Resurrection Day (51 page)

It was a cold, sunny morning, and Ishim Razan strolled along the gravel path that snaked through the mansion's gardens. Gorev walked beside him, and lit a cigarette. Razan said, 'Is it that bad, the trouble you're in?'

Gorev shrugged. 'It might be wiser not to ask, Ishim.'

'How do you feel?'

'Better, thanks to you. You have my gratitude.'

'It's not gratitude I want, Nikolai. An explanation would be enough.'

'Ishim ... '

Razan put up a hand to silence Gorev's protest. They moved over the bridge spanning the stream, and when they crossed it Razan indicated the bench. 'Sit with me, if you can.'

Discomfort etched Gorev's face as he eased himself on to the bench, joining the Chechen. 'Why do I get the feeling I'm about to be cross-examined?'

Razan gazed out at the gardens. 'Last night, when your friend brought you here, I was concerned by what had happened to you. We've been through a lot together, Nikolai. And we have never lied to each other, not ever.'

'What's your point?'

'I was troubled. Not only by your injury, but also by the fact that your friend Safa, or whatever her name is, admitted the police were involved. Except she refused to tell me what you were both up to.'

'She was right, Ishim.' Gorev shook his head. 'This is really none of your business.'

'Except I made it my business.'

'What do you mean?'

'You're an old and valued comrade. You arrive here badly wounded — by a grenade no less — and barely conscious. So imagine my predicament. What am I to think? Did I need to make contact with our friends in Grozny and let them know? The whole affair was a puzzle. So after the doctor left, I made some calls to Chechnya.'

'Ishim ... '

'I managed to get in touch with Hadik Selan, no less. I thought that if anyone knew what you were up to, it had to be one of the most senior resistance commanders.'

Gorev's face darkened. 'And?'

'Selan claimed to know nothing. He could think of no reason why you might be here. But Selan's as wily as a fox. Whether he was telling the truth or not is beyond me.'

'What else did he say?'

'Not much. The line was bad. Our talk lasted no more than a few minutes. But he suggested that if you needed my help in any way, I might offer it. Do you, Nikolai?'

'Not any more.' Gorev shook his head again, uneasy. 'Did you say my name over the telephone?'

'Why?'

'It may not have been wise, Ishim. The Russian listening posts in Grozny try to intercept Selan's conversations over the radio or telephone, as they do with every Chechen commander.'

'Don't you think I know that? And I'm wise enough not to compromise you or Selan in any way. Your family name wasn't mentioned. And Selan is as careful about what he says over the phone as I am.'

Gorev stood, his face troubled. 'No matter, it's done.'

Razan's frustration showed. 'What the hell are you up to, Nikolai?'

'I can't discuss it, Ishim. And believe me, the less you know the better. You may already have put yourself in danger by helping me. So I ask you not to tell anyone I was here. You haven't seen me. Understand? You can't betray me.'

'That would never happen. I'd protect you with my life if I had to, you know that.'

Gorev nodded, then looked at his watch. 'What time did Safa say she'd be here?'

'She ought to be arriving soon.'

'Then let's get back up to the house.'

As they crossed the bridge, Razan halted, put a hand on Gorev's arm. 'I have one more question.'

'No — no more, Ishim.'

'It has nothing to do with our talk. This woman, Safa, do you love her?'

'What's it to you?'

'It's a simple question, Nikolai. There's no trickery in my asking. You trust me, don't you?'

'More than any man I know.'

'Then tell me. For a start, is Safa really her name?'

Gorev hesitated. 'No. It's Karla.'

'Tell me about her. How did you meet?'

'In Moscow, at the university. It was another life, long before you and I served together.'

'She meant something to you back then?'

'More than I'd care to admit.'

Razan studied Gorev's face, then turned away, gazed towards some distant point on the horizon. 'Despite all your virtues, and the esteem I hold you in, you're a strange man, Nikolai.'

'In what way strange?'

'In my line of business, I've had to learn to be a good judge of a man's character. My life might depend on it. So I'm going to be honest with you. In all the years we've been friends, I never knew of a woman you truly loved. For you, there was never time. There were women along the way, of course, and quite a few of them loved you, I'm sure. And why not? You were always charming a handsome, intelligent officer who commanded respect. It's easy to see how they found you attractive.'

