Resurrection Day (66 page)

When Gorev and Karla came down the stairs, Mohamed Rashid was standing by the fireplace, flicking through the TV channels with the remote.

'What's wrong?' Gorev said.

Rashid switched off the TV and tossed the remote aside. 'This morning I had news that the Americans had started moving troops from the Gulf into Israel.'

'News from whom?'

'My contact. Such an action by the Americans would go against the spirit of our demands. Except now, according to the signal I just received from Abu Hasim, the American President denies the move. He says US aircraft are landing in Israel, but only for refuelling.'

'I don't understand. What's going on?'

Rashid stepped away from the TV, a worried look on his face. 'Exactly, Gorev. What is going on? Abu Hasim has a suspicion that the Americans may be up to something. Either they're trying to confuse us in some way, deceive us, or else my contact's information was incorrect.'

'Is that likely?'

'I don't believe so. His information has always been reliable.'

'And what does he say now?'

'I haven't contacted him yet. But don't worry, I will. Except there's always a third possibility, as Abu Hasim has suggested. Our contact has been blown.'

'Does that put us in danger?' Karla asked.

'Don't worry, he knows nothing that can compromise us. Either where the nerve gas is stored or anything about our safe houses.

And at this stage, he's outserved his usefulness.'

'So what's changed?' Gorev asked. 'You said there were fresh orders?'

Rashid moved to the table where he'd put his backpack and began sorting through his belongings, removing the Skorpion and checking that the magazine was loaded. 'The intention was that we'd load the chemical and device in the police van and move it into the centre of Washington if we had to. The likelihood of us being stopped in such a vehicle, wearing police uniforms, was remote. But I've made up my mind — it's too risky after your incident with Visto. For all we know, he could have told the police. Now we'll have to use another method.'

'But I thought the Americans were doing all you asked of them?' Karla said. 'Removing their troops, releasing the prisoners ... '

'It seems they are. But after this, we can't be sure what they're up to. Our orders are to be prepared. So get your things together.'

'Why?'

'We'll join Abdullah and Moses at the safe house. If the Americans don't fully comply with the terms of our letter, we need to be ready to do our duty. If we need to, we'll have to risk using Abdullah's van to move the chemical closer to the capital.'

Rashid consulted his watch. 'Let's not waste any more time. I'll take the car. Gorev, you follow me on one of the motorcycles. We'll both leave straight away.' He looked at Karla. 'You stay here and go through the house from top to bottom. Do a thorough job and make absolutely certain we've left nothing behind. When you're finished, take the other motorcycle and join us at the safe house. But I want you there no later than nine.'

Gorev was suddenly pale. 'I don't get it, Rashid. Why all the rush? The Americans still have until noon.'

'I told you, Abu Hasim is suspicious they may be up to something. It's made him angry, and wary. He wants to keep up the pressure. Make certain they concentrate their minds on fulfilling our demands and that they don't waste time trying to deceive us in any way. Which is why their President is about to be told of another change in our terms.'

Washington, DC

At 6.30 exactly, Tom Murphy was at his desk on the sixth floor of FBI Headquarters, his nerves in shreds as he drank sweetened black coffee to stay awake. He'd worked three straight shifts, with only a few hours of snatched rest in between, his blood pressure was way up, and he felt worse than shit. But as he used to point out to his ex-wife, that was sometimes a federal agent's lot, and only to be expected in an emergency. The difference being that the stress of this particular emergency was killing him.

With just over five hours left before the deadline's expiry, he knew he'd pushed his entire division to the limit, and didn't hold out the slightest hope of a breakthrough. Having failed to root out a single lead, he felt somehow personally responsible, crushed by a sense of defeat. Had he been a weaker man he would have given up by now, but Bronx-born Murphy was made of sterner stuff, and he was damned if he wasn't going to follow this all the way to the wire, even if it meant him being nailed into a casket.

