Resurrection Day (65 page)

It was very still in the warehouse, the silence overpowering. Ishim Razan's face was carved in stone, his shock total. For a few agonising moments the Chechen looked white as death, as if a terrible truth had dawned. The impact had sunk in, but he was still thunderstruck.

'I said you wouldn't believe me.'

Razan was at a loss for words. He flinched, as if he'd received a physical blow, managed to whisper hoarsely, 'You've told me everything?'

'Everything I know.'

The warehouse door slid open, a blast of icy air gusting into the room, and one of Razan's bodyguards stepped in from the cold. 'My pardon, Ishim, but Yudenich's men want to know when you'll be finished — '

'When I'm ready,' Razan almost barked. 'Tell them I'm not to be disturbed again.'

'Yes, Ishim.'

The man left. Razan stepped over to Kursk. His fingers trembled as he undid the ropes around his hands. 'So help me, I don't know why, but I believe you.'

'Then tell me what you know.' Kursk massaged his wrists, undid the ropes around his ankles.

'Two days ago, Gorev and a woman came to see me.'

'What was the woman's name?'

'Safa Yassin. Or so she claimed. But later Nikolai told me otherwise. He said her name was Karla. A Palestinian.'

'Why did they come to you?' Kursk stood, his pulse quickening.

'Nikolai was wounded. He stayed one night with me and left yesterday morning.'

'Was he badly wounded?'

'Enough to require a surgeon. He was bleeding heavily, a stomach wound, from grenade shrapnel. But he survived. The surgeon patched him up.'

'Where did he stay with you?'

Razan hesitated. 'New Jersey.'

'And then?'

'The woman came next morning and took him away.'

'Have you seen them since?'

'No.'

'Is that the truth, Ishim Razan?'

'Yes.'

'Where did the woman take Nikolai?'

Razan was silent. Kursk stepped over to where he stood. 'If you know, I beg you to tell me.'

Razan said nothing.

'I need to talk to Nikolai, convince him to end this. Will you help me find him?'

Razan, still in shock, seemed in torture as he turned away. 'You're asking me to go back on my word. To betray a man I owe my life to. To break my pledge to a hero of my people. Someone I consider a brother.'

'No more than I do. You think I wanted to hunt him down? But there are people out there tonight, innocent men, women and children, who know nothing of the danger they're in. At any second in the next eight hours they could be gassed to death. All of them. Could you live with that on your conscience, Ishim Razan? And without trying to persuade Nikolai to stop this insanity before something goes wrong. Could you?'

Still Razan said nothing. Kursk, in frustration, gripped the Chechen's shoulder, spun him round. 'What would you rather, Ishim Razan? Save one life, or half a million?'

Chesapeake 4.15 a.m.

Karla was woken by the sound of the sea. It was dark outside, the wash of the moon filtering into the room. When she reached out her hand for Nikolai, he wasn't there. Earlier, he'd come to her room again and lay beside her, stroking her hair until she fell asleep. Now she sat up in bed, was about to flick on the light when she saw him sitting silently in the dark, in a chair near the open window, smoking a cigarette, the only sound the lapping of the waves. Karla relaxed. 'You gave me a fright. I thought you'd gone. What are you doing?'

'Thinking.'

'About what?'

'Something Ishim Razan said to me.'

'Tell me.'

Gorev crushed out his cigarette, came over, kissed her forehead. 'It doesn't matter. You should try and sleep, Karla.'

'Tell me what Razan said.'

'He gave me some advice. That when my business was over, I should live a normal existence, settle down. Not that Ishim can talk, but I'm sure he meant well.'

'He told you that?'

'He seems to think that my whole life has been about battles and causes, not about living, and perhaps he's right.'

'It's not like you to admit that, Nikolai.'

'I know. Confusing, isn't it?'

'What else did he say?'

'Something I probably shouldn't mention.'

'What?'

