier ... ' Stern glanced briefly at Paul Burton. 'Basically, you tell Hasim he's right. That you agree he's got a legitimate grievance. That you want to help him alleviate that grievance and achieve his aims. That you're taking him seriously and making progress in meeting his demands. But that you want to do this thing together. That way, maybe you have a chance of getting some kind of dialogue going. Try any other tack, like blaming him for the monstrous situation he's created, and I can guarantee the conversation will go nowhere.'

'You really think your kind of approach will work?'

'I can't guarantee it, Mr President. But you've got to trust us on this one. Abu Hasim's a terrorist. But he's also a zealot with a massive ego who believes he's got God on his side, and that he's the Arabs' saviour. You've got to stroke his ego. Tell him he's everything he thinks he is, right from the start, and he won't see you as antagonistic or threatening. You've also got to remember that Hasim's most prominent personality trait is that he's a loner. Loneliness can give terrorists a superiority complex. Zealots are prone to the same delusion. That same superiority complex causes them to believe they're a law unto themselves. In Abu Hasim's mind, crazed as it is, he's convinced of his own righteousness in threatening to destroy Washington. Absurd as it sounds, you've got to go along with that.'

The President was doubtful. 'If the guy's that far gone, what kind of hope do we have?'

'Very little. But it's all we've got. The important thing to remember is that you've got to try and use Hasim's traits to our advantage. As the guy's a loner, you've got to try and be his friend. Show him you're the person who can help him achieve his objective, find a solution to his problem. Flatter him. Play up to his opinion of himself as an Arab saviour. Try to use a soft, non-threatening tone of voice. And never give him the impression you don't take him seriously. That would be deadly.'

The President quickly jotted down some notes on a pad by his side. He was conscious, like everyone else in the room, of the excruciating, rising tension, now that a live communication with Hasim was imminent. It had taken over thirty minutes to get Janet Stern and Franklyn Young to the meeting in the Oval Office. Less than fourteen minutes remained before the 8 p.m. deadline.

'Anything else?'

'Hasim's going to have a hard-on because he knows that he's got America by the balls,' Young advised. 'So he's going to feel all-powerful. We're hoping that might require him to let off some steam, to express his grievances, to get some anger out of his system. If that happens, that's your chance to gently agree with him, to flatter him and try and get on his side.'

'There's one other thing,' Stern added. 'And it's vitally important. Franklyn and I both agree that at the start, it's better you use an intermediary, and don't talk to Hasim directly.'

'Why the hell not?'

'Two good reasons,' Franklyn Young interrupted. 'One, you put a wall between you and the guy, which gives us time to think out our replies. In Hasim's mind, you're the man who can give him exactly what he wants, so you're the last person who should talk with him directly. The one thing you don't want to do is put yourself in a position where he can force you into a yes-or-no situation. That would mean we can't stall for time. You'd have no room to think, you'd have to reply immediately. And that's our second reason — our objectives here are to gain more time to help us find the nerve gas, and to try to negotiate with him. By using an intermediary, Hasim can't come at you head-on, so you've got a slight advantage.'

The President pursed his lips, still looked doubtful.

'It's a standard ploy used in hostage situations, Mr President,' Stern offered. 'A strategy that's known to get results. It keeps the hostage-taker tied up in dialogue with the negotiator, which gives us breathing space to work out our response and our strategy. That way, we gain time, and can try to steer the conversation in the direction we want it to go.'

'Except we're not talking about some criminal taking hostages in a bank heist. We're talking about an insane terrorist holding the lives of half a million people to ransom, for Christ's sake.'

'Exactly the same principles apply, Mr President. If the terrorist asks for something immediately, a negotiator can always stall him, tell him he has to refer to a greater authority to get him what he wants. And again, time is important here. It's a well-known fact that terrorists or hostage-takers become less and less sure of themselves as time goes by. In Abu Hasim's case, my hope would be that an intermediary may help make him feel a little less certain and in control. That's a situation we may be able to exploit to our advantage.'

'OK, we try it your way. So who do we use?'

'Normally, we'd be inclined to go for an older man,' Janet Stern replied. 'Someone even tempered, a listener, someone who'd enhance Hasim's sense of confidence, who might be seen as a kind of father figure. But Hasim had a love-hate relationship with his old man, so I'm not sure that strategy would work. And a younger man is out of the question — he might be seen as a threat, or as someone totally inconsequential, an insult even.' Stern looked at the faces gathered around her, and her gaze settled on Bob Rapp, the President's bearded press adviser.

'We thought Bob Rapp might be suitable. His name is well known internationally, and he's been a highly respected journalist as well as being seen as a man of influence and authority, someone who's considered to be very close to you personally. He's also slightly older than Hasim, but certainly not old enough to be thought by him as a fatherly figure. We also think he's got the right type of personality. Would you be prepared to accept the role of negotiator, Mr Rapp?'

Rapp was stunned. 'Of ... of course. If that's what the President wants.'

'Is Bob acceptable to you, Mr President?'

The President nodded. 'Yes, he is. What about the incident at the apartment block? How do we play it? What excuse do we give?'

'Our best advice is to tell Hasim the truth. Or should I say the kind of truth that may mitigate any anger he might want to express. Tell him a mistake was made, but that you had no choice in ignoring his advice, that you had a half-million lives to protect. That surely he would have done the same if he was in your position. Then you tell him it won't happen again. That you're considering calling off the hunt for his cell.'

'But that's impossible,' the President retorted.