Another thing that bothered him was the reporter. He'd agonised about telling Collins what had happened, but knew he couldn't. And wherever Nikki Dean was being held, she was incommunicado. Collins had tried to phone her and was worried about her safety — he'd told Murphy that half an hour ago, after he'd called the hospital and enquired about her son. The news was that the child had stabilised and was on his way to recovery. But still the abduction rankled Murphy. No doubt the poor woman was distressed and frantically wanting to see her son, but he didn't know how else the capital might be spared the immense danger of a mass exodus inspired by a media expose if Nikki Dean uncovered the truth. And even if the Post's presses couldn't roll out the word before the deadline, she could have turned to Washington's TV and radio stations. Still, he dreaded to think of the repercussions the woman's abduction might cause if this thing ended successfully. But there was no guarantee of that, of course, and by the time the deadline came his concerns might be totally irrelevant. By then everyone involved might be dead, himself included.

Five minutes later Murphy was about to pick up the phone when his door opened and the Assistant Director, Mathew Cage, burst into the room like a tornado. Murphy at once put up a hand defensively. 'I know what you're going to ask me, Matt, and I've pulled out all the stops. Believe me, I've got every agent available busting their ass — '

'Tom, listen up a minute.' Cage shut the door to ensure their privacy, and explained about the burst transmission that had been picked up by the NSA, and the cellphone intercept which, unknown to Cage, had been the work of the Secret Service.

Murphy was stunned, jumped up from his desk. 'Have we got coordinates?'

'Someplace south of Plum Point down in Chesapeake.' Cage handed Murphy the co-ordinates on a piece of paper, and both men crossed to study the wall map. 'I've already organised a couple of choppers to help with our surveillance. They'll have telemetry equipment on board to home in on the precise location, and as well as that Fort Meade's sending us blow-up maps of the area. That ought to help us pinpoint exactly the place we're looking for.'

Murphy frowned. 'But how the frig does Fort Meade know the cellphone conversation originated from one of the terrorists?'

'Don't ask me, but who the hell's complaining? If they're right, and can intercept it again, they may be able to get a precise fix. Now let's get a team down to Chesapeake, fast.'

'I'll get it moving right away.' As Murphy moved towards the door it burst open again and Larry Soames came in. 'Tom, you got a minute? It's important — '

'So is this. I need as many men as we've got, Larry. And I mean right now. Pull them off whatever you have to, this is urgent — '

'Tom, could you wait a second — we just had a call from the Met about a guy called Benny Visto.'

'Who?'

'He's a pimp and small-time crook who works out of Fourteenth Street. He died about forty minutes ago at George Washington Hospital, from bleeding as a result of a gunshot wound. The hospital got their hands on him too late.'

'What do you want us to do, send flowers?' Murphy was red faced. 'How the hell does that affect us?'

'He was shot by a man fitting Nikolai Gorev's description.'

Murphy gave Cage a quick look, then stared back at Soames. 'Go on.'

'Visto has a cousin named Frankie Tate, who's so cut up about his death he's singing like a canary. He told the cops a couple of our guys working the streets showed one of Visto's goons the photographs of two men we were looking for. They're holding him over at the Second District Station on Idaho Avenue.'

'What was the shooting about?'

Soames told him, and Murphy and Cage both frowned. 'A mock police van, uniforms and weapons,' Murphy said. 'What did they want the stuff for?'

'Tate thought they were going to use it for a robbery.'

'He's sure it was Gorev?'

'Damned sure. He said there was a woman with him. And the description he gave, it sounded like Karla Sharif.'

'Let's get this moving.' Murphy, galvanised, reached for the phone. 'And I'll need those men, Larry, right this instant. Where're Collins and Morgan?'

'On their way to interview Tate.'

Maryland 6.45 a.m.

In the early morning darkness, a GM Savana van with dark-tinted windows cut off the Eisenhower Freeway and headed southeast, on Route 4, past Andrews Air Force Base. The traffic was thin, and what little there was of it was headed into DC, but the Savana was going in the opposite direction, out into the Maryland countryside, towards the Chesapeake coast. Kursk sat in the middle row of seats, beside Razan. Two Chechen bodyguards occupied the back seats, and another guard sat up front with the driver. Razan said to Kursk, 'How many of them are there, apart from Nikolai and the woman?'

'One other man. There may be more. I don't know.'

'Who's the one you know about?'

'Mohamed Rashid. A wanted terrorist.'

'Dangerous?'

'He's a madman, capable of anything. You still haven't told me what you and your men intend.'

'I'll tell you when we get there.'

