Resurrection Day (63 page)

The man lay awake, unable to sleep. Getting out of bed, he pulled on a dressing gown, crossed to the bedroom window, stared out anxiously at the night-time lights of Washington. So close to the end of things, and now this ...

He'd climbed into bed an hour ago, after making the call from his cloned cellphone and passing on his information about the transfer of US troops to Israel. He'd had to speak his message 'in clear', a potentially dangerous thing to do, but he'd simply had no alternative, and he'd kept the message brief and cut the connection immediately he'd finished. There wasn't time to arrange a meeting with his contact face to face — if he had insisted on leaving his home alone, without his Secret Service detail, he would have brought suspicion on himself. Making his call in clear language was slightly the lesser of the two risks the cloned phone gave him a good degree of protection — but he hadn't slept since with worry, and he was fretting about Abu Hasim's reaction once he learned the news. This was a serious last-minute spanner in the works. A surprise twist no one could have anticipated. But one that could upset everything.

Question. Would Hasim demand that the President stick to the principle of their agreement and withdraw US troops entirely from the region, or would he accept the movement of a large percentage of those forces to Israel without argument? He felt strongly that Hasim would force the issue, insist on the troops being kept out of Israel, and that was what disturbed him. He knew Abu Hasim's personality. The news would make him furious. He would see the tactic as a treacherous move on the part of the US. More worrying, his rage would make him capable of anything — upping his demands or threatening to set off the device immediately. In his message the man had urged caution, but he was still deeply, deeply worried. This could lead anywhere. He put a trembling hand to his forehead.

So close to the end ...

Something else troubled him. He had no doubt that Abu Hasim would want to respond to the President, and smartly. But by his doing so the question would inevitably arise in the White House as to how Hasim could have got his information so quickly. The man knew that in passing on the information there was a risk of his exposure. For that reason he had suggested to Hasim how to convey his knowledge of the troop movement to Israel without creating suspicion. He just hoped to God that Hasim had taken it on board. Otherwise he could find himself in peril.

His head throbbed. He crossed back to the bed, found the Tylenol in the nightstand drawer, and swallowed two without water. His dangerous journey would soon be coming to an end, but the end of things, he knew from experience, was always the difficult part. Eight hours remained, and he was certain he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep for any of them. Too many thoughts assailed him, too many fears racked his mind. True, he been guided by his hopes, his dreams, his vision. And he had remained steadfast, was resolved to see this through to the end, no matter what the personal cost. He simply had to; too much was at stake. Nothing would make him give in now. But he still shuddered, thinking of the eight traumatic hours that lay ahead. Fraught with hazards, they could endanger hundreds of thousands of lives. Shaking, he looked back at the clock on the nightstand.

4.10 a.m.

Resurrection Day had well and truly begun.

Washington, DC 3.50 a.m.

On the operating table in Harold Rotstein's clinic, Benny Visto lay very still.

'How is he?' Frankie demanded. He stood at the end of the table as Rotstein moved his stethoscope over Visto's chest.

'Alive, but only just, and in a very bad way.' Rotstein's voice was shaky. 'The bleeding seems to have started again.'

'What about that shot you gave him?'

'I ... I didn't say it would work, Mr Tate. Trust me, I've done my absolute best.'

'You're telling me Benny's dying?'

'If he's not, he soon will be, unless you get him to a hospital.' Rotstein was trembling again. 'I'm sorry, Mr Tate, but — '

'Shut the fuck up.' In an instant Frankie made his decision, grabbed the doctor by the coat and pushed him towards the door. 'Get on the phone and call an ambulance.'

Rotstein was worried. An ambulance would cause all kinds of complications, including a visit from the police. 'But that will involve me with the law ... and besides, Mr Visto said he didn't want ... '

'What
I
want is for Benny to live. Now get out there and make the call.'

'What if you just drove him there yourself?'

'Do what I fucking told you, Rotstein!' Frankie shoved the doctor through the door. When he turned back to the table to stare at his cousin, he was shaking, his eyes wet. 'Tell you one thing, Benny,' he promised. 'I'll have the dude who did this. Swear to God I will, if it's the last fucking thing I do.'

