Resurrection Day (55 page)

Vladimir Lazarev's office was bristling with activity when he led Kursk in. There was an air of controlled panic as a couple of embassy clerks grabbed armfuls of documents from Lazarev's filing cabinets and stacking them on trolleys out in the hall.

'You'll have to excuse us, Major. Things are rather hectic. Leave us, please.' Lazarev snapped his fingers, dismissing the clerks, then closed his door to ensure their privacy, gesturing Kursk to a seat.

'What brings you here, Major?' Lazarev, the First Secretary, was a Muscovite, a thin handsome man with busy blond eyebrows and a fondness for expensive Western suits. 'If I'm not mistaken, the agreement was that you passed me your information over our secure phone line?'

'I needed to discuss something urgent, in person.'

'You couldn't have chosen a worse time. It's bedlam here. So what is it, Kursk? Has there been a fresh development in the hunt?'

'I'm afraid not.' Kursk glanced towards Lazarev's filing-cabinet drawers. Several were pulled open, and stacks of files were lying on the floor. There was still bustle in the hallway outside, the sounds of staff moving trolleys along the corridor. 'You mind me asking what's going on?'

For a second or two Lazarev studied him as if he were completely mad, then he lit a Camel cigarette from a packet on his desk. 'In case you hadn't realised it, Kursk, there are less than twenty-four hours to the new deadline. For safety reasons, we're moving our staff and their families to our consulates in San Francisco and New York, along with important embassy documents. Too many things can go wrong, especially at this late stage. And Abu Hasim is a madman. Even if all his demands are satisfied, it wouldn't be beyond him to detonate his device.'

'Surely the press will get to hear of this?'

Lazarev shook his head, drew anxiously on his cigarette. 'No one working in this building is privy to what's really happening, except the ambassador and myself. Our Russian staff have been informed that important building work is being carried out over the next few weeks. We also spun them a story that there's been a security leak of epic proportions, and the embassy and their private homes will be swept for electronic listening devices. Naturally, they were instructed to keep the entire matter completely secret. It's caused a fair amount of upset, but it's as good an excuse as any, I suppose, and they may yet be grateful their lives were saved. Anyway, what can I do for you? You said it was urgent.'

Kursk explained. When he had finished, Lazarev's eyebrows rose and he stubbed out his cigarette. 'What the devil are you up to, Kursk?'

'I thought I made myself clear.'

Lazarev sighed. 'You're grasping at straws, Major. And isn't it a bit late in the day? If you had more time, perhaps it might be a worthwhile hunch to explore. But we're fast approaching the end of the line.'

'Can you help me?'

Lazarev shrugged, picked up his phone. 'Our resident SVR officer is Colonel Gromulko. He knows this city like the back of his hand, and anyone of importance. Let me give him a call.' Lazarev buzzed an internal number, spoke for a few moments, then replaced the receiver. 'Gromulko will see you in his office. I'll take you up there. But I have the feeling you're wasting your energy.' He wrote a number on a slip of paper, stood. 'If there's any change in the situation, or you run into trouble, call this secure number at our New York office. The line's manned around the clock. They'll pass on any message you have, directly to Moscow.'

Kursk rose. 'When do you leave?'

'We'll have the building emptied by six p.m. I'm booked on a flight to Moscow, leaving two hours later, along with the ambassador — the story is we've been recalled for urgent talks about our security leak. Our families flew out late this morning. I'm afraid I don't have much faith that this whole nasty business will have an agreeable outcome. Either way, and with a deranged lunatic like Abu Hasim involved, the feeling I get from Moscow is that it could turn into a massive human catastrophe, especially after what happened last night. So I think it's wise I get as far away from here as I can, don't you?' Lazarev's face was bleak as he led his visitor to the door. 'If you have any sense, Kursk, you'll do the same.'

Chesapeake 6.40 p.m.

Karla lay in the dark, listening to the rain outside. The window was open, moonlight flitting into the bedroom from between charcoal clouds, flashes of fork lightning far out on the bay. She heard the door open and Nikolai stood there. He said softly, 'Can I come in?'

