Resurrection Day (57 page)

Morgan was at the wheel as they drove towards Georgetown. Collins read through the computer print-out sheets on two illegals who still had to be accounted for: one was an Egyptian male medical student, aged twenty-five, the other a twenty-seven-year-old Palestinian female, a postgraduate student of English. Immigration had no record of their leaving the US after their student visas had expired in July, over four months ago. Both had attended Georgetown University and their given addresses were at cheap accommodations near the campus. It wasn't uncommon for foreign students to overstay their allotted time — chances were the two in question had broken the terms of their visas for entirely innocent reasons — but they still had to be found and accounted for. As Morgan drove along M Street, heading for the university, Collins said, 'Hang a right, Lou.'

Morgan frowned. 'The campus is straight on.'

'Take a turn for the hospital.'

'Jack ... I know you're hurting, but you heard what Murphy said, man. Maybe it's best we just carry on. You can make a call ... '

'I've got to see them, Lou. I've got to find out about Daniel. Please. Just do it.'

Minutes later, Morgan, silent, drove up to the entrance of the George Washington Hospital. He halted and Collins pushed open the door. 'I'll be as quick as I can.'

Moscow

The stormy meeting had gone on for even longer than Kuzmin had anticipated. Having outlined everything he'd discussed with the American President, he had broken the news of Hasim's threat to Moscow. The reaction of horror was immediately apparent on the assembled faces, and then all hell broke loose. Tempers flared and voices were raised; the anger, fear and bitterness in the Kremlin conference room were something to behold. It was the most heated meeting Kuzmin had ever sat through, and on three occasions he'd been forced to suspend the proceedings to allow tempers to subside, but it did no good.

'I told you,' Sergeyev, the Interior Minister railed bitterly. 'I told you this would happen. That it was only a matter of time.' He pointed a finger accusingly at the mole-blemished face of Boris Rudkin, the Trade Minster. 'You said Abu Hasim wasn't a direct threat to us. You said I was mad to suggest annihilating him. Now look where we are Rudkin. We should have bombed the bastard when we had the chance, and worried about the consequences later.'

Rudkin, the moderate, was oddly silent, scratching his mole, looking under severe duress.

'And what if we had?' Finance Minister Akulev countered. 'What if Hasim was already capable of carrying out his attack? We might not be here but in the morgue, all of us.'

On it went. Arguments and counter-arguments, disagreements and harsh words, until Kuzmin, tiring of it all, deliberately raised a hand to interrupt, then shifted his gaze to General Butov, who was noticeably quiet. 'Yuri? You haven't voiced your opinion.'

'Like the Interior Minister, I expected this,' Butov answered, his anger barely controlled. 'But personally, I'm not convinced Hasim is ready to carry out an attack against Moscow. I think it's sheer bluff.'

'Why?'

'Because he would have used the threat before now. Informed us himself, at the same time as he was threatening the Americans. Also, most of the prisoners are jailed here. If Moscow was attacked, they'd be victims too.'

'You have a point.' Kuzmin open the file in his leather folder. 'And I'm inclined to agree. Just so as you're all aware, our intelligence hasn't the slightest indication of an al-Qaeda cell in the city. Isn't that true, Igor?'

'So far as we can ascertain, Mr President,' FSB chief Igor Verbatin acknowledged. 'But that's not to say our intelligence is completely infallible, or conclusive. Look at the Americans' experience. Had they any forewarning? Any credible intelligence to suggest an attack was imminent? Nor do we know if al-Qaeda would be capable of acting quickly in retaliation if we bombed their bases.'

Kuzmin sighed, looked at the others. 'Igor's right. Naturally, we'll intensify our intelligence-gathering to try and discover if the threat is a bluff or not. But that will take time and it still may not be conclusive. In the meanwhile, what are we left with? At this moment, I believe there are really only two options. We hold off our bombing, but we don't hand over the prisoners, either. Or we deal with the Americans, accept their offer.'

'But we agreed the prisoner issue wasn't negotiable,' Butov objected.

'Yet we have to admit that the Americans have made a solid and reasonable offer in return for their release.'

'But it's pure bribery,' Butov answered.

