Resurrection Day (54 page)

The first thing he did was check his phone and cellphone for messages. There were none. Then he called the hospital. While he was waiting to be put through to the critical-care unit, it occurred to him that he should call Nikki's mother, tell her what had happened, in case she didn't already know: he'd do it before he left the apartment. A few moments later he was put through to a duty nurse, but she told him Nikki was still resting and that there was no change in Daniel's condition. When he put down the receiver he was trembling. He looked in the mirror. His eyes were haunted, dark and bloodshot. He felt bands of tension across his chest and forehead, and his head throbbed with anxiety. He sucked oxygen deep into his lungs, slowed his racing heartbeat, then rubbed his temples, trying to calm his jangling nerves.

His tortured dreams had been of Nikki and Daniel, of Sean and Annie. And of facing Mohamed Rashid and exacting his retribution. For so long he'd felt no emotion. As if each tear he'd shed for his wife and son had carried away with it a small amount of feeling. But now he was feeling again, and with a malignant intensity. His life, and the people in it whom he loved, had again been ravaged by the same man. The need for revenge incited a cold rage in him that he knew only someone's death could assuage. He would control it, but it would also control him. He would not feel like a whole man again until he was purged of it. Only then could he find peace.

Ten minutes later he had showered, dressed and strapped on his gun. He grabbed his car keys, but before he headed to the lobby he called Morgan. His cellphone answered on the first ring. 'How you feeling, Jack?'

'I've got a headache you wouldn't believe.'

'Couldn't sleep?'

'Not much. Any news?'

'Our guys called at Karla Sharif's old address in New York and visited her former neighbours. It was so far back most of them could hardly remember the family ever living there, and those that did were sure they hadn't seen her around. She's got no relatives Stateside that we could find.'

'Anything else?'

'We turned up about two dozen properties in Maryland rented to Arab tenants, mostly families. They're all clean, and pretty much above suspicion, except for one Yemeni guy we pulled in for questioning who's been in the country about six months. The car in his garage turned out to be stolen. But he's scared shitless and being co-operative. It turns out he bought the car off a dodgy lot over in Baltimore. The guy's dumb, but he's no terrorist, Jack.'

'What about the cargo manifests, the ports and airports?'

'Still negative. There's a million ways they could have got their stuff in, Jack, we both know that. We could crack it, for sure, if we had the time and the manpower. But we haven't got either. It's getting to the stage where I'd give my left nut for a single good lead. Any word from the hospital?'

'There's no change, Lou. Where's Kursk?'

'Made a phone call about an hour ago and then disappeared. Haven't seen him since.'

'Where the hell did he go?'

'Didn't say. Just that he'd be back soon.'

George Washington Hospital 12.30 p.m.

'I'm Dr Bill Wolensa, Miss Dean. I operated on Daniel.'

The doctor wore an old Aran sweater, jeans and sneakers. He was unshaven, his hair ruffled, as if he'd just been roused from bed. He offered Nikki a faint smile, rubbed his stubble. 'Sorry about my appearance. It's been a hectic night and I've been trying to grab a few hours' sleep in one of the staffrooms down the hall.'

When the nurse had returned to tell her the doctor was coming, Nikki had insisted on getting out of bed. The nurse protested, but Nikki had her way. She sat on a chair, feeling shaky, the tubes still attached. Her nerves were fraught as Wolensa picked up her chart, studied it. 'You seem to be doing OK. You feeling all right? Don't worry about the facial bruises and the arm, they'll heal ... '

'What about Daniel, Doctor ... ?'

Wolensa put down the chart, pulled up the other chair, turned it round, sat. He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger before looking up. 'Not too good, I'm afraid.'

Nikki's heart sank. Her knuckles were bone white, gripping her gown as Wolensa explained everything. 'Your little boy's been through the mill. He's stable, but he hasn't really improved. It's the spleen we're worried about. We're monitoring him all the time and the one good thing I can tell you is that he hasn't got worse. But he hasn't got better either.'

Nikki put her head in her hands.

'Miss Dean ... I told your partner, Mr Collins — I'm assuming he's your partner — that the paramedics got Daniel here just in time. Any later and we wouldn't have had any hope at all. So at least there's that to be grateful for.'

Nikki looked up, wiped her eyes. 'When can I see him?'

