Resurrection Day (56 page)

Collins spent the best part of the afternoon checking around the offices of the teams working the District's streets, to see whether there were any leads he could follow up. Dozens had already warranted investigation.

That morning, just before ten, a known petty thief had fingered two young Arab-looking men he'd spotted buying heroin from a dealer on 14th Street. After following the men back to a Holiday Inn several blocks away, the thief had called his FBI contact. An undercover team had been dispatched, along with two technicians. With the hotel manager's help, the room next door to the Arabs' was taken over, their phone tapped, several 'scope' probes passed through some holes drilled in the walls to help observe the suspects, together with sensitive listening devices. The two men had taken the heroin and lain on their beds to enjoy their trip. Later, at lunch-time, when they left the hotel to visit a local grocery store, their room had been entered and searched, their personal belongings gone through, and their identities verified — the suspects were no more than the errant sons of DC-based Arab diplomats, indulging in some recreational drug-taking.

A small warehouse recently rented in Georgetown was watched by another undercover team from the Secret Service, and turned up a racket in stolen electrical goods run by a Palestinian immigrant and an American-born accomplice. A tip-off from a prostitute about the 'suspicious' occupant of a lodging house in the south-east district had led to the arrest of an escaped convict, on the run for over two years.

Then there were the tip-offs that deliberately wasted valuable time: people on the street with grudges or scores to settle, who wanted to make trouble for real or imagined enemies. Who wanted to ingratiate themselves with the FBI or Secret Service, or hoped for a pay-off for their 'help'. Pimps and hustlers, gang members, petty thieves and prostitutes had given numerous false leads, but they still had to be run down. Agents were still pounding the streets, trying to wheedle information, but up to now everything had drawn blanks. Everything and anything was turning up except the right information.

Outside the District, Collins knew that farmhouses, barns, silos, storage depots, warehouses and deserted buildings of any kind had been visited, and when investigated and cleared were scratched off the list that had been drawn up with the help of the tax authorities and government agencies. The same for chemical suppliers, farms that purchased larger-than-usual quantities of organophosphates, and cropdusting businesses. Almost eighty per cent of the list had already been cleared.

Within the twenty-five-mile radius of the teenagers' murder site in Maryland, occupants of rental properties had been discreetly visited by FBI agents posing as insurance salesmen or disguised as pizza delivery staff or telephone repair engineers, their job being to get a close look at the tenants and report back on anyone suspicious or remotely resembling the suspects.

Hundreds of Arab, Chechen and Palestinian illegals had also been tracked down, and their identities and activities established. Hundreds more remained on the register, dozens of whom were believed to be still unaccounted for in the District, or nearby Virginia and Maryland.

Most Bureau investigations, like this one, were methodical, plodding affairs. Pyramid shaped, they started from a wide base and proceeded up, by relentless investigation over weeks or months, to a summit point that produced results. But Collins knew the grim, disturbing truth, one that made him feel like a man waiting for the executioner's bullet. With so little time — hours, not weeks or months — there was absolutely no way they were going to get through everything before the deadline.

Tom Murphy came into the office just after 3 p.m.. His pallor was grey, his eyes bloodshot from lack of proper sleep, his shirt and tie askew. He poured a glass of water for himself and slumped into a chair. His voice shook.

'I've just had a meeting with the Assistant Director and the department heads. It's panic stations, Jack. Everyone's in a state of near-hysteria that we can't crack this. The Assistant Director's getting calls from the White House every half-hour, wanting to know what progress we've made, if we've any news. That tells you what kind of a state they're in over at the mansion.' Murphy took a couple of Tylenol from his pocket, swallowed them down with the water, massaged his brow. 'My head's fit to burst. This keeps up, they're going to carry me out of here in a box, long before midnight. Where's Lou and the major?'

'Lou's trying to grab some sleep in one of the offices. Kursk went out more than three hours ago and hasn't come back.'

'He say where he was going?'

'Lou said he didn't. Just that he'd be back.'

'Maybe you should call his apartment?'

