Resurrection Day (58 page)

'You lied to me.' Gorev faced Rashid across the room.

'What if I did? If anything, Karla Sharif ought to be thankful that her son will be released. And don't tell me she doesn't want that, Gorev?'

'You're a liar, Rashid. She wasn't prepared to join us, even at that price. You forced her into it, threatened her son's life, and I was right all along. You conniving bastard.'

'I warned you before. You have no right to talk to me disrespectfully, Gorev.'

Gorev stepped closer to the Arab, stared at him, ignoring the reprimand. 'You used exactly the kind of persuasion I said you would. Embrace the cause or face your wrath. You don't deserve respect, Rashid. How do you look at yourself in the mirror? How?'

Rashid didn't flinch. 'Our mission is everything. Anything I have to do to accomplish it, I will. You think I care about a woman like Karla Sharif? She's a means to an end. As you are. As I am. We're simply pawns in this game. When will you realise that, Gorev?'

For a split second Gorev looked as if he would strike Rashid, his hostility at boiling point, but discipline got the better of him and instead of lashing out he went to grab his motorcycle leathers from beside the fire. 'And it's a game I'm getting rapidly tired of.'

'What are you saying, Gorev? You want out? You can't. It's too late for that.'

'I told you before, you'll get your pound of flesh. But after this, I'm finished with you and your lot. And don't think I haven't forgotten my promise. I told you if I found out you'd forced Karla into this you'd have me to answer to.'

'Is that another threat, Gorev?'

'Call it what you damned well want.'

As Gorev started to move towards the stairs, Rashid grabbed his arm. 'Let's put our differences aside for now, Gorev. Can't we do that at least? We're too close to the end of things, too close to getting everything we want. You said this man Visto was up to no good. That he tried to follow you. Maybe I should go along? This is too important a business to foul up. We may need the van and uniforms ... '

'Forget it. Karla and I will handle it.' Gorev looked at Rashid's hand on his arm, then jerked it away. 'And I think I told you before — do that, and someone's liable to get hurt.'

Gorev's fist suddenly came up, struck Rashid hard across the jaw, and the Arab staggered back and hit the floor. 'That's something on account. The rest will come later, I can promise you that.'

As Gorev turned away, Rashid was up off the floor in an instant, his eyes livid. He had the ivory-handled flick-knife out and the blade sprung. Gorev turned, and in one swift movement the Beretta was in his hand, cocked, and pointed at Rashid's head. 'Try a move on me like that again and you won't live to regret it.'

Gorev skewered the Arab with a look of contempt, then lowered the Beretta and stormed up the stairs.

After he'd gone, Rashid stood there, enraged, still holding the knife in one hand, the other massaging his jaw. Hatred scoured through his veins. 'We'll see about that, Gorev,' he said through clenched teeth. 'We'll definitely see about that.'

Washington, DC 4.40 p.m.

For the first time in the last sixty hours, the President felt of a tiny surge of relief. It was almost as if someone had pulled a safety valve inside his head and released some of the incredible pent-up pressure, worry and distress that had built up over the last three days. Now there appeared to be a small light of hope at the end of the tunnel. It was hope at a steep price — he was having to give in to the brutal demands of insane terrorists — but at least in return he just might save the nation's capital and its citizens from terrible harm. Standing at the Oval Office window, looking out on to the lawns, he took several deep breaths.

'Mr President ... '

He turned, faced the FBI Director, the only other person in the room. 'Sorry, Doug. I was lost there for a minute ... '

'Now that Kuzmin's agreed to the prisoner release, what about the Israelis, sir? Surely they're going to be twice as difficult? Especially to get them to agree to a handover in time.'

The President shook his head. The call from Kuzmin telling him of the Russian council's positive decision was at least a good omen — suggesting that perhaps the District could be rescued after all. The Israelis would be difficult, he knew, but he was confident he could handle them. 'I've got our people working on it urgently, right this minute. At least this time we have powerful leverage.'