'I'm afraid that's impossible right now.' The doctor explained why. 'I'm really sorry, but it wouldn't be good for Daniel. Even if he woke and saw you looking in, he might only get upset that his mom couldn't be by his side. And it's him we have to think about, don't you agree?'

Nikki gave a weak nod. The doctor's answer didn't lessen her torment. She felt a desperate need to be with her son. 'What ... what about Jack?'

'You mean Mr Collins? He had a couple of cracked ribs, some concussion, cuts and bruises. But otherwise he's going to be OK.'

'Can I see him?

'I'm afraid he's not here.'

'What ... what do you mean?'

'I spoke with him this morning, about seven. He was anxious to know about you and your son. Then it seems he discharged himself without consulting the medical staff.'

'Where did he go?'

'I've no idea. His concussion is still a cause for concern. Really, he should be in hospital.'

The thought crossed Nikki's mind that Jack might have returned to FBI Headquarters. 'Do you know what caused the explosion, Doctor?'

Wolensa shrugged. 'Only what one of the staff told me when they heard the latest news bulletin. It seems it was deliberate, a massive truck bomb that wrecked part of the Hoover building. No one's claimed responsibility. The FBI are speculating that it might have been a Patriot group. Some patriots. The survivors' injuries were horrific. There're at least thirteen dead and several others missing.'

'Please, Doctor, I really need to see Daniel. You can't understand the worry I'm going through ... '

'I can only try to, Miss Dean.' Wolensa shook his head, sighed at the desperation in Nikki's voice. 'Perhaps later we can arrange for one of the nurses to let you see him through the glass, though only for a couple of moments. But right now, he's in good hands, I want you to know that, and we're doing our very best.'

Nikki was numb as Wolensa put a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to reassure her. She didn't feel encouraged, rather lost, and scared. Terribly scared. The doctor's hand fell away. 'If you'll excuse me now, I've got some other patients to check on.'

When he had left, Nikki slumped in the chair. She was too shocked to move. At that moment she just wanted to hold Daniel, feel his tiny body close to hers, smother him with love. Her anguish felt like a knife stuck in her chest, almost too much to bear, and she was close to breaking point. She suddenly understood the intensity of grief Jack must have felt when he'd lost Sean, and she wanted to cry, as much for him as for herself.

What had happened to Jack? Why had he discharged himself? Where had he gone? She fumbled on her bedside locker, searching for her cellphone to call him, but it wasn't there, nor were her clothes. She desperately wanted to call her editor, call anyone, tell them that her senses were screaming out that something was terribly wrong in this city and that people had a right to know. And she wanted to call her mother; she didn't want to upset her, but she had to tell her about Daniel.

She tried to concentrate, but she was agitated, her thoughts jumbled, interrupted by her concern for Daniel. She remembered the military activity at Reagan, and the warehouse near Daniel's preschool. She remembered the police exercise and Brad Stelman's suspicion that he was being followed, his fear that something odd was happening in the District. She remembered Jack's discomfort when she had questioned him. Above all, she remembered the horrendous explosion. They all added up in her tormented mind as in some way connected, telling her that something frightening was going on. What that something was she didn't know.

She thought: I have to tell someone. If she could find her cellphone she could call her editor. Tell him what she knew, get an investigative team working on it, and once they found out what was happening, plaster it all over the paper.

She was still agitated when the nurse returned, insisting she get back into bed. 'I ... I need my cellphone. I have to call someone,' Nikki begged.

'I'll find it for you, honey. But for now, just do as I ask, or we're both going to get into big trouble.' The nurse guided her into bed. 'Your mom called, she's on her way over. She sounded pretty upset and wanted to see you, but the doctor says you've got to relax, so it's no use you being in a state, that won't do anybody any good. I'll give you something to help.'

The nurse made her swallow a couple of yellow pills with a glass of water. In a little while the sedative flooded Nikki's veins, overwhelmed her, and she closed her eyes and surrendered to darkness again.

Chesapeake 6.30 p.m.

At the cottage in Winston Bay the rain was still coming down in sheets. The Plymouth wasn't anywhere to be seen. When they went inside the cottage, Gorev piled a few logs on the fire and touched a match to some knots of old newspaper. As the logs started to blaze, he peeled off his motorcycle leathers and left them to dry.

'At least we've got the place to ourselves.' He removed his shirt, and Karla helped him change his dressing, while he examined the wound, before she put on a fresh bandage. 'The stitches seem all right and it hasn't bled again. It must be healing.'