Gorev hesitated. 'He thinks you've loved me for a very long time, and far more deeply than I've ever known. That you were a good woman, and I shouldn't risk losing you a second time.'

He saw the look on her face then, a curiosity; and then another look, more sensitive, one that seemed to suggest she was close to tears. 'And what do you think?'

'The truth? I'm tired of it all, Karla. Tired of all the running, of constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering if the next man I meet will put a bullet in me.'

'What are you saying?'

'You remember that story by Pasternak? Where he says that the reason for our exploring is to arrive back where we started. And in so doing, we somehow discover who we are.'

'Yes.'

'He was wrong. We can never go back to where we started. And if we're wise enough, we can know who we are long before we reach the end. Do something for me, Karla.'

'What?'

'This will all be over soon. If it works in our favour, and Josef is free, and if it's not too late, be with me. Let's find somewhere quiet, not to start again, but to be together, make up for all those years we've lost. Josef too. There's a lot he needs to learn, and so much I can teach him. I don't want him wasting half his life by choosing the same path we did.'

'You mean that?'

'I mean it, Karla.'

Her lips trembled, and she suddenly started to cry. Her arms went around his neck and she clung to him. And then her mouth found his in the dark, kissed him, until she whispered, 'Make love to me, Nikolai. Really make love to me. The way it was in Moscow, the last time we were together. It's been such a long time since I felt loved like that.'

Gorev looked into her face, touched her cheek, felt a surge of emotion that was almost crushing. Then his finger traced the outline of her lips, and he kissed her, tenderly at first, then more fiercely, and drew her close.

Maryland 4.30 a.m.

At Fort Meade, headquarters of the National Security Agency, Sergeant Jimmy Nash frowned as he concentrated on the frozen snapshot image of a stream of electronic data that filled his desktop screen. Five minutes later, after tapping away at his keyboard and getting his calculations in order, he picked up the desk phone and called the watch officer. 'Major Sheehan? Nash here. Remember that burst transmission we put a marker on the other day? The highly encrypted code our guys are having trouble cracking.'

'What about it?'

'I registered another burst about twenty-five minutes ago, just like it, no more than two seconds long, on the same frequency.'

'Did we get a fix this time?'

'Yes, sir, we managed to get a good triangulation, got it right in a cocked hat.'

'Where the hell did it come from?'

'An area south of Plum Point, out along Chesapeake Bay.'

Washington, DC 5.05 a.m.

At Secret Service headquarters, things were moving fast. But not fast enough for Rob Owens, the Assistant Director, who was in a state of feverish excitement. Having listened to the tape of the intercepted cellphone conversation, he played it twice again, unable to believe his ears. White faced, he looked up at Harry Judd. 'When was the call made?'

'Two-fifty-six a.m.'

'From where?'

'We think the suspect's apartment, or thereabouts. We can pin it down to the exact floor, but not the exact apartment.'

'You sure it's him talking? Not someone else, a neighbour maybe?'

'To be absolutely positive I'm having a voice match done. We're trying to get our hands on a recording of an interview he gave on NBC about a month back. We should have it within an hour, and we'll see if they match. But me, I'm certain we've got our man.'

'What's the story with the phone he used?'

'We got the ESN and MIN numbers when we scanned the call.' Judd didn't have to explain that he meant the phone's Electronic Serial Number and the Mobile Identification Number embedded in its circuits, identifiers that could be scanned, along with the call; the Assistant Director knew as much about call-monitoring as he did. 'The cell's publicly registered to a doctor over in Georgetown. It's not even near the suspect's home.'

'And the number he called?'

'Publicly registered to an IBM engineer living out in Crystal City. I've run checks on both of them. They're native-born US citizens with no connection to any terror groups. The engineer's a retired US Navy officer with a list of citations the length of my arm. The doctor's squeaky clean, a paediatrician with not even a parking ticket to his name. An upstanding citizen who sings in the local Baptist choir, for God's sakes. But we've got a couple of teams watching their homes and listening out for any phone calls they make, on their land lines or cells, and we'll keep digging into their backgrounds and see if we come up with any dirt, though I've got a feeling in my water it'll turn up damn all. But if need be, we can get warrants and pull them in for questioning.'