The door opened and Agent Larry Soames appeared, clutching some sheets of computer print-out paper. 'Tom, you got a minute?'

'What is it, Larry?'

'We've got a problem. We've still got twenty-three Palestinian, Arab and Chechen-born illegals to try and locate, establish what they've been doing. We've also got a dozen more rental properties — three apartments, twelve houses — that turned up on the books of a small real estate firm in Prince's County that we missed earlier.'

'What's the problem?'

'Manpower, as usual.' Soames handed Murphy the sheets. 'There aren't enough bodies to get through all this shit before midnight.'

'Any of the illegals high priority?'

'At least four.'

Murphy studied the sheets, considered. 'Was the real estate agent shown the suspects' photographs?'

'That's the problem. The lucky bastard's where I'd like to be right now — sunning his ass in Bermuda. We spoke to his secretary over the phone, but she only joined the firm a couple of months back and didn't have anything to do with vetting the tenants, and says she hasn't seen any of them in the flesh, doesn't know if any of them are Arab. Most of the properties are along the Chesapeake coast, and a few are inland. She's given us a list of the tenants' names, but that means nothing — anyone can give an alias once they pay cash up front. We tried to get through to her boss at his hotel, had him paged even, but got no reply, either way. Which means we got to check all twelve.'

'How many more agents do you need?'

'At least a dozen.'

Murphy gave a frustrated sigh, stood and rubbed his throbbing forehead. 'All we've got to spare are eight guys who just finished working a double shift. Better put them on the rented properties.'

'It's not enough, Tom.'

Murphy turned crimson, his frustration exploding. 'I know it's not frigging enough, but Jesus, Larry, I'm not a frigging magician. I just can't make up the numbers, so you'll have to take what I can frigging give you and do the best with it, OK?' He ran a hand over his face, took a couple of breaths, trying to calm down, then turned to Collins. 'Jack, you and Lou take some of the illegals. Take Kursk with you if you can find him. Larry will fill you in. If something hot comes up in the meantime we'll get in touch. OK, Larry? Happy now?'

'Sure,' Larry said, deadpan. 'Ecstatic. I'm doing my frigging best too, Tom, you know. You're not the only one with frigging problems.'

As he went out the door, Morgan brushed past him, coming in. He yawned, scratched his head. 'What's got a bug up Larry's ass?'

'His temper's getting a little frayed, like the rest of us,' Murphy growled. 'You get some sleep?'

'Two hours on a floor with a coat over me.'

'That's two hours more than I've had. I've got a job for you and Jack. Larry will tell you.' Murphy started to leave, hesitated, said to Collins, 'With all that's been going on, I forgot to ask how's Nikki and her little boy? Any change?'

Collins shook his head. 'I checked with the hospital just before you came in. I'll check later.'

Murphy put a hand on his shoulder. 'I know you're worried, Jack, but you can't do anything to help them. Our butts are to the wall, so maybe it's best you concentrate on the work. You'll be doing them both a favour.'

Washington., DC 3.35 p.m.

At the Old Executive Building, Harry Judd had spent two hours going through the protection-duty log books. The logs were sheets of computer-generated print-outs that were punch-holed and stored in black-covered loose binders.

Outside the White House, each protectee could have a half dozen agents guarding them. Inside, protection was looser: usually down to a couple of agents slewing around the protectee in the background, but always near by, in case they were needed. If anything unusual was going to show up, Judd reckoned, it would most likely be during the closely guarded periods when the protectees were operating outside the confines of the White House.

Despite the plentiful cups of coffee Darlene brought him, by the end of the second hour Judd was getting bleary eyed reading through the hundreds of logs. He had a notebook by his side, and meticulously jotted down anything irregular he spotted. Protectees were human: like everyone else they had to stop for a leak, take detours home in case of family emergencies, or change schedules at the last minute.