'Ishim ... '

'I don't say all this to embarrass you, only to help you understand yourself. Because you see, you could never really love in return. You were always too intent on other things — your work or a career or a cause. I'm sure the psychologists could make something of it: how the past can mould a man, how losing his parents at such a young age can sometimes make him reluctant to commit to any kind of relationship, because there's the fear of losing those he might love, yet again. It's so much easier to keep people at arm's length by committing to a career or a cause. There isn't the fear of rejection, of being let down.'

'What is this, Ishim? Some kind of amateur psychiatry?'

'Maybe it is, but hear me out. You see, I get the feeling that this Karla was entirely different where you were concerned. When it comes to feelings between a man and a woman, there is always the lover and the loved, we both know that. And while I get the impression that perhaps she loved you more than you loved her, she still had a place in your heart. She was important in your life. Perhaps more than you ever imagined?'

'Perhaps.'

'And on reflection, when it was over between you, it was only then you realised the truth. That you knew you should not have let her go, should have taken the risk and committed yourself. That she was a good woman, the kind a man would be proud to have as a wife. But at the time you didn't take the risk, did you?'

'No.'

'Tell me why.'

Gorev tossed away his cigarette. 'It's complicated, Ishim. Who knows? Maybe there's truth in what you said about my past, of being wary of pledging myself to someone. But Karla only came to Moscow for a year. When the time came for her to leave, we had to go our separate ways, and with good reason. She wasn't really free. She was engaged to be married, had a career and a cause that were important to her. You see, it's never simple, is it?'

'But I get the feeling she would have ventured everything to be with you.'

'Maybe you're right. But then I didn't, did I?'

'And is she free now?'

'Yes.'

'Do you love her?'

'Ishim, it's been so many years since Karla and I were together ... '

'I'm an old friend, Nikolai. Don't look so embarrassed. And even if you haven't slept together in years, it's immaterial. Do you love her?'

'Yes, I love her.'

'Then can I give you some advice?'

'I get the feeling I'm going to hear it anyway.'

'When this business of yours is over, go live yourself a normal life. Settle down. Our time's too short, Nikolai, and with you, there's always been a battle. It's time you forgot the battle and smelled the roses.'

'And what about the cause?'

'There are always others to take up the torch. But you, you've fought too long and too hard, and at the expense of everything important in your life. Karla loves you. And from what you've told me, and my own intuition, I'm inclined to think she's loved you a very long time, and far more deeply that you could imagine. Except she's not the kind to say. With her, emotions run deep, but she doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve. She's a good woman, Nikolai. Take my advice, don't risk losing her a second time.'

'Those seven sisters of yours have a lot to answer for, Ishim. You're turning into quite a counsellor in your middle age, you know that?'

'I know, but don't dare tell my men.' Razan smiled faintly, then turned away as one of his guards appeared along the path. The man came over, whispered in Razan's ear, and his boss dismissed him. Gorev said, 'What's wrong?'

'Your friend has arrived. Let's not keep her waiting.' Razan nodded towards the mansion.

At the rear of the property, near the guards' security room, Gorev saw Karla step out. She waved, and he waved back. Then he turned, laid a hand on Razan's shoulder. 'You know I can't stay here, Ishim.'

The Chechen pursed his lips, nodded. 'There's an old saying: It comes as God wills. It applies particularly to men like us. However carefully you plan, one of these days someone turns up where they shouldn't. The gun that's never been known to jam does. That's what will kill you in the end, and me, when we least expect it. So whatever it is you're doing, I beg you, be careful, Nikolai.'

'I intend to be.'

'Then the rest, it seems, is in the hands of fate.'

Fifteen minutes later, Razan was in his study, smoking a cigar. He saw the Plymouth retreat down the driveway, Nikolai in the passenger seat, the woman driving. The door opened behind him, and the guard who had spoken to him in the garden came in. 'You sent for me, Ishim?'

'Tell Yegori and the men to call off their surveillance. Tell them it's over. They're to return from Chesapeake immediately.'

'Yes, Ishim.'

The guard left. Razan turned back to the window, watched as the Plymouth's red tail-lights disappeared out through the open gates. Whatever it was Nikolai and the woman were up to, he had the distinct feeling it was no longer any of his business.

FBI Headquarters Washington, DC 13 November 8.15 a.m.