'Of course it is. But should we accept it?' Kuzmin paused. 'However, let us put that aside for now. There is also the unanswered question of how Abu Hasim knew we intended to bomb him.'

'Surely the American President isn't suggesting the source is one of us?' said Boris Rudkin.

'Whoever it is, obviously they have to be in a position of high authority. And the answer is no, President Booth is convinced that the source is in Washington, not Moscow.'

'Why?' asked General Butov.

'His FBI Director has taped evidence to suggest that information has been leaked by someone at high level within the White House.'

'That seems incredible.' The Justice Minister, Sasha Pavlov, looked shocked.

'It's certainly that,' Kuzmin answered, and his eyes swept around the faces in the room. 'But let me be blunt here, gentlemen. I'm also convinced that someone in this room — for reasons of morals or fear — informed the Americans of our intention to bomb the al-Qaeda bases. As to who the culprit is, I'm certain I shall root him out — eventually.'

Kuzmin paused and let the threat hang, not at all certain that he would ever get to the bottom of the matter, but he had made his point, and for now that was sufficient. He looked pointedly at the solid hands of the gold Tsar Nicholas clock on the mantel of the ornate marble fireplace across the room: it was 11.50 already. After over three hours of intense argument and debate, and having slept poorly in the last forty-eight hours, he was physically and mentally exhausted.

'We've already overrun our time. We could spend the rest of our lives arguing the issues, but I believe the time has come to make up our minds as to whether we can accept this American offer and release the prisoners. I have deliberately avoided trying to influence you one way or another, even though your decision may also decide the fate of Washington. But that, I believe, is how it should be. So, General Butov, please, if you would do me the honour.'

Butov nodded, started taking the vote. 'Admiral Vodin?'

'I say no.'

'Interior Minister Sergeyev?'

'No,' Sergeyev replied firmly.

'Trade Minister Rudkin?'

'Yes.'

'Justice Minister Pavlov?'

'Yes.'

On it went. Kuzmin counted seven votes in favour, eight votes against accepting the American offer — including General Butov. The general turned to him. 'It's down to you, Mr President.'

Washington, DC 4.15 p.m.

Nikki had been moved into the main hospital complex. She was lying in a private single-bed room when Collins entered. The knot in his stomach came back the moment he saw her. She was no longer wired up to instruments or drips, but the enormous purple bruise that covered her right jaw hadn't subsided, and her face was still swollen. Her eyes were open but almost lifeless, staring at a television that wasn't on. A nurse had set a chair alongside the bed and Collins sat. He took Nikki's hand, and then her face turned towards his. Her eyes were full of tears. 'It's all my fault, Jack,' she whispered.

'What?'

'If I hadn't wanted to meet you last night ... if only I hadn't been so damned persistent this wouldn't have happened. But I just had to see you, Jack ... I was so impatient, I put my own curiosity before everything. I'm so sorry.'

For a moment Collins didn't know what to say. In her tortured mind, Nikki was blaming herself, but how could it have been her fault? 'I spoke with Dr Wolensa. He says Daniel's improved a little. His breathing's better, he's responding to the medication. Wolensa's more optimistic he's going to make it ... '

'I know ... but ... '

'No buts.' He held her hand to his face, kissed it. 'He's going to be OK, Nikki. Daniel's going to be OK. So are you. That's all that matters right now. You have to hold on to that. Try and stay strong.'

Her hand closed on his like a claw. 'But I saw him, Jack. One of the nurses let me see him through the window ... He looked so ... beat up. So helpless ... '

'I know.' He leaned forward to kiss her, but before their lips touched both of them started weeping. 'I love you, Nikki.'

Nikki wiped her eyes. 'Who did it, Jack? Who'd plant a bomb like that? Who'd want to kill and maim innocent people? Kids like Daniel. Who'd do that?'

Collins held on to her hand, shook his head.

'You know, don't you?'

'I ... I can't talk about it, Nikki ... Please.'

'Does it have something to do with what we talked about last night? It does, doesn't it?'

'Nikki ... I'm begging you. What I said about it causing trouble if anything leaks out, I really meant it. It wouldn't be helping.'

'All that stuff we spoke about ... the killer who machinegunned that young couple ... it wasn't true, was it?'