'Razan, this is dangerous — '

'No arguments. We'll do this my way.'

'What about my weapon, my cellphone?'

Razan shook his head. 'I don't want to put temptation your way. I warn you, harm Nikolai in any way and you're a dead man. And unlike Yudenich, I'm not open to negotiation. You've cost me a lot tonight, Kursk. More than you'd earn in a lifetime. Let's hope it's worth it.'

Kursk glanced at the traffic headed towards DC. In another couple of hours the highways would be crammed with commuters. Razan hadn't told him where they were going, but from the highway signs Kursk saw they were heading south-east, into Maryland. Was the chemical being stored this far out in the countryside? It didn't make sense. He knew that somehow, he had to get to a phone to alert the FBI. Razan and his men were in over their heads, likely to charge into a situation fraught with danger. Kursk felt sweat running down his back, his heart pounding anxiously. 'With respect, Razan, you and your men are not equipped to handle this. It's far too hazardous, and better left to the authorities — '

Razan cut him off. 'No. I told you, we deal with this my way. How much longer, Yegori?' The bodyguard in front looked round, shrugged. 'In this traffic? Half an hour, no more.'

Four miles behind Alexei Kursk in the Savana, a convoy of nine vehicles — a blue Dodge van, three Cherokee four-wheel-drives with dark-tinted windows, a Dodge intrepid, and four Ford Sables — crammed with almost forty FBI agents was speeding its way towards a beach area south of Plum Point, Chesapeake, barely fifteen miles from Winston Bay.

Within fifteen minutes of the FBI Director being informed by Fort Meade of the source co-ordinates of the encrypted burst transmission, the rapid-response team had been assembled, including agents from the FBI's Hazardous Materials Response Unit. As the convoy had set off, two specially adapted Blackhawk helicopters had taken off from Andrews Air Force Base and were by now fourteen miles ahead of the vehicles. Fitted with airborne FLIR — forward-looking infrared — systems, high-powered surveillance lenses and telemetry units to get a precise fix on the transmission's source location, one of the Blackhawks reached the target co-ordinates — a thin ribbon of access road that led down to a public beach area on Chesapeake Bay — at 6.58 a.m. In almost total darkness, the helicopter performed a single pass over the target area at a thousand feet, the passive thermal imaging equipment fitted to its belly scanning the road, the immediate surrounding area and the nearby beach for any human activity, before the pilot banked inland. As the co-pilot radioed the results to the FBI convoy, including a detailed description of the target location, the pilot headed inland for four miles to join the second chopper, waiting in a holding position at a thousand feet.

Forty-one minutes later, by the time the FBI convoy came to within a mile of the location, it was after dawn. The moon was still out, and a thin, wispy fog was rolling in off the bay. The convoy pulled in on a side road, and after a quick discussion the agent in charge decided that two of his team, one male, one female, should reconnoitre the source area. The couple got into one of the Ford Sables and drove the short two miles to the beach access road.

It was 7.39 a.m. The couple turned left off the main road, leaving their headlights on. They drove down the rutted beach access track for fifty yards, bumping through mustard-coloured rain puddles, until the driver halted and switched off the engine. He climbed out of the Sable and went over to the bushes to take a leak. At the same time he carefully scanned the road to left and right — noticing the nearest property a quarter-mile away along the headland.

When he had finished his business, he walked back to the Sable and beckoned the female agent to join him. She took a slim electric torch from the car, and together they walked down the track, arm in arm towards the beach, like a couple out for an early morning stroll. A thin veil of sea fog misted the shore, and the orange tint of sunrise painted the horizon.

As they walked, the couple scanned the deserted beach to left and right, chatting away aimlessly, their well-practised eyes studying the dunes for any sign of movement — for any sign of anything — examining every inch of beach in their sight. After ten minutes' walking, they turned back and walked in the opposite direction, applying the same scrutiny. Another ten more minutes and they gave up their covert search, dropped their roles of strolling lovers and raced back to the Sable, the driver breathless as he grabbed his radiophone. 'Sierra one to base. Over.'

'Base here, hearing you loud and clear, Sierra one. You see anything down there? Over.'

'Negative, base. The road's deserted. There's frigging nothing down here.'