'If you want.'

Her hair was tousled and there was something childlike about her face in the lunar light as Gorev went to sit on the end of the bed. He noticed that her eyes were wet. 'What's really the matter, Karla? Are you angry, hurt in some way?'

She shook her head. 'Just frightened.'

'Why?'

'What Rashid did last night, it's like a bad omen, as if there's much worse to come. More senseless death. More destruction.'

'Karla, that's just superstitious. You Arabs ... '

'No, it's more than that, goes deeper. Maybe I've suddenly realised everything about this is deadly serious. Now it's not a game any more. But it's not only that that makes me afraid. I have the feeling we're both doomed, no matter what the outcome. That I'll never see Josef again. But what can we expect? People like you and me, we can never escape our past.'

'What do you mean?'

'If you kill someone, or harm them, you pay a price for the wrong you do. It's a different price for different people. It doesn't matter if the killing or the wrong is just or unjust, you still pay the price. And there are a dozen currencies you can pay in. You might end up tainted or infected by the very people you hate. Or perhaps you are haunted by what you've done, or end up paying with your own life. I learned that lesson when my husband was killed. It was the price he'd paid for the wrongs he did for his cause. Just as I'm paying now for what I did.'

'And how do you think you'll pay for this?'

'I don't know. I hide behind my fragile piece of armour, telling myself that I had to do it, if only for Josef's sake.'

'I believe in what I'm doing. That's my armour.'

'And that's where we're different, Nikolai. But believe me, we'll both pay.'

'You want to forget about all this? Get out while you can?'

'Somehow I think it's gone too far for that. Where could I run?'

She tried to tell him everything, her fears, even her secret, but the words wouldn't come. What was the point? She had kept her silence for so long.

'What is it, Karla?'

She shook her head. 'Nothing.'

'You're not telling me the truth.' He saw it in her face then, a terrible fear, and it made her look very young and vulnerable. He touched her cheek, looked into her eyes. 'My poor Karla.' Her arms went around his neck and she held him tightly. He moved under the covers beside her, and she pulled him close for warmth and comfort, and then suddenly, for no reason at all that made any kind of sense, she was crying, a deep sobbing that racked her whole body. 'Karla, what is it?'

She didn't reply for a moment and then she said, 'Do you want to know why I agreed to help Rashid?'

'Only if you want to tell me.'

She told him, and she was still crying when she had finished. In the darkness Gorev's face was white with anger, and then he whispered, 'It's all right, Karla. It's all right.'

He stroked her hair until her tears stopped. Then he held her gently, silent in the dark, until she finally fell asleep.

Washington, DC 7.45 p.m.

In the corner booth of a strip bar on 14th Street, wearing his Ray-Bans and sipping malt whisky, Benny Visto watched as two young women danced naked on a tiny stage. 'Good ass on that new chick.'

Frankie, beside him, swilled a beer. 'Want me to ask her over, Benny?'

Visto shook his head. 'Seems like little Ricky's back.'

The bar door had opened and Ricky Cortez appeared, looking like a drowned rat, his hair and clothes drenched as he dashed in from the rain. He saw Visto and Frankie, gave a nod, and scurried over to join them in the booth.

'Fuck you been doing, man?' Frankie grinned. 'Someone dump you in the Potomac?'

'It ain't funny, Frankie. So shut the fuck up.' Cortez gave Frankie a stare, then looked at Visto, the stare gone, replaced by fear. 'We lost them, Benny. The cunts disappeared. We followed them all the way to fucking Chesapeake. They twigged us — it was Hector and Ronnie's fault. That's the last time I work with those pair of assholes. They couldn't follow a fucking truck in two feet of snow.'

Visto put down his drink. 'You've displeased me, Ricky.' Slowly, he removed his Ray-Bans. 'Sent you on a job and you messed up. Warned you about that.'

Ricky saw Visto's eyes narrow, a look that Frankie liked to call the 'laser stare', always a sure sign of trouble. 'Benny, listen, I swear ... '

Visto gave him a stinging slap across the face. The Cuban reeled back in the booth, clapping a hand on his jaw.