'It wasn't a lie, Nikki. There's someone ... someone deranged. He's got accomplices. We're trying to find them. That's all I can say. Please, leave it at that.'

For a moment Nikki stared back at him, studying his face, as if trying to read his thoughts, then she gave up, shook her head. 'Can I say one more thing? I remember the look on your face when you spoke about it in the restaurant. It was like a hatred it was so intense. It almost seemed like it was something deeply personal. Is it personal, Jack?'

Collins, reluctant to say any more, slowly let go of her hand. 'I don't want to go, but I've got to, Nikki.'

'I understand.'

'Do something for me? No more thoughts about it being your fault. No more of that crap, OK?' Collins stood. 'I saw your mom out in the hall. She was pretty emotional.'

'I know. She came over here as soon as you called her ... '

'You think she'll hold up?'

'I hope so.'

'I'll have my cellphone on all the time. Call me when you want, or if you get any more news about Daniel. Will you do that?'

Nikki gave a nod. Collins leaned over, kissed her, and then he was gone.

Five minutes later, Nikki climbed out of bed. Her limbs ached, her head felt light, but she had made the decision to discharge herself, whether the hospital liked it or not. She'd already asked her mother to stay near Daniel, told her she might feel well enough to discharge herself later that afternoon, and she was to call her if there was any change in Daniel's condition, however small. Her mother had argued and disapproved of her leaving the hospital, but Nikki hadn't explained why she had to.

How could she? All she had was a strong intuition that something very, very strange and terrible was going on in the city, and she knew she had to find out what. She dreaded the thought of leaving her son's side, but just knowing that he had improved had given her hope, something to cling to.

Even thinking about that hope made her tearful, and she had to wipe her eyes. In a daze, she took her clothes from the closet in the corner and dressed. They were torn, peppered with dirt, and smelled of fire. She'd see her mother before she left, take a cab and change when she got back to her apartment. She made sure to take her cellphone and charger from the wall socket where she'd left it, and stuffed both in her pocket. Then she snapped open the door to her room and slipped out.

Chesapeake 7.30 p.m.

Gorev heard the sound of a car's engine pull into the driveway. He was barely dozing, his arms still around Karla. She was asleep, curled up like a child, her hair nailed across the pillow. He took his arms away from her gently and got up off the bed, his hand automatically reaching for the Beretta he'd left on the nightstand.

Crossing the landing to one of the front bedrooms, he peered though the curtain. The rain had stopped. He saw the Plymouth parked on the gravel outside the cottage, Mohamed Rashid climbing out, locking the door.

Gorev, overcome with anger, turned quickly from the window and started downstairs. He reached the bottom and was crossing to the door when it opened and Rashid came in, looking surprised to see him.

'Well, how did your meeting go with Visto?' Rashid noticed the Russian's livid expression. 'What's wrong, Gorev, is there a problem?'

'Nothing I can't handle, but we'll discuss that later.' Gorev jerked a thumb towards the living room. 'First, you and me need to have a little talk.'

The White House 4.15 p.m.

'So, have we got a damned evacuation plan, or what?'

Al Brown, the District's mayor, placed his balled fists on the vast walnut table in the Cabinet Room and stared across at Paul Burton. There were four people present: Brown, the President, Paul Burton and Gavin G. Lord, the 'evacuation expert' for the capital.

They were seated in the sturdy brown leather chairs normally reserved for cabinet members, the names inscribed in neat brass plaques mounted behind each chair. Brown, his bald black head smooth and shining, and wearing one of his usual trademark three-piece suits and colourful yellow polka-dot bow ties, was obviously in no mood for pleasantness this afternoon, but his blunt, feisty language didn't offend the President in the slightest: he was well used to it. 'Well? Have we or have we not, Mr Burton?'

Burton, who had opened the meeting, gestured to Gavin Lord seated beside him, and picked up a heavy, blue-covered book from the table in front of him. Its title was: 'Crisis Evacuation Plan for Washington DC.' Compiled in 1996, it ran to over three hundred pages. 'I'll let Mr Lord answer that, but first of all I should point out that we already have a blueprint. This report is ... '

'I read that report three years ago. It's not worth shit,' Brown retorted. 'I wouldn't give you two cents for it. Want to know what it's good for? All that shiny paper? Nothing. Not even for wiping your ass with.'