'What do you think?'

'Gut feeling? We're talking cloned phones. Someone snatched their numbers — a clone's a perfect communication tool for a terrorist because of the untraceability factor, and the easiest thing in the world to do if you know how. We'll need to get a court order to get the doctor and engineer's bills from the phone company, check the listed calls, see if we can match any more calls between our suspect and the person's number he called.'

'Leave that to me,' Owens said. Despite the urgency, this had to be played by the book. America was a democracy, not a police state — though Owens knew folks who might argue otherwise — and if you wanted to check anyone's phone bills or investigate any calls they made, to keep it legal you had to have a court order.

'The other good news,' Judd said, 'is that we can get the network provider to maybe help us get a fix on the location of the guy he called. Again, we'll need a court order.'

Owens' excitement grew, and he nodded. 'I'm with you, go on.'

'Once the guy's phone is switched on, or he's talking on it, the provider can scan the call and triangulate his location. In a city, they can narrow the location down to a street, or even a building, because they've got base stations every couple of hundred yards, so they can tell you where the call's coming from to within maybe a hundred feet. After that, we've got the electronic equipment to narrow it down ourselves even farther. But if the guy our suspect called is out in the country, you could be talking about base stations every ten, twenty miles, or maybe even farther apart. It's more difficult to get a precise location for him. The closest maybe you could pinpoint his position is within ten or twenty miles. But if the cellphone's switched off, we won't be able to get a fix until he switches on again.'

Owens was still excited. 'It's something — a lead. The Feds are going to love you, Harry. I'll organise the court orders straight away.' He slipped the cassette from the recorder. 'You've got a copy of this?'

'Sure, I made a couple.'

Owens slipped the cassette into its hard plastic box, popped it in an envelope. 'As soon as you've got the voice match, we'll call the White House, but not before. I want our evidence hard as rock.' He was still stunned, shook his head as he held up the envelope. 'The President's not going to believe this, Harry. Jesus, this guy's one of his most trusted people.'

'I know.'

Washington, DC 3.15 a.m.

Nikki pulled up outside the Union Station, climbed out of her Toyota and locked the doors. The lights were on the Union's main hall, but the place looked eerily deserted, just a couple of cabs parked at the far end of the rank. The call to her cellphone at 2.45 a.m. had totally surprised her.

A man she didn't know, who said his name was Jacobson, and who claimed he worked for the mayor's office, said that he'd heard she had called Judiciary Square looking for information about the police and army exercises. If she wanted to meet, he had some startling information she might be interested in. He'd be outside the main entrance to the Union Station at 3.15 a.m. Nikki's pulse quickened. 'How ... how will I recognise you?'

'I'll be wearing a pale raincoat and blue scarf. And Miss Dean, I insist you come alone. I don't want any newspaper photographers tagging along, and you tell no one about our meeting because this is strictly off the record, you understand? If you're not alone, our meeting's off.'

'I understand, but what kind of information do you ... '

The line clicked dead before Nikki had a chance to finish the sentence. Puzzled, excited by the prospect of a lead, she'd grabbed her bag, made sure she had a spare notebook, and headed for the Post's parking lot.

As she walked towards the station, she had her eyes fixed on the front entrance. She was too preoccupied to hear the car behind her, and then suddenly it cut in front of her. A dark blue Crown Victoria. Three big guys got out. They looked like detectives or Feds. Nikki recognised none of them as they approached. 'Nikki Dean?'

She was startled. Was one these the man she was supposed to meet? The one who had spoken wore a pale raincoat, a dark blue scarf. 'Who ... who are you?'

'My name's Jacobson. You are Nikki Dean, right?'