Washington, DC 3.10 a.m.

The black Chrysler turned off Massachusetts Avenue and headed south towards the Capitol Beltway. It hit a pothole and Kursk started to come round, jogged awake by the bump. He was groggy, barely able to focus as the car passed the illuminated Capitol Building. His head spun, his voice was slurred. 'Who ... who ... are you. Where are you taking me?'

'Shut up,' a voice ordered in Russian.

Another voice laughed. 'Don't worry, Major, you'll know soon enough.'

In the darkness of the cab, in his groggy state, Kursk couldn't make out the faces around him, but he recognised the strong accents. Moscow hard men, all of them. Russians, not Georgians or Chechens. A chilling thought struck him through the fog: Yudenich's men.

Suddenly the car slowed to a halt at traffic lights. Kursk, in desperation, struggled to reach for the door. Hands grabbed at him from everywhere, a fist struck him in the face, and then someone yanked up his sleeve. 'Don't fight it, Kursk. You're finished anyway.'

A hypodermic jabbed his arm, and seconds later a powerful drug flooded his veins. Kursk lost it then; his eyes rolled in his head, his senses shut down, his body went limp, and he sank back in the seat.

Chesapeake 3.50 a.m.

Mohamed Rashid drove the Plymouth along the beach access road. He halted when he came to the end, switched off the engine. The wind was blowing in off Chesapeake Bay, the stars bright. He had driven south past Plum Point, fifteen miles from the cottage, and as he climbed out of the car his eyes searched the landscape.

The dark beach was deserted — no sound except the wind and water, and the clanking noise of the engine cooling. Not another person or car in sight, just as he had hoped. He'd chosen the site weeks ago, driven here half a dozen times to ensure it was isolated enough. Off to his right, a quarter-mile away, he saw the distant lights of the nearest house. It was too far away to be any threat, but he was determined to be more cautious after his confrontation with the couple in the woods. After five minutes studying his surroundings, listening for the slightest sounds of an approaching car, he moved back to the Plymouth.

His backpack was on the passenger seat. His, transmission 'window' was between 4 and 5 a.m. He removed the laptop, opened out the satellite dish, connected it to the computer port, and ran the co-ax lead out, positioning the dish on the ground, metres from the car. Then he sat in the driver's seat, left the door open and switched on the computer. The screen came to life and the Windows program loaded. It took a few more moments to properly align the dish, then he typed an outline of his report, scrolled through it again until he was happy with the text, then hit the 'send' key. The signal burst was transmitted in less than two seconds.

The call to his cellphone over an hour ago from his White House contact, and his news about the redeployment of troops to Israel, had unsettled him. So close to the end, and the Americans were playing tricks. It made him seethe. They were fools, playing with fire by being so devious, and he believed that Abu Hasim's reply would be fierce.

Rashid was confident he would receive the return signal at 7 a.m., his next receiving window. He would set up the laptop and dish back at the cottage. The reply would decide everything. He switched off the computer, folded away the sat dish, stored both in his backpack, and placed it on the passenger seat. He was wide awake, brimming with energy. Before he left the cottage he had mixed a little crystal meth in some coffee. Drinking the liquid had given him a surge of energy, enough to keep him wide awake for at least the next twenty-four hours.

Gorev's encounter with Visto troubled him. What if Visto went to the police? What if he gave them details of the police van and uniforms? To err on the safe side he should perhaps abandon his plan to use the police vehicle. But he would decide that later.

For now, his chief concern was the Israel issue. Because of it, the fools in the White House could yet destroy their own city. Strangely it didn't worry him. If he had to die to punish the Americans, then so be it if that was Allah's wish.

Washington., DC 3.45 a.m.

The black Chrysler exited off the Capitol Beltway. Ten minutes later it entered the back parking lot of a ramshackle warehouse in a grim industrial area five miles from DC. Kursk was still unconscious as the men dragged him from the back seat.

The driver and the front-seat passenger ran ahead, unlocked a pair of heavy-duty metal doors, moved into the warehouse and flicked some light switches. The building flooded with neon light. It was filthy, freezing cold, scattered with discarded wooden packing crates, and a single sturdy wooden chair was set under the harsh glare of one of the neon tubes. The men dragged Kursk inside, dumped him in the chair, secured his hands to the armrests with lengths of rope, and did the same with each of his ankles, fastening them to the chair's legs.