'I agree it's a little out of date, but there have been modifications since,' Lord offered, his face blushing. A tall, quiet-spoken man in his middle fifties, with a thin moustache, he had a shock of mousey grey hair and thick glasses. 'And it's basically an effective, well-thought-out plan.'

'Sure it is. If your balls aren't in a vice grip and you got all the time in the world to get your butt out of this city. Far as I recall, the quickest the report said that the capital could be evacuated was in thirty-six hours.'

'Well, yes ... '

'We ain't got thirty-six hours, Mr Lord. More than likely we won't even have two hours. We've never dealt with a powerful chemical weapon like this before. The report doesn't take into account the kind of disaster we may have to face, nor the casualties we have to deal with, nor the speed with which we have to transport victims out of the affected areas and get them to emergency field hospitals ... I could go on, you know?'

'Well, yes, I agree, but ... '

'Mr Lord, like I said, that report there, as it stands, is not worth shit. What I want to know is, how the fuck do we clear out this city and in the quickest possible time?'

'I've spent a great deal of time studying that problem, Mr Mayor,' Lord answered.

'Then tell me. Give me a specific plan that will work. One that I can work with in case this thing goes belly up. Look, even if we find this device or that asshole Abu Hasim gets what he wants and tells us where it is, we know we're still not out of the woods. We may be faced with any number of situations: maybe the damned device is unstable, maybe Hasim decides to double-cross us and leaves it ticking away, or even if we find it maybe the experts decide there's a big risk involved in trying to disarm it. In each of those cases, it probably means we're going to have to evacuate the city rather than risk having the fucking thing blowing up in our faces.'

Silence muffled the room. Lord, unsettled by Brown's sharp language, fiddled nervously with the notes in front of him. The President gave him an encouraging nod. 'Please, go on, Mr Lord.'

'Firstly, if and when we commence our evacuation, we'll have to make all access to the city "one way" — that is, no inbound traffic except emergency vehicles, police and military transport. We'll principally use the highways and the subways for evacuation. Subway cars will run every few minutes from the District stations, working from the centre, out to the farthest points on the lines. They'll be organised in such a way that trains will be stacked up right behind one another, so that as one station fills up the carriages the train can speed straight to its end destination, but there's another one right behind it to take up the excess, and another behind that, and so on. Once they empty their human cargo, they'll be routed back along the return line to start all over again, but transporting their cargo in the opposite direction, so as not to waste time.

'Buses and trucks will be commandeered and all available military transport will be put to use. We'll be trying to keep traffic and people moving in an orderly and speedy fashion. People who aren't getting out in their own cars or under their own steam, those who are elderly, infirm or in hospitals, will be piled into whatever ambulances, buses and military trucks we can get, and trucked out of the city, like the others, to predetermined points outside the District, then we'll start all over again.

'Reagan Airport will also be used: civilian and military aircraft, police and private helicopters, and every private plane we can lay our hands on will be made available. We're assuming, obviously, that the device will be somewhere within the District quadrants. If it's not, or other areas are going to be affected, and we have to expand out, we can adapt our plans accordingly. I've already got adjustments ready in case of that situation. But the important thing in all this, obviously, is to maintain order.'

'How do we do that?' the President asked.

'We use predetermined routes for people to exit the capital. We assign certain areas to use certain freeways, and only in a certain direction. People living in the south-east of the District, for example, will be told to get on to the Eisenhower Freeway, going south-east. People in the north-east will be assigned a route going north-east, and so on. That way, we cut down on people driving off in any direction, causing traffic congestion.'

Al Brown raised a dubious eyebrow. 'You really think that in a situation like this, when people want to get themselves and their families out of this city fast, they're not going to take the route that they decide is quickest, and say to hell with any plan you might have?'