'Yes.'

'Could you step over to the car, Miss Dean.'

Nikki studied the three men with apprehension, some instinct setting off alarm bells inside her head. Her heart beat furiously. 'I'm ... I'm not stepping anywhere. Who are you guys?'

It happened quickly, before Nikki even had a chance to scream. One of the men grabbed her from behind, clapped a hand over her mouth. Nikki started to kick out in panic, but a second man got hold of her legs. They carried her bodily over to the Crown Victoria, the third man already opening the rear door. His two companions bundled her into the car. 'Gag her. Fast.'

As a scarf went around Nikki's mouth she tried to scream, but the gag tightened, and suddenly the Crown Victoria screeched away.

6 a.m.

At George Washington Hospital, Frankie Tate was in a state of agitation. They'd wheeled Benny Visto into ER from the ambulance at precisely 4.15 a.m., and Frankie was still anxiously waiting in the hall outside nearly two hours later, his arm throbbing like hell. A nurse came up to him, a little woman with a bust bigger than her ass. 'You're sure you don't want to see a doctor, sir? You look like you're in pain.'

She was annoying the hell out of him. 'I told you already, lady, no. Now keep the fuck away from me.'

The nurse withdrew, insulted, only this time looking as if she was going to call security. A second later the ER swung doors opened and a doctor came out, pulling a surgical mask off his face, his gown spattered with blood. Frankie recognised him — the guy had been with the emergency medical team who'd buzzed around Benny before they fast-wheeled him into theatre. 'Mr Tate?'

'How is he, Doc? Will he make it.'

'I'm afraid he's gone.'

Frankie stood there, numb, having feared the worst, but unable to take it in. 'He's ... dead?'

'He passed away five minutes ago, Mr Tate. We did everything we could, but he'd lost a lot of blood and he'd got to us too late.'

Frankie was devastated, and a couple of tears started to run down his cheeks. He'd known Benny all his life. They'd been more brothers than cousins, ever since the days they were wild street kids hanging out together, and the loss hit him even harder than he'd anticipated. He was too stricken to see the two uniformed metropolitan police officers come out of a door near ER and move either side of him, but the doctor did, and he gave the cops a nod, then put a hand delicately on Frankie's arm.

'Mr Tate, I'm sorry to have to bring this up right now, but your friend died from a gunshot wound, so naturally we've had to report it to the police. The officers here would like to ask you some questions.'

The White House 6.20 a.m.

'Sorry for waking you so early, sir.'

'I'm getting used to it, Paul.' The President, his hair tousled, dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown, sipping from a cup of coffee his steward had brought, stood in the middle of the living room of his private quarters on the third floor of the White House. He'd gone to bed at 2.45 a.m. Of the less than four hours he'd spent in bed, he'd lain awake for three. 'Take a seat, gentlemen, and let's get this over with.'

FBI Director Douglas Stevens, Paul Burton and Richard 'Dick' Faulks, the CIA Director, had joined the President. He took a wing chair; the others chose the pair of settees near by.

'Samar Mehmet called half an hour ago from Islamabad, sir.' It was Faulks who spoke. 'He said he had an urgent message to pass on from Abu Hasim. It has do with the troop movement to Israel. There was no mention of the destination airfield yet for the prisoners, but it looks like our traitor took the bait.'

The President, tight lipped with anxiety, put down his cup and saucer, his hand shaking. There was a question he desperately wanted to ask, but he held back on it for now. 'First, tell me what Abu Hasim said.'

'Perhaps I should read it, sir?' Faulks suggested. 'Samar Mehmet translated Hasim's words into English, but he also gave it to us in the Arabic original, which we also had interpreted, so there could be no misunderstanding. Both translations agree.'