'Sir?'

'Our annual military aid package to Israel is due for approval next month.'

'You're going to put a gun to their head?'

'You're damned right I am. At this stage, there's no other way. Either they help us, or we stop helping them, and for good. The Israelis badly need our support — their state can't function without it. And if I know the Israeli Prime Minster, he'll do as we ask. Sure, he'll rant, and stomp his feet, complain like hell, but in the end he's got a small price to pay — the release of a hundred and twenty prisoners for billions of dollars' worth of US aid.'

A sudden look of discomfort showed on Andrew Booth's face, as if the tiny surge of relief he'd just enjoyed was nothing more than a brief interlude, and he was dreading what was coming next. 'OK, Doug, let's get this business of our traitor done with.'

'Yes, sir. I'd like Rob Owens, the Secret Service Assistant Director, in on this. And Harry Judd. They're both waiting outside.'

'Get them in here.'

Maryland 10 p.m.

Benny Visto hated the countryside. He was used to the smell of gas fumes and traffic noise — fields and trees and all that rural shit weren't really his thing. He wrinkled his nose as Frankie, wearing a long raincoat, cracked open the driver's window in the Chrysler and a blast of country air swept in. 'The fuck you trying to do, man? Kill me? Put the fucking thing up.'

Frankie did as he was told. They had come off the highway five minutes earlier, the lights of quaint Maryland homes and farmhouses flashing past in the darkness, which did nothing to impress Visto. The van was tailing them, driven by Ronnie. The car phone rang. Visto flicked it on to speakerphone. 'Speak to me in gentle tones, my man.'

Ricky's voice came through. 'We're in place, Benny. Ready and waiting.'

'Anyone show up early, nosing around?'

'Naw. It's all clear.'

'Be there in half an hour. Anyone shows up meantime, or you run into problems, call.' Visto switched off the phone, grinned over at Frankie. 'Looks like we're all set up. You bring the stuff like I told you?'

'Sure, Benny, it's in the back, on the floor.'

Visto reached behind him, hefted over a black Reebok gym bag. He placed it in his lap, undid the zipper, and took out a lethal-looking French-made Mat submachinegun, fitted with a thick silencer. There were two snub-nosed .38 pistols in the bag, one each for him and Frankie, but Visto's attention was on the Mat, and he ran his fingers along the smooth, black barrel. 'Love this weapon. One burst, you cut a body in two. You know the plan, so leave all the talking to me.'

'Sure, Benny.'

'Then, when all the talking's done' — Visto patted the submachinegun — 'this little baby here's gonna have the last word.'

10.05 p.m.

Karla turned the Plymouth on to the narrow, deserted country road. She and Gorev were three minutes' drive from the rendezvous, but instead of coming from the east past the Lutheran church, Gorev insisted they take the longer route, circling round and cutting in back towards the road from the west. 'Turn off the headlights,' he told her. 'And keep your speed down. Take it nice and slow.'

Karla turned off the headlights and continued driving along the empty road, the forest on either side, the night-time landscape lit only by moon-wash. There were few homes in the area, a bare scattering of farms and detached properties, and their lights were some way off. When they were three hundred yards from the entrance to the forest track, Gorev said, 'Cut the engine. Coast on if you can, and pull in to the left. There should be a laneway.'

Karla did as he told her, and they both glimpsed the lane up ahead, cutting in to the left. The Plymouth started to slow, and they barely made it, coming to an abrupt halt when they had swung ten yards into the lane. Gorev climbed out.

'Where are you going?' Karla asked.

'The kind of man Visto is, I wouldn't put anything past him, especially after today.' Gorev took the Beretta from his pocket, screwed on the silencer. 'I'll go take a look. Stay here. Leave the lights off, and whatever you do don't start the engine again, unless it's an emergency. I'll be back as soon as I can.'