'Of course it is.' Stern pushed away her coffee cup. 'But remember, we're only buying time, Mr President. And attempting to get a dialogue going. There's no way you're going to call off the hunt, we all know that. Maybe Hasim will know it too. But you've simply got to tell him what he wants to hear. It's the only hope we have of moving this thing in the direction we want to go.'

'Very well. Anything else?'

'I'm pretty sure there's lots.' Young glanced at his watch. 'But it's all we've got time for, sir. Besides, if we keep going, you're going to get swamped. Keep it to what we've already told you. And we'll be right by your side during the transmission, ready to give you any advice we can.'

The President, conscious of the passing time, looked away from the two psychologists towards the others. 'I'm presuming Hasim may want to speak in Arabic. How are we handling that?'

'We've got two senior State Department interpreters, experts in Arabic, standing by in the situation room, Mr President,' Paul Burton replied. 'They're going to work in relays. Each time Hasim pauses to let us translate, one interpreter will give us the translation while the other takes over. That way, we'll have time to consider our response. We'll also be recording Hasim's words on tape, and have the recorder hooked up to a computer that will analyse his voice for stress and tension levels. And I'll have a line kept open to Vice-President Havers, so he can listen in on the entire conversation. God forbid, should anything go wrong and Hasim decides to trigger the device, the vice-president will know about it immediately, and can assume presidential authority.'

The President nodded, then anxiously glanced through his notes and jotted a couple more, before looking up. 'How much longer have we got?'

'Four minutes.' Paul Burton, checking his watch, licked his lips with apprehension.

Everyone in the room started as a knock came on the door. Burton opened it, and General Horton almost burst into the room. 'My apologies for interrupting, Mr President. But we're all set to go. We've patched the satellite link into the situation room. Everything's ready for you to talk with Abu Hasim.'

Washington, DC 7.35 p.m.

'There's something going down, Nikki. Something weird.'

Nikki looked across as Brad Stelman raised his Scotch to his lips. The dining booth at the Old Ebbitt Grill was private enough for them not to be overheard, but there was such a buzz of conversation around them that no one could have eavesdropped. Stelman finished sipping his Scotch and put down his glass. Nikki had barely touched the Coke she'd ordered. 'What exactly do you mean?'

'I did like I said. Called my buddy who's a senior public affairs officer over at Andrews. Chewed the cud for a while, even arranged a squash game with him for next month. Then I pretended it was me who was at Reagan this morning and mentioned all the heavy military traffic. Asked him, very casually, what it might be about.'

'And?'

'That's when I get the first click in the back of my head that tells me something's wrong.'

'Wrong in what way?'

'Normally, the guy's pretty talkative. But as soon as I started asking questions about the Reagan traffic, I could almost feel him backing off over the phone. Like he didn't want to go there.'

Stelman was silent as a waitress appeared with the food they'd ordered: a steak and a smoked-chicken salad. When she had left, he carried on, both of them ignoring their food. 'So I persisted, kept asking. Then he says sure, he knows about it. The Reagan thing's all part of an exercise. Just standard military stuff, nothing to get worked up about. So I tell him I'm still doing some freelancing, apart from my job with the Met, and if I could talk to someone who might fill me in a little more, maybe I could even write a piece on it.'

'What did he say?'

'That he'd find out what he could and get straight back to me.'

'Did he?'

'No. But half an hour later, something else happens that makes me hear another click.'

'What?'

'I get a call from the Commissioner asking me to see him in his office. When I go in, he's all pally at first. Then he mentions he had a call from one of the senior brass he knows at Andrews. He'd heard about my enquiry into the exercise, wanted to know what it was about. He also wanted to know what was I doing moonlighting as a reporter when I was working for the Met. So I told the Comish what I told my officer buddy, gave him the same spiel. Told him I thought I'd try to keep my hand in with the newspapers, maybe write the odd story here and there. The Comish listens, all polite, then he says: "Brad, let me give you some advice, both as a friend and a boss. Forget about writing some piece on this military exercise. Forget about moonlighting as a reporter. The way I see it, either you're working for the Met, or you're not.'"

Stelman took another sip of Scotch. 'Then he goes on about what a fine job I was doing. About how he wouldn't like to lose me, see me fuck up. But that he had certain rules to uphold, and one of those rules meant you couldn't compromise yourself by doing outside work that might involve a conflict of interest with my job. And the way he saw it, any kind of reporting was a conflict of interest'

Stelman looked across at her. 'Of course, it's total bullshit, Nikki. Maybe he had a legitimate point about me reporting on the side, but I know the Comish — he's not one to tell you what to do in your spare time. Except now he's giving me a veiled warning. Telling me not to go poking my nose in somewhere it's not wanted. To back off.'

'But back off from what?'

Stelman shook his head. 'I haven't the foggiest, Nikki. But whatever it is, it's got the Comish rattled. I could see the guy was uncomfortable, maybe even troubled about something. Besides, there's no way he'd come down hard on me the way he did if it was something harmless. And no way my friend at Andrews would see fit to inform his superior about rny enquiry if we were just talking about a harmless military exercise, that's for sure. There's got to be a lot more to this.'

'What did you tell the Commissioner?'

'What he wanted to hear. That it wouldn't happen again, that I'd forget about the story. Which he seemed pretty relieved about.' Stelman took another mouthful of Scotch, put down his glass, and Nikki saw his hand tremble. 'But then this evening something else happened. Something that really jinxed me. That's so weird, I just had to tell you.'

'What happened?'

'You're really going to think this is crazy, Nikki.'

Stelman was pale. Nikki frowned. 'Tell me.'

And Stelman told her.

Maryland 8.15 p.m.