The President nodded, his tension rising as Faulks cleared his throat. 'The message reads: "To the President of the United States, from Abu Hasim. When we last communicated, I promised we would not speak directly again. That remains my intention. However, information has come to my notice that requires this urgent communication, and your reply. Sources of mine in Israel have reported that numbers of US aircraft are now landing in that country. From this I have concluded that you are in the process of moving a significant quantity of your Middle East troops to Israel. If this is true, then it is totally unacceptable to al-Qaeda. It suggests to us yet another example of American deceit and dishonesty. Al-Qaeda will not accept US troops being moved to Israel, not under any circumstances. I wish to have clarification of this matter, sent through Samar Mehmet within an hour of your receipt of this message. If a reply is not received by that time, and to my satisfaction, then I must conclude that my information is correct and that you, Mr President, have decided to condemn your capital to immediate death by your action."'

Faulks looked up. 'The message ends there, sir.'

The President stood, exhaled a deep breadth. For the last four hours, scourged by apprehension, he'd tossed and turned in his bed, hoping that Doug Stevens had been wrong and that none of the four suspected men had betrayed him. But Stevens had been right and the message proved it. He felt crushed as he turned to Paul Burton. 'You made sure that none of our military aircraft landed in Israel?'

'Not a single one, sir. Not even the civilian ones we've hired in. Your orders were followed exactly to the letter. Most of our aircraft en route from the Middle East have landed in Germany and Britain.'

The President turned to Faulks. 'Dick, get a pen. Here's my response to Abu Hasim.'

Faulks took a pen and notebook from his inside pocket. 'I'm ready, sir.'

'Take this down. To Abu Hasim from the President of the United States. Mr Hasim, I do not know where you got this information, but I can assure you categorically that it is not true. No US troops are being sent to Israel, from the Middle East or elsewhere, nor is that my intention. Several US aircraft, it is true, have landed there briefly, but only for the purpose of refuelling. These aircraft and the troops on board are taking off again immediately their refuelling is complete. They will not remain on Israeli soil. I repeat, they will not remain on Israeli soil. I am adhering completely to the terms of your letter. I trust you will adhere to yours. If you wish to communicate further regarding this obvious misunderstanding, I will be willing to furnish exact details, through Samar Mehmet, of the aircraft which have landed and taken off again.' The President nodded to Faulks. 'End it there, and have it passed on to Mehmet immediately.'

'I'll take a bet Abu Hasim's going to be scratching his head in confusion, sir,' Burton suggested.

'No doubt he will. Let's hope the answer satisfies him for now. But in theory we haven't put a foot wrong and that's what matters here.' The President turned to the question he was dreading. 'Now, what about our source? Have we got him?'

The FBI Director shot a glance at Faulks and Burton before answering. 'Sir, Rob Owens is waiting downstairs. I'd like him in on this to explain how — '

'Have we got him?''

'Yes, sir. We've got him.'

Chesapeake 6.45 a.m.

Gorev awoke. Karla was still sleeping, and he gently kissed her cheek, then climbed out of bed as quietly as he could, dressed in the dark, and went downstairs. He found Rashid in the kitchen, looking wide awake, the laptop on the table in front of him. The satellite dish was connected, positioned near the window, and as Gorev came in Rashid switched off the computer and began to disassemble the dish.

'I thought I heard you moving about.' Gorev gestured to the laptop. 'What's the idea? Is there something happening I should know about?'

'You'll learn soon enough. Where's Karla?'

'Upstairs.'

'You and she have renewed your old relationship, it seems. Unless I'm mistaken about the sleeping arrangements.'

'And what's it to you, Rashid?'

Rashid grunted, started to pack the laptop and dish in his backpack. 'Fetch her.'

'Why?'

'We have fresh orders.'

The White House 6.25 a.m.

'There's not a fragment of doubt?'

'No, Mr President. We've got our man. We compared our tape with the NBC interview he gave recently and confirmed it. The voices are a perfect match.'