The streets around the Hoover building had been sealed off. Metropolitan police vehicles and barriers blocked the entrances, squads of police and FBI agents manned the boundaries, and no one was allowed to pass without a thorough check of their ID. Half a dozen fire tenders were still parked either end of the headquarters' 10th Street entrance, the crews helping to sift through the bomb debris, watched over by a couple of vigilant FBI forensic teams.

Kursk and Morgan pushed their way past the TV crews hanging around the cordon, and went up the steps and in through the undamaged passageway on E Street. When they got past the tight security check — ID verification, a metal detector arch and a body frisk — they took the elevator up to the sixth floor. The hallways were in chaos, with staff moving furniture from the bomb-damaged east side to hastily reallocated office space in the other three wings.

'I'm betting Jack won't get in until early afternoon,' Morgan said. 'He's going to need at least that much sleep. Help yourself to a coffee, Alexei. Meantime, I'll go see what's been happening.'

When Morgan had left, Kursk poured a cup of coffee from the percolator in the corner, then crossed to the window, looked down into the street. The embassy counsellor he had been instructed to contact had listened to his report of the previous night's events, as well as the state of progress of the FBI hunt, and Kursk knew that the moment he had hung up his information would be relayed immediately to Moscow.

As he stood there, he studied the massive blast damage on the opposite side of the street: the shattered windows and facades of office buildings, stores and restaurants. He grimaced, realised that whatever foolish glimmer of hope he had harboured of convincing Nikolai Gorev to halt this madness was gone. Nikolai was a dead man walking, no matter what way it turned out, whether the device went off or not. Kursk knew he would be hunted down relentlessly, wherever he tried to hide. Even if he were caught alive, the Russian charge of treason against him, alone, would ensure a harsh punishment: execution by firing squad.

Morgan came back, shaking his head. 'Murphy's tearing his hair out. Seems like we're going nowhere fast, except down a dead end.'

'What about the hospitals and private surgeries?'

'Our guys finished checking them out half an hour ago. Nobody matching Gorev's description turned up.'

Kursk put down his coffee. He went over to the wall map, studied it, his brow furrowed in thought. Morgan said, 'What's up, Alexei?'

'You checked all doctors of Chechen or Arab background in the search area?'

'Sure.'

'But not Russian.'

'Russians weren't on the list.'

'Perhaps they should have been.'

Morgan rubbed his jaw. 'See your point. It's also possible we're completely wasting our time here. Gorev might not have been wounded badly enough to even need a doctor.' He shrugged. 'But OK, I'll go mention it to Murphy, see what he says about tying up more manpower.'

As Morgan moved to leave, Kursk had another thought. It was a gamble, he knew — a hopeless gamble, and time was against him — but the more he considered it, the more he realised he had nothing to lose. He gestured to the telephone. 'I'd like to make a call'

'Sure. Dial nine to get an outside line.'

Morgan left and closed the door. Kursk picked up the receiver and punched in the number.

Chesapeake 1.15 p.m.

It was turning cold out on Winston Bay that early afternoon, the wind blowing in ragged gusts as Gorev and Karla pulled up outside the cottage. On the veranda, Mohamed Rashid stepped out, glared at them both. 'So, you're back.'

Gorev slammed the Plymouth's door. 'I had a slight detour.'

Rashid grunted. 'So I heard. But you're still alive, I see.' He jerked a thumb. 'Inside, both of you. We need to talk.'

'What's wrong?' Gorev asked.

'There's been a change of plan.'

Washington, DC 12.02 p.m.

Harry Judd was a troubled man.

It was the FBI Director — seated beside Judd's boss — who troubled him. Or more to the point, what the FBI Director had to say. For thirty minutes, Judd had listened as Douglas Stevens spoke, and he could hardly believe his ears. He was still trying to get over the biggest shock in his Secret Service career when the Director finished. 'You're saying there might be a mole in the White House? Someone helping these terrorists?'

'Given the evidence, it's a distinct possibility,' Stevens replied. 'And I hesitate to use the word mole, Mr Judd. Traitor may prove to be the more apt word, despicable as it sounds.'

Judd had heard Stevens' 'evidence' and still found it incredible that al-Qaeda might have managed to plant a source of intelligence within the White House. 'If you don't mind me asking, sir, where do I fit in?'

