Resurrection Day (35 page)

'How's the head?' Tom Murphy helped himself to a cup of coffee from the percolator in Collins' office and came over to join him. Along with the FBI back-up teams, a paramedic squad had arrived at the Wentworth and offered to take Collins to the Alexandria Hospital, to have him examined by a doctor after the grenade blast. When he refused, they'd given him some pills to lessen the pain, but his eardrums still felt sore, his mind sluggish.

'Could have been a lot worse,' he answered. 'I'm lucky to still have it.'

'Wish I could tell you to go home and take the rest of the day off.' Murphy pulled up a chair. 'But we need every man we've got and I guess you probably wouldn't listen to me anyway.'

'How'd the meeting go?'

'I've had better.' Murphy sipped from his cup. 'Any news from Rashid's place?'

'Morgan's over there now. They're trying to sift through what's left of it, and check out any calls made from the phone. The Honda Civic turned up some prints on the wheel and dash, and some soil samples were found on the floor. Forensic's working on them now. They'll call as soon as they've got something.'

'What about the woman's address, the one on her driving licence, in Arlington?'

'Fake. The address is a house occupied by a retired Baptist minister in his eighties. He'd never heard of Safa Yassin, didn't know who the hell our guys were talking about. They checked with some of the neighbours, giving them a description of the woman, but none of them ever saw her either. Either anywhere near the house or on the street. They're still checking it out with the vehicle licensing authorities, but I wouldn't hold my breath.'

'And the search?'

'Still nothing,' Collins replied. 'They're gone, Tom. And we both know it.' Murphy nodded and sighed. 'I guess we're back at square one.' He explained that FBI informants in the District would be revisited and shown photographs of Rashid and Gorev. 'But first we'll have the photograph of Rashid electronically altered to reflect his new hair colour and style, although I'm not sure it'll do us much good. Chances are he'll change his disguise again. And any pay-off from the streets, if there is one, might take some time to kick in, so let's hope the apartment or car turn up some clues, or we're going nowhere fast. Where's Kursk?'

'Morgan drove him over to his apartment. He's trying to try grab a couple of hours' sleep.'

'You heard what he told Morgan? That he had the feeling maybe he'd seen the woman with Gorev somewhere before?' Collins nodded. 'Except he couldn't remember her name, or where. Which gets us nowhere.'

'We'll see what the prints turn up in the next couple of hours. If we don't get lucky, we'll have a photofit done. Between the janitor, you, Morgan and Kursk, we ought to come up with a reasonable description. You've still got your doubts about the major, Jack?'

'All I know is we'd have had a clear line of fire if he'd got out of the way. And it stands to reason his loyalties have to be divided. Gorev's an old friend. It's too personal with him, Tom.'

'And it's not with you?' Collins didn't speak. Murphy said quietly, 'I didn't mean that the way it sounded, Jack. But you know, maybe Kursk did us all a favour. If you and Lou had opened up and taken out all three of them, without us first neutralising the device, God knows what might have happened. I'm not saying you lost it, Jack. But you should have kept yourself focused. This isn't just about Mohamed Rashid and your own personal revenge. It's about an entire city. Just try and remember that and keep it in perspective.'

'Are you dressing me down, Tom?'

'I'd prefer you saw it as well-meaning advice. I don't want any mistakes. We can't afford them.' Collins started to answer the rebuke, but bit back his reply. 'What about Kursk?'

'We'll see how it goes. If there's really any doubt about him, I'll have him off the team and kept in the background.' Murphy stood. 'Meantime, you ought to get some sleep. You look like shit. Put your head down. I'll call if anything breaks.'

Murphy closed the door. Collins got up, snapped shut the office blinds. He felt angry at Murphy's rebuke. But he was right. He'd been too intent on his own revenge, and maybe it was clouding his judgment. He felt exhausted. He'd gone for over thirty hours without sleep, and the pain killer was making him drowsy, but he fought the tiredness, rage still driving him on, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it, replace it with cold resolution. Every time he recalled the fleeting image of Mohamed Rashid escaping in the Explorer with Gorev and the woman, a wave of red-hot anger overwhelmed him. So close, and he'd lost him. He came back to his desk, slumped into his chair. He hadn't called Nikki in almost twenty-four hours. She'd be wondering what the hell was wrong. He picked up the phone, started to make the call, but exhaustion flooded his body, overcame him like a tidal wave. He knew he couldn't fight it any more, and he let go of the receiver. As he went to lay his head on the desk, the phone buzzed.

Washington, DC 2 p.m.

Nikki Dean was pulled up outside a red-bricked building on Ecklington Place, north-west of DC. The Crisis Control Centre the metropolitan police had opened over a year previously was in a gritty industrial neighbourhood near New York Avenue. Two years ago Mayor Al Brown had come up with the notion of relocating city government offices out of downtown DC and into the neighbourhoods they served. The move included the three main command centres of the metropolitan police, North, Central and East, the idea being that the increased presence of cops in crime-ridden working-class areas would give locals a better sense of security and help keep crime down. Nikki had covered the centre's ribbon-cutting ceremony for the Post, and now her editor wanted a follow-up, to find out whether the mayor's venture had really made a difference.