The scar-faced young man who had met Kursk off Dupont Circle casually lit a cigarette, then dug his hands into his pockets and tossed the service pistol, wallet and cellphone he'd taken from him on to one the packing crates. He said to one of this companions, 'Get the blowtorch ready and bring me the cosh from the car.'

'The others are here, Andrei.'

The scar-faced man turned, saw the dipped headlights as a couple of cars swept round the back of the warehouse and braked gently to a halt. A group of men climbed out of each vehicle. 'I think it's time to wake the major.'

FBI Headquarters 1.55 a.m.

Collins called Nikki's cellphone from the Hoover building. It rang once before she picked up.

'Hello?'

The line was bad, and Collins could barely hear her voice. 'Nikki, it's me. Can you hear me?'

'Wait a second — I've got to move near a window, the line's terrible.'

Moments later Nikki came on the line again, clearer. 'Can you hear me now?'

'I can hear you. What's going on, Nikki? I called the hospital — '

'Where are you?' Nikki interrupted.

'At the Hoover.'

'You've got to meet me, Jack. I'm at the Post right now, and I've got some calls to make and then I've got to go out for a while. Can you meet me in a couple of hours?'

'Nikki, I can't, honey. I'm right up to my neck. Just tell me what happened. Why did you discharge yourself? I thought you'd want to be with Daniel ... is anything wrong I should know about?'

There was a pause. 'I can't talk about it, not over the phone,' Nikki said. 'But we have to meet, Jack. Please, it's very important.' Collins sighed, instinct telling him Nikki wanted to tread the same ground they'd gone over in the restaurant last night. 'Nikki, if it's got to do with what we discussed, I told you, I can't go into it. Don't push it, please.'

Another pause, then Collins heard words that chilled him. 'You didn't tell me the truth, did you? You didn't tell me what's actually going on. This time we've really got to talk, Jack.'

Washington, DC 3.50 a.m.

Kursk came awake with a jolt as a fist crashed into his face. 'Wake up!'

Another blow struck him, a stinging slap to his jaw, and Kursk's head snapped sideways. He tasted blood in his mouth. His head lolled, his mind a fog, and it was a couple of moments before he started to come to his senses.

'Good. You're back in the land of the living.'

Kursk blinked, focused, saw the scar-faced young man standing over him with a companion, a half dozen others behind them. What Kursk saw next chilled him. The man's companion started to fiddle with the knobs on a portable blowtorch, rubber tubes running off it to an oxy-acetylene bottle near by. Scar-face had a leather cosh in his right hand. 'Can you hear me, Kursk?'

'Who ... are you?'

'Never mind that. You remember the name Matvei Yudenich, no doubt?'

Kursk, still groggy, heard the name, had expected it, but said nothing.

Scar-face nodded to his companion. 'Let's see if we can jog his memory.'

The second man took out a cigarette lighter, touched it to the tip of the blowtorch and ignited the gas. The torch glowed red; then the red turned an intense blue. 'Start with his ringers, one at a time. We'll see if that loosens his tongue.'

As Kursk struggled, the man stepped forward with the blowtorch.

'Wait!' A figure stepped out from the shadows. Blinded by the neon, Kursk couldn't see the man's face, but he heard the authority in his voice. 'Give me ten minutes. Alone,' the man said in Russian. Scar-face nodded. His companion doused the blowtorch, tossed it on the ground, and left with the others. Slowly, the man who had spoken emerged farther out of the shadows. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, leaned across, dabbed blood from Kursk's mouth.

'Who are you?'

The man ignored the question. 'This business we're in, it's not a pleasant one, Major. And you've walked on dangerous ground. The men who brought you here, you know they mean to kill you? I can do nothing about that. But you've been asking questions, Major. And before you die, I'd like to find out why. You've been enquiring about a man named Nikolai Gorev.'

'Who are you?'

'My name is Ishim Razan.'

FBI Headquarters Washington, DC 3.40 a.m.