Resurrection Day (53 page)

Vasily Kuzmin slammed down the phone and rose from his desk. Crossing to the window, where snowflakes were brushing against the pane, he put his hands out as if in supplication, gripping either side of the window frame, then leaned forward and touched his throbbing brow to the freezing-cold glass.

The call from the American President had shaken him. First, the President had informed him of the devastation caused by the suicide bomber — a shocking, brutal act. Then he had spoken about the slow progress of the hunt. It was getting nowhere. No strong leads, apart from confirmation of the female terrorist's identity — a Palestinian graduate of Moscow's Patrice Lumumba, no less, and one of its best students.

To make matters even worse, then came the news of Abu Hasim's threat to Moscow on the issue of the prisoner releases — which alarmed Kuzmin so much his palms began to sweat and his heart race. It's over, he convinced himself. The time has come to bomb al-Qaeda's bases to dust.

'Mr Kuzmin,' the American President had said, his voice clear down the secure phone line, 'I know you made perfectly clear your intention to destroy Hasim's camps if he directly threatened Russia. But I'm asking you — pleading with you — to please hold back for now. We still have time to try to change the outcome of the situation.'

'Thirty-six hours is nothing, and even less remains,' Kuzmin replied forcefully, still reeling from the news. 'And your investigation is going nowhere. How can you have hope when there is really none? You are already withdrawing your troops from the Gulf ... '

'Mr Kuzmin, I had no other choice. But it doesn't mean we're defeated. I need you to promise me that you won't attack the bases. And I implore you to help me by releasing the prisoners — '

'I can promise no such thing,' Kuzmin snapped. 'I already spoke with my council. We agreed unanimously that we cannot offer such a release ... '

'But we're faced with a new situation here — a new threat, a new deadline.'

'Which will be urgently discussed by my council this very evening, that I can promise — but I can tell you now that they will never agree to any prisoner release. Never.'

There was a long silence at the other end, and Kuzmin heard the defeated sigh before President Andrew Booth spoke again. 'Mr Kuzmin, I am reluctant to again go down the road of using threats, of using the stick of my country's military might to convince you otherwise. That's not something I want to do, though I may yet be forced to.'

Kuzmin felt enraged again. He knew the Americans could always attempt to shoot down his bombers and risk all-out war, but they couldn't send a raiding party to Moscow and abduct the prisoners. He was about to cut in sharply, but Booth continued, 'However, I'd like to offer a carrot. A proposition, if you like. That in return for Russia holding back on its attack and releasing the prisoners — '

'When will you understand that the prisoner issue is not negotiable?' Kuzmin was still furious. 'As for your threats ... '

'If you'd let me finish? What if, in return, my government offers a moratorium on our country's new missile defence system?'

Kuzmin fell silent. This was bribery of the highest order. The American's 'Star Wars' missile defence system was a massive problem for his government. If the US proceeded with their project it would mean that Russia, in order to ensure her defence, would have to spend billions of roubles trying to build a similar one — roubles it didn't have, and wouldn't have, not for many years, until the Russian economy was firmly on its feet. Kuzmin bit back his ire, let the silence settle a while longer, appreciating that it was a tantalising offer. 'I am tempted to ask for how long.'

'Three years.'

Kuzmin did not reply. He waited for the rest of the carrot, felt certain now that it was coming.

'Furthermore, Mr Kuzmin, your government is at present attempting to secure two major international loans, but with considerable difficulty. I can promise you that difficulty would at once disappear. The loans would be immediately guaranteed by the US government.'

Again, Kuzmin held back his reply. Was there more?

'In addition, you have my solemn promise that the US will desist from criticising your future actions and policies in Chechnya.'

Kuzmin pursed his lips. These were bold gestures, and very tempting, but would they be enough to sway his council? 'Mr President, again, I can promise nothing. My council must consider these ... propositions of yours, along with everything else that has transpired. These are serious matters, and will take time.'

'I understand, Mr Kuzmin. But I need their response today. By midnight, Washington time, at the very latest. Otherwise, I can't make the deadline of the prisoner releases. Can you at least promise me that?'

'Very well. You shall have a final answer before then.'