The President was crushed. He had listened to the revelation, the tape of the cellphone conversation — a few brief words mentioning the redeployment of troops to Israel — and knew at once the identity of one of the voices he'd heard. But he asked the question anyway, to allay even the slightest technical doubt. Rob Owens, who had joined the others in the President's quarters, said, 'Would you like to hear the tape again, sir?'

'Once was quite enough,' the President said shakily.

'If more damning evidence is needed, we matched the second voice we caught during the two-way cellphone conversation. It was the voice of the caller to the White House who told us about the videotape at the cemetery which recorded the deaths of the men kidnapped in Azerbaijan. I just thought you should know that, sir. There's simply no question about the link between our man and the terrorists.'

The President, white faced, collapsed in his chair. His chest felt tight, his pulse raced. He could only shake his head. How could a man he'd known for so many years — a man whom he'd trusted enough to make him his adviser — betray him? Worse, how could he betray his country? The questions tormented him. He felt bile rise in his throat, perspiration run down his face. 'Are you all right, sir?' the CIA Director asked.

'No, I'm not.' The President forced himself to rise. 'Why? Why in God's name would he help al-Qaeda? Why would he put the lives of hundreds of thousands of his fellow countrymen at risk? Be prepared to condemn them to death? Why? I can't understand it.'

Doug Stevens said, 'The only clues we have are the ones we turned up in his background check. But we're still digging, both the FBI and CIA.'

'Then dig faster, and as deep as you can. I want all you can get.'

'What do you intend to do about him, sir?'

'Is there a chance he might know where the terrorists are hiding out?'

Dick Faulks, the CIA Director considered the question. 'It's possible, but I doubt it. My feeling is al-Qaeda would want to keep him separate from the operation. To make contact, they'd use the cellphones, maybe secure meeting places or dead-letter drops, or possibly all three.'

'I'd agree, sir,' Stevens chipped in. 'It would only risk exposing their operation if he knew where the cell was hiding out, or even where the device was hidden. Al-Qaeda would keep that information to a close circle. Probably only the terrorists themselves know.'

'Then do we arrest him?' Paul Burton asked.

For a long time the President was silent. When he finally looked over at the others in the room they saw his anguish. He was close to tears, still unable to fathom the treachery of a man he'd trusted. 'No. Not yet. Keep watch on him for now. But I don't want any of this information made known to anyone outside this room. Is that understood? I intend bringing forward the final NSC meeting by an hour, to seven-thirty, so as to advise everyone of Abu Hasim's message regarding Israel. After that, I'll make a decision as to how I'll deal with him.'

'I think that's wise, sir,' Rob Owens advised, and explained about the cloned cellphones. 'If either man makes a call to the other in the coming hours, then there's a chance we can triangulate the calls and get a fix on both their locations. The most important one obviously being the terrorist contact at the other end.'

For the second time that morning the President was stunned. Not by bad news, but the first genuine glimmer of hope he'd had since the crisis began. 'You're saying we may be able to find the terrorists?'

'Or at least one of them. That's what we're hoping, sir.'

'There's also been another interesting development,' Faulks told the President.

'What?'

'The NSA over at Fort Meade picked up something called a burst transmission, almost two hours ago. It's an unusual, highly encrypted signal that they haven't been able to decode yet. They picked up a similar one recently but the transmission was so brief, no more than a couple of seconds, that they couldn't get a fix on its location. However, they primed their computers to latch on to the burst if it appeared on the airwaves again on the same frequency. When it did, they managed to get a fix to a specific area in Chesapeake Bay, south of Plum Point. They still haven't been able to decode the transmission, that's going to take more time. But the kind of signal we're talking about, so highly encrypted and non-military in source, is a little out of the ordinary. Fort Meade is suggesting we should look into it.'

'Are you telling me it might have come from the al-Qaeda cell?'

'It's too early to say, sir.' It was Stevens who answered. 'And obviously we can't mention it at the Council meeting or we'd be showing our hand. But I've ordered a surveillance team to be rushed to the area right away.'

Chesapeake 6.55 a.m.