'Mess up again and you and me's going to have to part company. So just listen good. Man that I am, I'm going to give you a second chance. To redeem yourself, so to speak.' Visto took a map from his inside pocket and unfolded a sheet of paper on which was a hand-drawn diagram. 'Frankie here, now he's been more productive. Took a drive out to Piedmont, where we make the delivery, checked it out good. Made sure we're not walking into anything we can't handle. Man even drew us a diagram.' Visto stabbed the map with a finger. 'You know this place, Ricky?'

'Yeah, I know the crossroads.'

'What I want you to do is go get Hector again. Man might be useless at tailing but he's ace with a gun. Grab yourselves a couple of the silenced submachineguns we got stashed in his place. Get Ronnie, too, I'll want him to drive the van.' Visto again traced a finger on the diagram. 'Then take your pick-up and drive out past the forest, park a hundred yards beyond the entrance to the track, right here, in off the road. Make your way back to the clearing, right about here. Stay hidden in the woods and keep well out of sight. Be there by nine-thirty at least, an hour before the meet. If anyone shows up, you and Hector make fucking sure you keep your heads down and call me, otherwise just wait for me and Frankie to arrive. Got that?'

A slow grin spread across Ricky's face. 'I got it, Benny. What about the van?'

'Ronnie, he'll be at the wheel. We'll have the uniforms and stuff stashed in the back. Me, I'll be in Frankie's car. Ronnie will stick to our ass, but a safe enough distance behind in case the cops pull him over and find all the guns and shit.'

'So what happens?'

'Me and Frankie'll get to the clearing bang on time. I do the business and get the dude's cash. When it's time to boogie I'll shout, and you and Hector come out and cover him and whoever he's with. Leave the rest to me.' Visto handed Ricky the diagram. 'Better take this, make sure you know what you're doing. Give me a call on Frankie's car phone half an hour before the meet, let me know you're in place and everything's cool.' Visto fixed Ricky with another of his laser stares. 'No fuck-ups this time, Ricky, you dig?'

'Got it, Benny. For sure.' Ricky took the diagram, a vicious smile on his face at the thought of what lay ahead, then sidled out of the booth and headed for the door. Frankie drained his beer. 'What you gonna do if the dude don't play ball, Benny?'

Visto's jaw tightened with malice. 'Him and that bitch of his, they're gonna wish they never heard of Benny Visto, that's for sure.'

Washington, DC 2.30 p.m.

The restaurant off Dupont Circle specialised in Mediterranean food. The walls were covered with the usual photo gallery of famous Hollywood stars — Pacino, De Niro, Pesci — with a couple of limelight politicians, baseball players and Italian opera singers thrown in.

Seven years earlier the former Tuscan owner had sold the place lock, stock, and barrel, and retired to Miami to lie on the beach. The new owner — a thickset, muscular man in his early forties, with Slavic cheekbones, a limp and a badly fitting wig — had kept the photographs, the Mediterranean menu, and most of the clientele.

That afternoon, at precisely 2.30, he was behind the bar checking some till receipts when the phone rang on the wall outside the kitchen. When he picked it up, the male caller didn't give a name, but he recognised the voice. A minute later the owner was in a foul mood as he put down the phone, pulled on his coat, then went into the kitchen and beckoned his chef. 'I've got to go out for an hour. Look after the place.'

'Where are you going, boss?'

'Mind your own fucking business.'

Washington, DC 2.45 p.m.

The park on Church Street, five minutes' walk from Dupont Circle, was empty that afternoon, apart from a few vagrants sitting on the benches, or wrapped up in sleeping bags to keep out the cold. Kursk was seated on one of the benches under a birch tree, dead leaves blowing around his feet.

He looked up as the man approached. The limp and badly fitting wig that were Viktor Suslov's trademarks were offset by an expensive suit and camel-hair overcoat. He sat down beside Kursk, but didn't offer his hand. 'It's been a long time, Major. Ten years at least.'

'I see you've finally bought yourself a decent suit, Viktor. Life must be good.'