'We'll monitor the traffic closely, Mr Mayor. We'll have stewards along the route ... '

Al Brown rolled his eyes, shook his head hopelessly. 'Mr Lord, in case you don't know it, there are people in this city who have guns. I'm not just talking about criminal types, punks and gangs, I'm talking about ordinary decent citizens who keep firearms for their own protection. You don't think that in a dire situation like this, when they want to get their asses out of town real quick, they're not going to use those guns to take any fucking route they want to? OK, so a steward stops them. They're not going to point that gun right up his nose and say "Fuck you, out of my way, asshole" and drive on their merry way?'

'Mr Mayor, I should have pointed out that by stewards I meant the police, as well as National Guardsmen ... '

The President quickly cut in. 'Mr Lord, how will people know which route to take?'

'The way the FEMA plan works, sir, we broadcast our instructions over the radio and TV, and using mobile electronic message boards.'

'Not everyone's going to hear or see those messages.'

'But most will, Mr President. We'll make sure of that. And we'll already have had klaxons going off all over the city, warning people of a civil emergency.'

'What about the disabled, the infirm, who can't get out?'

Lord gave a helpless shrug. 'In cases like those, we just have to rely on their neighbours helping them to safety. It would be the same in any rapid mass evacuation, sir.'

'So what happens when we get these areas evacuated?' Al Brown asked. 'Where are we going to put the people? We can't just leave them out in the sticks or by the side of the highway, or at the end of a bus or subway line.'

'We'll have host areas set up in towns out in Maryland and Virginia. Again, much like the FEMA plan, we'll have organised tents, local schools, hotels, for temporary accommodation for the evacuees.'

Brown almost groaned. As always in his experience, plans on paper were dandy. Reality was a different fucking ball-game. 'Wait until the nice folks out in Maryland or Virginia hear they're going to play host to tens of thousands of black families from some of the District's worst drug-infested, crime-ridden ghettoes. Bet they're going to be real pleased.'

'Anything else, Mr Lord?' the President asked.

'I had thought we'd spend the next hour going through the plans in detail, Mr President. Which routes we'd use, the deployment of police and the National Guard, and so on. You might be interested in our figures for the traffic escape routes on the roads and bridges — using double lanes on each route, I'm estimating twelve hundred vehicles an hour can be progressed, with an average of four people per vehicle. Factoring in our ten major escape routes, we're hoping to move almost forty-eight thousand people an hour, and that's not accounting for those travelling on foot, by bus or subway, or in any emergency transport we provide. There's lots to cover. Like what we advise people to take with them when they evacuate: any cash they've got at home, and their personal valuables, a small amount of food and liquids, for example. I would also like to suggest the banks should be forced to close before the evacuation takes place, and that people are made aware of that in the transmitted bulletins.'

'What the hell for?' Brown asked.

'In an emergency, the first thing people tend to want to do is draw out their savings. We can't have that kind of pandemonium. Shutting the banks solves the problem. But if I could move on, sir. I'd like to spend some time going over a survey I had carried out from the air this afternoon, detailing our exit routes, and also give you precise evacuation details for the high-risk areas, get down to actual statistics and numbers in the evacuation zones, and also cover the predicted weather for the next forty-eight hours, which may be crucial ... '

'What exactly is the forecast, Mr Lord?' the President asked.

Lord grimaced. 'Not good, from a safety point of view, sir. Clear skies, very light winds, no precipitation, mild temperatures. Conditions like that may be excellent for an evacuation, but they're damned near perfect for the dispersal of nerve gas.'

The President groaned. 'That's just great.'

'Mr Lord, if you don't mind,' Al Brown interrupted, his patience flagging, 'right now what I'm interested in is the bottom line here, and I still haven't heard it. How damned quickly can we evacuate? You said the plan had been improved on. But by how much?'

'By my calculations I think we can do it in eighteen, maybe twenty hours tops.'

'We won't have twenty hours.'

'I'm sorry, Mr Mayor. But I believe that's the absolute quickest it can be done.'

There was a knock on the Cabinet Room door. Paul Burton rose, went to open it, then stepped out of view to speak to someone in the hall outside. He was gone only a few seconds before he returned, closed the door, crossed back to the President, and leaned over to whisper in his ear.

The President's face paled, and then he rose from his chair with an air of gravity. 'Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me. I'm afraid something urgent's come up that requires my immediate attention.'

Chesapeake 7.40 p.m.