'We want you to help try to find whoever it might be,' Rob Owens, the Assistant Director of Protection, answered. 'And we need to find them fast. You've got our full authority to use whatever means you have to, Harry.'

'This is a joint operation, right? The FBI and the Service working together.'

'Correct,' Stevens replied. 'Why, is that a problem, Mr Judd?'

Who are you kidding? Judd thought. It was definitely a problem. A long-standing rivalry existed between the Secret Service and the Federal Bureau; a mistrust that sometimes caused enough friction to generate sparks. The FBI had a presence in the White House, but it was mostly confined to running background checks on anyone applying to work there. As far as the Secret Service was concerned, the Feds were butt-heads — four-hundred-pound gorillas who liked to flex their muscles. And because of petty rivalries and jealousies, it wasn't uncommon for either party to refuse to disclose information to the other.

The FBI Director seemed to anticipate Judd's scepticism. 'Normally, the Bureau would be expected to take the lead, but in this case it seems likely the source may be operating principally on Secret Service territory, so we'll be working hand in glove. Don't worry, Mr Judd. At least this once, I promise you, everyone's going to singing from the same hymn sheet — there will be total and absolute co-operation between the Service and the Bureau. You have my solemn word on that.'

Judd would believe that when he saw it. 'So where do we start?'

The FBI Director started to pace the room. 'We'll begin by re-examining the background checks on every member of the National Security Council — everyone, obviously, except the President. Time's against us, so we can't afford to waste precious hours by working this investigation in stages. We'll go at it with all barrels. Straight away we also tap their phones — home and office numbers. We also watch their wives, girlfriends and secretaries. See where they go, who they talk to.'

Judd raised an eyebrow. 'We're talking about invading the privacy of some heavy hitters. Important people.'

'We're also talking about a possible serious breach of national security, Harry, so let us worry about that,' Owens told him.

'What about their emails?'

'We'll get a writ for those, if need be,' Stevens answered, but knew that such a requirement would only apply to personal computers that were the private property of individuals he deemed suspect. Most of the personal computers used by NSC members — especially those located in the White House or government buildings — had been paid for by the government, and as such were government property, so no writ would be needed. The Secret Service also had at its disposal the technical ability to hack into almost any computer, anywhere in the US. 'Trawl through them all in the last month. Any patterns or suspicious calls, we subpoena the phone company and find out where he or she phoned. If, within twenty-four hours, we've come up with nothing, we expand it out to everyone working in the White House — military personnel, every office worker, every Secret Service agent, right down the chain of hierarchy. But whoever it is, it stands to reason they had to have access to the situation room and/or the Oval Office, so we use that to narrow it down. How often are both rooms swept for bugs?'

The Secret Service carried out routine electronic countermeasures, checking the White House, Camp David and presidential vehicles and aircraft for ESIDs — electronic surreptitious intelligence devices. 'Every day,' Judd replied. 'Maybe even hourly, if we feel it's necessary. Especially if there's been access to any of the mansion's rooms by official visitors, foreign or otherwise. Or if the President has had guests staying over. It doesn't matter if it's his political buddies or a Hollywood star. No one's above suspicion. We sweep the rooms they've been in. The same applies if one of the secretaries gets a bunch of flowers delivered. We sweep the bouquet.'

Stevens turned to Rob Owens. 'I'm not doubting your thoroughness, Rob, but is it possible you could have missed a highly sophisticated listening device?'

'I really doubt it. The sweeps are very thorough, and the equipment we use is the best in the business.' Owens sounded confident, but then he immediately said to Judd, 'To be on the safe side, we better sweep the sit-room and Oval Office again, right away. But make sure it's done discreetly, when they're empty. We don't want to tip our hand. And you better examine the log books of our guys on NSC protection duty. Take particular note of any break in the patterns of the Council members' movements over the last few days. A hint of anything unusual, I want to hear about it.'

'Yes, sir.'

Owens got up from his chair. 'Report back here to me at six p.m. Or sooner if you've got something, Harry.'

Judd rose, scratched the hollow in his nose, hesitated before he said to the FBI Director, 'I've got a question.'

'Ask away.'

'You said run checks on everyone on the Council, except the President. I'm presuming you didn't mean yourself included?'

Stevens shook his head. 'Even me, Mr Judd.'

Chesapeake 13 November 1.25 p.m.