Suslov shrugged. 'I can't complain.'

'Colonel Gromulko tells me you've done well since you quit working the black markets back home. A half-dozen restaurants. An import-export business. A wholesale jewellery outfit, to name but a few. I could go on, but the rest of it's highly illegal.'

Suslov grinned, lit a cigarette, cupping a gold lighter in his hands. 'Business is business. And besides, it's a lot more civilised here — the competition's less brutal. You have a falling out with someone and they don't throw a rubber tyre around your neck and set it alight with petrol, like the hard men in Moscow.' Suslov cocked his head. 'You're a long way from FSB Headquarters, Kursk. So what brings you to this neck of the woods?'

'I'm looking for a man, and I need your help. Or didn't Gromulko tell you?'

Suslov grimaced, shook his head. 'That bastard at the embassy told me nothing, except to meet you. He's the kind who can make life difficult if you don't keep in his favour. This man you're looking for, is he Moscow mafia?'

'No, but he's Russian. Half-Russian to be precise.'

'And the other half?'

'Chechen.'

Suslov sucked on his cigarette, tapped some ash. 'We don't get too many of those around these parts. A few, but most of them prefer to hang out over in Little Russia, New Jersey. You've heard of the place?'

'Yes, I've heard of it.'

'A lot of old hands from the Moscow underworld operate out of there. Russians, Chechens, Georgians, you name them, and into anything you'd care to mention — diamond smuggling, prostitution, drugs. So what's this man done? Killed someone? Run off with the Tsar's jewels?'

'I can't tell you that, Suslov. But he's an old friend. Someone whose welfare I'm concerned about. The man's name is Nikolai Gorev. He's been wounded and he's in trouble and I want to help.'

'And you think I can help you find him?'

'You've got connections. Our embassy friend assured me of that.'

'If you've got a name, why don't you go to the police?'

'The FBI are already involved. But I need to find Gorev before they do.'

'I don't understand.'

'You don't have to. Just that I need to find him, fast. I'm talking hours, not days. How many Russian and Chechen mobsters do you know of on the East Coast?'

Suslov shrugged. 'Close to a dozen big names.'

'Such as?'

'Dimitri Zavarzin, the diamond smuggler, and Matvei Yudenich, the big drugs tsar, to name but two. They flit between here and Russia to do their business. You probably ran into them back in Moscow.'

Kursk nodded. The FSB often had the unpleasant task of keeping Russia's gangland bosses in check, foiling their illegal operations, confiscating their property, and arresting their men. 'Yudenich is a nasty piece of work. A psychopath. He threatened to shoot me once, after I ruined one of his heroin deals.'

'Then you'll understand that people like Yudenich and the rest of them don't take kindly to enquiries from men like you. I can give you their names, how to contact them, sure, and you can go ask them, but if you take my advice you won't go messing with that lot. They'd have a tyre round your neck as quick as look at you.'

'I won't be doing the asking, Suslov. You will.'

'You must be fucking joking.'

Kursk shook his head. 'Make the calls and put the word around. Concentrate first off on the people who matter, the big mobsters, then work you way down the list. Give Gorev's name and explain what I told you. See if you get a reaction. Mention me by name if you really have to.'

'I could be nailing myself in a coffin doing that. There are mobsters I know who'd take the greatest pleasure in bumping off a nosey FSB officer, or anyone who's doing their bidding. What the fuck's in it for me?'

'A solemn promise. Gromulko tells me there's a file on you as thick as his arm. Crooked dealings with that import-export business of yours that the Russian tax authorities and Moscow police would like to chat with you about. Do as I ask and the file vanishes. Don't, and you'll be in cuffs and on a plane back to Moscow by nine o'clock tonight, helped on your way by the FBI'

Suslov's mouth was tight with resentment.

'There's a number where you can reach me.' Kursk handed him a slip of paper. 'I'll expect your call no later than six o'clock.'

'That only gives me three fucking hours. What if I can't find this guy?'

'I don't think you want to know the answer to that, Suslov.'

Washington, DC 3.05 p.m.