Kuzmin let the coldness of the glass chill the headache brewing inside his skull. He reflected on the conversation with Andrew Booth, and the questions it raised. What use was a moratorium on the missile defence issue if Abu Hasim succeeded, and then embarked on his plan to tear apart the Russian Federation? And if the prisoners were released, wouldn't the public outrage be enormous? Was such a deal worthwhile, if, as one of his own cabinet had suggested, it led to Kuzmin's own downfall?

Then there was the even more serious problem of Hasim's threat to deploy a nerve-gas device in Moscow if his bases were attacked. But what if Hasim were bluffing? What if he hadn't got another bomb in Moscow, or anywhere near it, and his threat was completely empty?

For several moments he reflected on Andrew Booth's dilemma. The man was desperate — the gestures he had offered were those of either a foolish man or an extreme optimist, or both. Kuzmin sympathised with Booth's plight, but he had his own country, his own people and his own agenda to consider, and they would take precedence. Still, the matter would have to be put to the vote.

Finally, he stood back from the icy glass, crossed to his desk and made a private phone call to the head of the FSB that lasted no more than three minutes. When he had replaced the receiver, he buzzed his private secretary.

'Mr President?'

'Arrange a security council meeting for eight-thirty this evening. Here, in the Kremlin. Do it promptly, Leonid. It's an extremely urgent matter.'

Chesapeake

Gorev turned on to the Chesapeake Beach road. They were three miles from Winston Bay and the rain had started to fall in a drizzle, coming in off the sea. Towards the southern end of the town, he swung in off the road and drove into the parking lot of a supermarket and liquor store. He switched off the engine, doused the lights. When Karla had climbed off, he removed his helmet, dismounted and scanned the road behind them.

'Did you see anything?' Karla asked.

For the last ten miles they'd stuck to the minor roads, taking every precautionary measure they could before swinging back on to the highway again. It was rush hour; the traffic had started to thicken as commuters began their journeys home from DC, and for most of the way there had been a fair number of vehicles on the roads, but Gorev had been able to weave in and out of the traffic. 'I'm almost sure I spotted a motorcycle behind us a few miles back, with a pick-up truck close behind, but I'm reasonably certain we lost them both.'

Karla took off her helmet and looked back along the road. 'I don't like it, Nikolai. What if it was the police or FBI?'

'They'd be a lot more professional, and by now they'd have had helicopters up, tracking us. No, my instinct tells me it's Visto.'

'But why would he have us followed?'

'A man like him puts his faith in no one but himself. I'd take a guess that he thought it might be prudent to try to find out a little more about who he's dealing with. Not that you'd blame a criminal for that, but it makes me wonder if he might get up to something more devious.'

'Like what?'

Gorev shook his head. 'God knows. Trying to cheat us in some way, or look for more money for his goods. We'll have to be on our toes when we take delivery of the truck and equipment tonight.'

'What if he goes to the police?'

'If Ishim said he won't, I think you can count on it.'

As Gorev started to mount the Honda, his face twisted in pain.

'What's wrong?'

'My side's acting up a little. It's nothing. I'll change the dressing when we get back.'

He saw the worry in Karla's eyes, put a hand gently to her face. 'Don't worry, I'm fine, I promise.' He pulled his helmet on as the rain started to come down more heavily. 'Now, let's get out of here and back to the cottage before we're both drenched.'

Ricky Cortez was livid. He swore as he pulled the pick-up in off the beach road at Chesapeake, the rain sluicing down. He'd driven up and down the road at least half a dozen times and seen no sign of the Honda or its passengers.

The Goldwing purred to a halt beside him, the rider climbed off, and seconds later the car drew up, Ronnie in the passenger seat, Hector driving. Ricky got out of the pick-up in a rage, strode over to Hector's car and lashed out with his boot, denting the door. 'You fucking assholes blind, or what?'

'Hey, watch my fucking car! I still got fucking repayments to make, man.'

'Fuck your car, and fuck you.' Ricky pulled a snub-nosed .38 revolver from his pocket, stuck it in through the window and up against Hector's nose. 'I told you on the phone to keep close behind. I told you to take the lead when me and the Goldwing had to drop behind. But no, you fucking lost them. You pair of assholes got any idea what Benny's going to do when I go back and tell him?'