Gorev disappeared into the night, moving back down the lane towards the track that led to the forest clearing. Karla sat in the car in the quiet darkness, rolled down the window, her senses alert to any danger. It was fifteen minutes before Gorev returned. He yanked open the door, climbed in beside her again.

'Did you see anything?'

Washington, DC 4.45 p.m.

'We've got four names, Mr President. Every one of them, when we rechecked their backgrounds, had a Middle East connection that could make them in some way suspect.'

The FBI Director was seated on one of the Oval Office couches, the President standing over him, Rob Owens, the Secret Service Assistant Director of Protection and Harry Judd sitting on one of the other couches opposite. The President was sombre. 'That's the only criterion you used? A Middle East connection?'

'No, sir — Mr Judd can elaborate on several others later, but the Middle East thing jumped out at me as I went through their backgrounds. And it does seem to make a valid connection.'

'Go on.'

'All four are men. Charles Rivermount, General Bud Horton, Bob Rapp and Mitch Gains.'

The President was stunned. 'You're talking about four of my closest advisers, people whom I count as valued friends, and have done for years.'

'I realise that, sir.'

'There's got to be some mistake. What the hell makes them suspect?'

The FBI Director consulted his notebook. 'Let's start with Charles Rivermount. One of his investment firms has major stock interest in two oil companies operating in Saudi Arabia. He also has close business links to this man.' Stevens handed across a photograph of an Arab, wearing traditional headdress. 'A Saudi sheikh named Nabil Rahman al-Khalid. Rivermount and he meet pretty regularly.'

'What the hell's wrong with that if they're in business together?'

'Al-Khalid's an extremely powerful, wealthy man, a distant cousin of Saudi's royal family. He's also been known to tacitly support Islamic fundamentalists financially in his home country, and the CIA has evidence that he's made secret and substantial contributions to several of al-Qaeda's so-called Islamic "charities", which are nothing but front organisations to funnel cash to their cause. But what's really interesting is that recently Rivermount's been trying to pull together the biggest oil deal of his life, and with al-Khalid's help. One that involves, over time, the sum of at least a hundred billion dollars. It's the deal of a lifetime for Rivermount, one he desperately wants.'

'I know Charles Rivermount. He's a patriot. He wouldn't sell out his country, never, not for any money.'

'He'll cheat on his wife, sir. Why not his country?' The President didn't look affronted by the FBI Director's revelation; it was already common knowledge in the White House. 'That's his own business. Rivermount's wife likes to play the field herself. He found that out soon after the wedding. By mutual agreement, they remain married but both go their separate ways. You'll need something more convincing than that.'

'Which we've got, sir. Al-Khalid is one of those rich Saudis who'd be quite happy if the royal family were deposed by the Islamic fundamentalist movement in his country. No matter who's in power, they're going to have to sell their oil — the income from it is the only thing that keeps their country going. A man like Sheikh al-Khalid, with connections to the fundamentalists and al-Qaeda, could be well rewarded for his support, and become even wealthier, more powerful. He's got a lot to gain if the US quits the Gulf. Maybe Charles Rivermount has too.'

The President, unconvinced, pursed his lips. 'Who's next?'

'Mitch Gains, sir.' It was Rob Owens who answered.

'And what have you got on him?'

'His New York legal practice represents a number of wealthy Arab clients, whom Mr Gains counts as his close friends. He's also joint owner of four prime stud farms, one in Kentucky, one in Ireland, another two in the Arab Emirates. His partner in those ventures is an Arab businessman named Farid Sameika.'

'I know about Mitch's horse-breeding, and the Arab connection, but how does that place him under suspicion?'

'Farid Sameika's another contributor to al-Qaeda's Islamic "charities". He's also well known for his strong views on US policy vis-a-vis the state of Israel — he wants the US to stop supporting the Israelis. Put simply, Sameika hates the Jews, and refuses to do business with anyone who deals with them. Like I said, Mitch Gains and he are close friends — so there's got to be some meeting of minds.'