'Has the pain gone?'

'Almost.' Gorev smiled. 'But a drink might help.'

Karla finished what she was doing, threw the soiled dressing on the fire, then went into the kitchen. She came back with the bottle of vodka and two glasses, placed them on the coffee table, and turned on the TV, flicking through the channels with the remote. Gorev said, 'What are you looking for?'

'News about the blast.'

'Don't torture yourself, Karla.'

She flicked the remote anyway, until she found the CNN news channel. A correspondent stood behind a police barrier near the end of 10th Street, microphone in hand, giving a live update on the damage to the FBI Headquarters and nearby buildings, his report peppered with details of the dead and injured.

As Gorev poured them each a vodka, he failed to notice the expression sweeping across Karla's face as she watched the TV. It remained there just an instant, a strange, distant gaze full of compassion and horror, fear and disgust. Gorev finished pouring, offered her a drink. 'Here, steady your nerves.'

'No, suddenly I don't feel like it, Nikolai.' Tension braided Karla's face as she nicked off the TV.

Gorev said, 'You look exhausted. Maybe you should try and sleep for a few hours?'

She didn't answer, crossed to the window, looked out at the rain lashing the glass, her face white. Gorev went to join her, touched her shoulder, gently turned her round. 'Tell me what the matter is.'

'I keep thinking about the people who were killed last night. Fathers, mothers, sons, daughters. It's just more senseless slaughter.'

Gorev put down his glass, looked into her face. 'You shouldn't blame yourself, Karla. It was Rashid's bloody handiwork, nothing to do with us.'

'Wasn't it? We're part of this too. There's no use saying we're innocent, Nikolai.'

'Don't lump us in with Rashid and his friends. We have different motives.'

'But it all comes down to the same thing in the end. Could you really live with yourself if Rashid sets off the device? We both know he's crazy enough to do it.'

'That's not going to happen. He'll follow his orders. Besides, the Americans have already agreed to the terms. We've won, we're getting what we wanted. And when the time comes, the device will be disarmed.'

'What if it goes off accidentally in the meantime? Have you thought of that? What if the streets are filled with thousands of dead and dying, something far worse than anything that happened last night? Would it have been worth it, Nikolai?'

There was a bitterness, an anger, in her voice Gorev had never heard before. 'What's got into you, Karla? Are you having second thoughts again?'

Karla shook her head, stress showing in her eyes. 'I really don't want to talk about it. Some day perhaps, if we ever come through this alive, but not now, not tonight.'

Gorev put a hand out to her face. 'I'm getting worried about you, you know that?'

'Don't be.' Karla took his hand away. 'And now, if you don't mind, I think I'll get some sleep.'

Washington, DC 1.15 p.m.

The Russian embassy on Wisconsin Avenue is one of the largest in Washington, a post-modern structure of glass and burnished steel, with banks of satellite communications dishes and aerials bristling on the roof. When the cab pulled up, Kursk paid the driver and approached the embassy's bullet-proof security booth. He showed his ID and passport, explained his business, and the guard on duty made a call to the main building.

As he waited, Kursk noticed a couple of private security vans parked in the embassy grounds, a handful of staff wheeling out trolleys laden with heavy cardboard boxes, helping to load them into the vans. The guard came back, handed him his ID and passport and pressed an electronic buzzer, opening the metal gate to admit him. 'You're expected, Major. First Secretary Lazarev will meet you in reception.'

Washington, DC 1.30 p.m.

Next on Harry Judd's list were the log books.

They were the records agents kept of their activities while on protection duty — the schedule of the protectee who was in their custody, the times, dates and places where the agents had accompanied them on official duty. But the agent logs divulged more than that — invariably they showed up the habits of the protectee, their routines, their absences, any unusual incidents. If any one of the NSC had strayed from their usual patterns of activity, then there was a good chance it would be revealed in the log books. Judd had a feeling that they might be the key.

He entered the drab, greystone Victorian-era, Old Executive Building across the street from the West Wing, where the Secret Service had their White House bureau, and took the elevator up. Darlene, the down-to-earth Texan woman who ran the office, looked up, smiled cheerfully. 'Harry, how's it hanging?'

'No longer than usual, Darlene. The log books for the last month, I'd like to see them.'

'Which ones?'

'All of 'em.'

Washington, DC 1.31 p.m.