But he did note that three of the NSC members had made several last-minute deviations from their external schedules. In the last month, Charles Rivermount had made three unscheduled stops at the Atlanta offices of his oil firm for urgent private meetings. Two of them, Judd noted, were with a Saudi sheikh named Nabil al-Khalid. The Arab name made Judd suspicious, and he noted that the last meeting with al-Khalid had been ten days earlier. As well as that, two days previously Rivermount had gone 'missing' for an hour. Rivermount, Judd knew, had a mistress, a Mississippi woman whom he kept in a privately rented apartment off Wisconsin Avenue. Secret Service agents had to allow for that kind of thing — whether or not they disapproved was immaterial, they were expected to use their discretion. The log noted that the agents protecting Rivermount had constantly remained near by — two at the end of the hallway outside the apartment, two in the lobby, two in a car outside. But Judd reckoned it wouldn't have been impossible for Rivermount, if he was determined enough, to slip out the back way for another rendezvous near by. Or, with his mistress's collusion, meet someone already waiting and hidden in the apartment.

Next was General Bud Horton. Unusual for a military man noted for being punctual, he had delayed official appointments on three occasions in the last two weeks. The delays were caused by private meetings in the home of another four-star general in Arlington. The agents on protection duty had remained outside the house, on Horton's instructions. Another incident had occurred when Horton — a man who hated being surrounded by 'civilian guards' — had insisted on leaving the White House alone, and out of uniform, after an NSC meeting twenty-four hours previously. Horton had said he needed air and wanted to go for a 'brisk walk'. The general sometimes had a short fuse — there had been other flare-ups Judd knew of, when Horton had complained bitterly about 'being baby-sat twenty-four hours a day and watched every time I go to the John'.

The third, and last, was Bob Rapp. He had an apartment on G Street, and on at least three occasions in the last month had insisted on entering another apartment block near by without his Secret Service protection detail accompanying him. Rapp, in his late forties, was unmarried, and a private man. Despite that he'd had public dalliances with several women over the years, although Judd had heard rumours that he was a closet homosexual. There was no overt evidence to prove it, but Judd knew that if rumours of this kind were made public they could destroy a man of Rapp's calibre and standing.

Judd didn't give a damn what the man did in his private life that was his own business. His visits to the nearby apartment block were not part of a long-established pattern. Sure, Rapp might have a new boyfriend, but it would have to be checked out.

Judd jotted down the three names, details of the incidents, and noted the names of the agents working the duties. He was still reading through the logs when the phone rang on Darlene's desk, distracting him. 'Sure, he's here,' Darlene answered, and cupped the mouthpiece. 'It's for you, Harry.'

Judd crossed to her desk, took the receiver. 'Judd.'

'Harry, it's Rob. Making any progress?'

'Some. Got a few things I need to run down.'

'Good. Drop what you're doing and meet me down at headquarters straight away.'

'What's up?'

'Just get down here, Harry. It's about the FBI background checks. We've got something.'

Moscow

In the shadow of St Basil's Cathedral the chimes of the Kremlin clock were tolling 8.30 p.m. as the convoy of official cars filtered in below the east tower, then turned into the cobbled, snow-covered courtyard.

A weary Vasily Kuzmin, standing at his office window, hands behind his back, watched as the procession of vehicles began to disgorge their passengers, before the members of his council quickly made their way in through the set of double oak doors. Among them he spotted his feisty Interior Minister, Anatoli Sergeyev, the Justice Minister, Sasha Pavlov — a man known for his steely resolve — and the formidable, grey-haired General Yuri Butov, who had planned the attack on al-Qaeda's bases.

Kuzmin moved to his desk and picked up the leather folder that held his notes on the important matters he was about to discuss. A ripple of anxiety coursed through his body. It would be tough to attempt to convince men like these to change their minds: to accept the American President's carrot and agree to hand over the prisoners. In truth, Kuzmin couldn't even guess at the final vote. At that moment he wasn't even sure which way he would go. If there was a split vote, he might be forced to make the final decision himself. But if the decision went strongly against accepting the proposals — a very real possibility — then he knew with certainty that the order to bomb Hasim's bases into oblivion would be given once again, and probably that very night.

Tushin knocked. 'Everyone's here, sir.'

'Very good, Leonid. I'm ready to begin.'

Washington, DC 4 p.m.