Her interview with the Police Commissioner had been arranged for 2.15, and as she parked her Toyota across the street she noticed activity in front of the building, uniformed cops and detectives coming and going. She approached the door. Two young rookie officers stood guard on the steps, barring her path.

'Can I help you, ma'am?' Nikki showed her press ID. 'I've got an appointment with the Police Commissioner at two-fifteen. He's expecting me.'

One of the young cops looked at the other, handed back her ID and shook his head. 'I'm sorry, ma'am. We've got orders. No one's allowed inside the building, unless they're with the Met.'

'Orders from whom?'

'Nikki!' She looked up and saw Brad Stelman come down the steps. He was tall and good looking, in his late thirties, with fair hair and a boyish grin. He ran the metropolitan police public affairs bureau, but before that he'd been a reporter with the Post. Nikki and he had worked together out of the same office, and he had personally organised her interview that afternoon. Stelman kissed her cheek. 'How's my favourite reporter?'

'Confused. What's going on, Brad? I thought I had an interview with the Commissioner. But these guys say I can't go in the building.' Stelman said to the two officers, 'It's OK. I'll look after this. Miss Dean is an old friend of mine.' He turned back to her. 'How about I buy you a cup of coffee? There's a coffee shop across the street, we can talk there.'

'Why, what's the problem, Brad?' Stelman smiled reassuringly, took her arm. 'No problem, Nikki, just a slight change of plan. I'll tell you over coffee.'

Washington, DC 4.50 p.m.

The studio apartment was two blocks from FBI Headquarters. It had a separate kitchen, a small living room with couch and coffee table, TV and video, a few shelves of well-thumbed books and magazines left by visiting FBI guests, and a double bed in a corner. Kursk lay on the bed, his arms under his head, the curtains closed. He stared restlessly at the ceiling. He felt numb, as if he'd just recovered from an anaesthetic. His mouth was dry and a gloss of sweat glistened on his forehead. He'd lain there for two hours, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, his mind racked by the incident with Nikolai Gorev at the apartment block.

He kept replaying every moment of the encounter, over and over again, until his mind was a jumble. Finally, overcome with anguish, he got up off the bed, put his head in his hands. Why hadn't he moved when he heard Collins' command to get out of the line of fire? He knew Nikolai's warning had been part of it, but subconsciously he was aware it wasn't just that. He'd wanted to shield Nikolai. But he couldn't shield him again, knew that with certainty. It had gone beyond that, and the knowledge gave him a terrible hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Something else had bothered him for the last two hours. The woman he'd struggled with. When he'd tried to wrestle the weapon from her and they'd stared into each other's faces, he'd had the uncanny feeling that he'd seen her somewhere before. He'd told Morgan about his intuition while Collins was being attended by the paramedics, but he couldn't remember when, where or who with no matter how he tried to force his mind to recall. Where had he seen her?

With her dark looks, the woman could have been Chechen, but Kursk didn't think so. More likely Mediterranean, or Arab. He forced himself not to think of her. In a moment of stillness, perhaps it might come.

He lifted his head from his hands, his mind aching, reassured himself that the FBI would scour the apartment and the Honda. Fingerprints were bound to turn up, and with them maybe a name, but then it struck him, a fleeting, sudden flashback that hit him like a sharp jab of electricity, gave him palpitations.

The phone buzzed. He picked it up.

'Major?' Collins' voice. Cold and direct. 'Did I wake you, Kursk?

'I was already awake.'

'The search team found something over at Alexandria. Something important. They want us back there straight away.' Kursk didn't reply. Collins said, 'Are you still there?'

'Yes, I'm here.' Kursk paused. 'The woman ... I saw her before.'

'Morgan told me.'

'I remember where I saw her face.'

The coffee shop was busy for mid-afternoon. Nikki noticed that most of the customers were uniformed cops and detectives from the police building across the street, queuing for coffee and pastries to go. Stelman went to the counter and got two cups of coffee and came back to join Nikki at one of the standup tables near the window.

'So what's going on, Brad?' Stelman waved his hand towards the window and the bustling activity outside the Crisis Control Centre. 'You mean all this?' He turned back to face her with an easy smile. 'Some bastard of a bureaucrat decided at the last minute that an emergency police exercise might be a good idea for the District, keep our cops on their toes.'

'What kind of exercise?'

'The usual kind of drill. Some imaginary disaster they've got to cope with. To tell the truth, I didn't get the exact details, but it's no big deal'

'What about my interview?'