'Hey, Ricky, go easy with the gun, man. There was too much traffic back there, we couldn't keep tagging them. The guy was doing some pretty fast weaving and I didn't have no fucking rocket strapped to my ass to keep up with him, man.'

Ricky, drenched by the rain, gritted his teeth, stepped back, kicked the car again. This time Hector kept his mouth shut, knowing Ricky's savage moods and where they could lead. The motorcycle rider started to move back to the Goldwing. Ricky turned on him. 'Where the fuck do you think you're going?'

'I thought we was going back home, man ... '

'The fuck we are. We ain't finished yet. We're going to spread out, keep our eyes open. Try and catch up with these mothers again, even if we're out all fucking night, getting pissed on. I'll take the road south — you take the one back north.' He snarled at Hector and Ronnie, 'You two fucking assholes head inland. Anybody sees the dude and his bitch, they get in touch straight away, you hear?'

Washington, DC 13 November 11.55 a.m.

Nikki woke with a blinding headache. The room was a blur, her mind groggy as she tried to take in her surroundings. Then slowly her senses began to recover.

Her left arm throbbed. She saw that the lower part was heavily bandaged, and when she put her right hand to her brow she felt the dressing around her forehead. Her face and eyes seemed swollen, and a couple of drips fed into her left arm. She could remember the blast, the wall of heat and flame bursting towards the restaurant, could remember being blown off her feet by the incredible force, holding on to Daniel's hand, Jack beside her ... and then blackness.

'Daniel ... !' Her son's name came out in a scream as she was overcome by an appalling feeling of dread, her eyes filling with tears. What had happened to him? Was he alive, was he dead? 'Daniel ... !'

The next moment a nurse's friendly face was leaning over her, checking one of the drips in her arm. 'It's OK, honey. Your little boy's being looked after. You just rest for now. How are you feeling?'

'Where's my son?' Nikki dug her fingers desperately into the woman's hand. 'I want to see him now. Where is he? What's happened to him?'

The nurse gently prised Nikki's hand away, her voice full of concern. 'The doctor's going to talk to you about Daniel, honey. I'll go get him right away.'

The White House 1.05 p.m.

Harry Judd stood in the centre of the Oval Office, hands on his hips, watching patiently as a Secret Service agent used a hand-held electronic detector to scour the room: checking the walls, the furniture, every item of equipment, the portraits on the walls, even the President's chair, desk and phones. After five minutes, the man switched off the device. 'Nada, as usual, Harry. We're squeaky clean.'

Judd had already checked the situation room. Every phone and socket, every wall, every chair. The table, the floors, the ceiling, the sound system, the TV monitors — every inch of wood and plaster, every single nook and cranny. All negative, as Judd had expected. But that didn't mean a bug hadn't been planted, which was a worrying option he had to consider.

Someone could have installed an ESID, removed it before the Secret Service carried out their electronic countermeasures, and then reinstalled it again afterwards. Except for that to happen someone had to have intimate knowledge of exactly when the rooms would be scanned, and that, Judd knew, would be pretty much impossible. Apart from the deliberate irregularity of the countermeasure sweeps, a number of people — from the Director all the way down to Judd himself — could order a specific room, or the entire mansion and its wings, swept on a whim or the merest suspicion.

No, he was pretty certain the rooms were clean. Which means that whoever the source is, they aren't getting their information using electronic means.

Judd nodded to his colleague. 'OK, Chuck, give it one more sweep, just to be absolutely certain. Then pack up.'

The man frowned. 'Are we looking for something in particular, Harry?'

Judd shook his head. That information he kept secret.

Washington, DC 12.20 p.m.

Collins woke. He'd slept fitfully, tossed and turned, his sleep disturbed by nightmares. When he checked his watch, he realised he'd been asleep for only four hours. He got out of bed, his legs feeling like jelly for the first few steps to the apartment living room. If he'd been able to think about it, he would have marvelled at the fact that he was still functional after only four hours' sleep in thirty-six. But what his mind didn't know his body did: he still felt shaky, on the verge of collapse.