'Anything else?'

'Mr Gains has presidential ambitions, sir, which I'm sure you're aware of. I don't mean to be so blunt, but if al-Qaeda succeed, either by getting what they want or by destroying this city, you stand to suffer in the next election, Mr President. By that, I mean you'll most likely lose.'

'That's assuming I'm still alive,' the President reflected. He also recalled that he and Mitch Gains had had a recent falling out when he refused to nominate him as a future running mate for one of the very reasons Owens had outlined Gains's stance on Israel. But he left that nugget out of the conversation; it was a private matter that he had dealt with personally. 'You included General Horton. Surely the man's above any kind of suspicion. He's a decorated 'Nam war hero, for God's sakes.'

'With an interesting past, which you're well aware of, sir. The general spent much of his young life in the Middle East. He mostly grew up there and was educated at the American School in Riyadh. His father served as a US attache in Saudi for nine years, and later in Kuwait for another three. The general speaks fluent Arabic, has an abiding interest in Arab history and culture, and has many Arab friends and acquaintances. Even his wife's from Saudi. And he still visits the Middle East regularly — in a private capacity — at least three times a year, sometimes more.'

'Are you suggesting any of these friends of his might be supporters of al-Qaeda?'

'Not that we know of, sir. But that's not to say they're not. Our State Department people in Riyadh are in the process of evacuating the US embassy to meet the deadline so they can't help us out in that department right now, but we're working on it. Though we're not sure what motive the general might have, but there could be one, somewhere in his past.'

The President rubbed his jaw, lost for a moment in deep thought. 'You included Bob Rapp. Why?'

'He's a former reporter, and a much-respected one. He spent four years in the Lebanon as a war correspondent in the early to mid-eighties. He was known to have mixed with Islarmic radicals, even counted some of them among his friends. There was a rumour he even had a relationship with one of them.'

'Who?'

'A woman named Yelena Mazawi. She was a suspected Palestinian terrorist who was apparently killed by the Israelis during a raid on a PLO camp.'

'Bob was a reporter, for Christ's sake. Reporters are supposed to talk to radicals and terrorists. It's their job. And you said his relationship was a rumour. But even if it was true, is it possidble Bob didn't know about her background?'

'It's always possible, sir. But some of the people he liked to talk to later became big names on the fundamentalist terrorist scene, sir. I should remind you that Rapp has also, on many occasicons, vocally and in print, advocated a change of US policy towards Israel and the Arab nations.'

'I know he did. It's no damned secret. Bob and I have often spoken about that. But it was mostly in the past, when he was a much younger man. And for God's sakes, he's one hundred per cent American, and completely loyal to me.'

'There are other suspicions linked to these four men, sir.'

'Like what? Did the telephone taps turn up anything? Or scanning the contents of their personal computers, their emails?'

'Not as yet, sir,' Owens replied, and turned to Harry Judd. 'Harry, would you care to explain the rest?'

'Yes, sir.' Judd, ignored for the last fifteen minutes, cleared his throat, flicked open his notebook. 'Mr President, what's interesting — and coincidental — is that three of those four men — the exception being Mitch Gains — also turn out to have come to my notice when I checked back through the protection details' log books. There were several occasions when the suspects in question disappeared off our radar screen in the last few days and weeks, and under suspicious circumstances. I'd like to outline those circumstances to you, sir.'

For five minutes, Harry Judd gave precise details of each of the suspects' errant behaviour. When he had finished, he closed his notebook. 'The fact that Mitch Gains had a clean slate doesn't discount him. Maybe he was clever enough not to make any mistakes that might get a mention in the log books. But considering the behaviour and the background material we've just heard on these men, sir, I'm pretty much convinced that there's a strong chance one of these guys is our traitor.'

'Then how do you propose we smoke him out, Mr Judd?'

'I've got a plan, Mr President.'

Maryland 10.24 p.m.