'That's why I came down to see you. It's been cancelled, I'm afraid. The Comish is pulling his hair out trying to run everything from the basement command room, and asked me to apologise. I know it's messed up your plans, Nikki, and I'm really sorry about that, but we'll arrange it again, and very soon.'

Nikki noticed a car pull up across the street. Three men who looked like detectives got out and entered the building purposefully. 'You're sure there's nothing more going on, Brad?'

Stelman looked puzzled. 'Like what?'

Nikki stirred her coffee. 'I was out at Reagan this morning, doing a piece on an ATE problem. The place was crawling with military uniforms. And I saw at least a half-dozen air force transporters being unloaded out on the aprons.'

Stelman frowned. 'So?'

'The guy from ATE I was interviewing didn't know what the story was, except he'd been told there was an army exercise going on. That Andrews was all clogged up and they'd requested to use Reagan for their overflow. It just seems kind of odd. First the military's conducting a drill, and now the cops.'

Stelman grinned, shook his head. 'Reporters are always looking for a conspiracy, Nikki. It comes with the territory — I was the same when I worked at the Post. Don't ask me what was going on over at Reagan, though I'm pretty sure it's nothing significant. Otherwise I'd have heard through the Comish. But I can tell you with my hand on my heart that what's going on at the command centre is just another run-of-the-mill, pain-in-the-ass exercise drill. Nothing more, nothing less.'

'But two at once?'

'Nikki, this is Washington, remember? Maybe the most important political and strategic capital in the world. We both know the military and police conduct exercises in the District all the time, and sometimes they never make the papers. Believe me, there's nothing sinister going on that I'm aware of. And if I knew there was, you'd be the first I'd call.'

'Maybe I should do a piece on this drill exercise?'

Stelman shrugged. 'Why not? Soon as it's all settled down, a couple of days from now, I'll make sure you get the details.'

Nikki tried not to make it obvious that she was studying Brad Stelman's face as he lifted his cup. She'd asked her last question deliberately, to see whether he registered any discomfort, but he didn't. She figured she'd know if he was lying; they'd been friends a long time. The day she'd rung him to arrange the interview with the Commissioner, they'd caught up a little on what had been happening to them both.

After he'd quit the Post, Stelman had gone to work in New York for almost a year, and had returned to DC only two months ago, to take up his new position with the Met. He was a decent guy, good looking with it, had a wry sense of humour that Nikki liked, and they'd always got on well when they'd worked together. More than that, if she was honest, she'd always been vaguely attracted to him. He had been divorced five years, with no kids. She'd always thought of him as a steady, trustworthy kind of guy, and when her marriage broke up he'd been one of the few colleagues she had confided in. She figured that, of all the people she knew, he'd be truthful with her.

He finished his coffee, seemed to sense her doubt. 'Look, if it puts your mind at ease, I can try and find out what was happening over at Reagan. I've got a buddy who's a senior officer at Andrews. I can give him a call, fish around a little.'

'Would you? I'd appreciate that, Brad.'

'Consider it done.' Nikki reached for her diary. 'So when can we do the interview? Tomorrow?'

'Tomorrow the Comish has a full schedule. And that's the way it is pretty much up to Friday. Say next week some time. I'll call you later, firm it up.'

'You're sure you're not trying to fob me off, Brad?'

'You? Never.' Stelman laughed. 'And to prove it, how about I buy you dinner, to make it up to you for the interview?'

'I ... I don't know, Brad. I'm seeing someone right now.'

'It's not an offer of marriage, Nikki.' Stelman smiled. 'Just two old friends catching up. You can fill me in on what's been happening at the Post.'

'If you put it like that.' He handed her his card with his home number written on the back. 'Give me a call at home later, say about six, and I'll see what I've found out from my friend over at Andrews. Then maybe you can let me know when you're free for dinner. How's Daniel, by the way?'

'His fourth birthday's two weeks away. I've got a party arranged for thirty kids on my mom's back lawn. Any more than that, and I might have to borrow a couple of your experts from the Crisis Control Centre.'

Stelman laughed again, reached across to pat her hand in a friendly gesture. 'He's a terrific kid, Nikki. And he's lucky to have such a great mom. I'm pretty sure you'll be well able to cope. But if you need help, you've got my number.'

'Thanks for coming down to see me, Brad.'

'My pleasure. I better be getting back. But you finish your coffee here if you like, and I'll talk to you later, OK?'

'Sure.' Stelman moved to the door, went out. Nikki watched him cross the street and go up the steps to the Control Centre. A thought entered her head, a thought that mildly upset her, and she reached for her bag, checked her cellphone. She'd switched it off when she'd arrived outside the police building, but there had been no missed calls in the meantime, or all that morning. Jack still hadn't tried to reach her. Disheartened, she finished her coffee. She thought about phoning him, but decided to do it later. First, she'd have to get back to the Post, write up her report on Reagan, and then pick Daniel up from preschool.

Salem, New Jersey 5.05 p.m.