Resurrection Day (64 page)

Matthew Cage, the FBI Assistant Director, felt as if he'd aged ten years. His tanned, handsome face was washed out, creased with worry lines, his eyes red and gritty, testament to the restless twelve hours' sleep he'd had in just over three days. 'We've got to push even harder, Tom. We've got to beat the damned bushes with every stick we've got. And I mean beat the living daylights out of them. We've got just over eight hours left. Less than that if we're to be honest.'

Tom Murphy, in the chair opposite, thought: What the fuck do you think I've been doing for the last three days?

'With the greatest respect, sir,' Murphy said, 'we've beaten the bushes until there isn't a fucking leaf left. We've walked every street and alleyway in the District, put the squeeze on every petty criminal, pimp, pick-pocket, hooker and hustler we know of. Shone a light into every dark hole we could find. Searched every warehouse we deemed suspect, every building that might be used to store the chemical. Everyone's been giving it their absolute best — a hundred and fifty per cent. They're tired, they're washed out. I push them any harder, they're going to be ferrying our agents out of here on fucking stretchers.'

Cage slapped his hands on the desk in a gesture of hopelessness. He stood and paced the room, rubbing his neck, trying to alleviate his gnawing tension — so bad it felt as if his neck was going to snap. In the last two hours alone he'd had six calls from the White House, and four from his Director, asking after his progress. Their persistence was wearing him down. All he wanted this minute was to curl up in a bed, cover himself with a blanket and sleep for a week.

'You know what's galling?' Cage's jaw tightened as he gestured towards the District's lights. 'Those bastards are out there, somewhere. They're out there and we've got every resource we can muster — thousands of agents, tons of equipment, bags of money being doled out to informers — and we can't even get a whiff of them. What does that tell you?'

'How ineffective we are,' Murphy admitted tiredly. 'Or how good they are.'

'There's that. But by my reasoning, somebody's got to be keeping their mouth shut. Somebody's got to know these people. Somebody's got to have seen or dealt with them, passed them on the street, served them in a gas station, sold them groceries, carried them in a cab, maybe done business with them. Terrorists can't live in a vacuum, and even if it means carrying people out of here on stretchers, you've got to push harder, Tom. If you've beaten every leaf off the bush, then pull the damned bush up by the roots. Look under every clod and rock. We're all tired, we're all washed out, we're all at our wits' end, but we've got to give it this last big push.'

Murphy, fighting his own fatigue, gave a silent nod. He'd worked tough investigations that took months, even years to crack. He was being asked to do the impossible — crack one of the toughest in just over eight more hours. True, he had manpower — every agent available — but he wished the guys on the executive floor could take time out and see for themselves what it was like working the salt-mines. Everyone on the case was living on their nerves, kept awake by coffee, fear and desperation. He'd had three men taken to hospital in the last four hours, suffering from exhaustion. Another had suffered a heart attack. No doubt there would be more casualties of the stress before the night was out. Murphy didn't feel so good himself, pains arcing across his chest, his legs like rubber; he wondered whether he'd make the next eight hours without collapsing. Maybe I won't have to worry after that, maybe I'll be gassed to death anyway. He thanked God that his ex-wife and his two sons were living over in Annapolis. The chances were they'd be safe there. But he knew he was doing everything he possibly could to crack this, didn't even bother to argue the issues again with Cage. 'Yes, sir.'

Cage picked up a notepad, studied the scribbled notes he'd made during the last phone call he'd received ten minutes ago. 'To top it all, we've got another serious problem on our hands.'

'What is it this time?'

'The White House has been getting calls from the press about our troops being pulled from the Gulf. So far, they've been able to long-finger them, by saying the President will issue a statement some time tomorrow on the matter, but inferring it's no big deal and the pull-out is just for the holiday season. However ... ' Cage paused, tapped his notepad. 'There's a woman reporter from the Post who's being very persistent in asking questions. She's been on to the mayor's office, hounded the Police Commissioner, talked to the army public affairs office. An hour ago, she even tried to get in touch with the Director himself. She called him half a dozen times and left a message for him to call her back, saying it was urgent. God knows how she got his private number, though I guess when you're a reporter with the Post you've got ways and means. But we think it might have been from a friend of hers, a public relations guy named Stelman, who works at metropolitan headquarters. She'd been plugging him for information about the police exercise. The Commissioner had to take Stelman aside tonight after he'd had him watched, and threatened to fire him on the spot if he helped her again in any way. Said he'd bring serious charges against Stelman if he divulged any more information to her. He's been told not to communicate with her in any way or he'll face the wrath of the Met.'

'Why the mayor and Commissioner? Or the Director? What have they got to do with the Gulf pullout?'

'She's not been asking about that, Tom. Not her personally, at least not yet, but some other people at the Post have. She's more interested in the military operation in DC, and the police exercise, and she's been very persistent. She's been suggesting there's a cover-up, that there's more to the army and police exercises than is being admitted. The feeling is, she might know something. Or if she doesn't, she soon will, the way she's going. She's also been asking about the Bureau explosion. It's like she's pulling all the right strands together. If she goes public, then people are going to be running out of this city like there's no tomorrow. Which there won't be, not if Mohamed Rashid and his fiends see the streets emptying. Chances are, they'll think we're evacuating and press the button.'

'Where does that leave us?' Murphy asked worriedly.

'Those people at the Post don't give up until they've got to the bottom of a story, especially a cover-up. The White House thinks the woman poses a security risk, could blow this thing wide open, and they're worried as hell.'

'What are they going to do?'

'The Secret Service have got her address, her car licence number, her cellphone number. Somebody's been briefed to locate her. I wasn't told who they are and I didn't ask.'

'What's the intention?'

'Set up a meeting, on the pretence of having the kind of information she might be interested in.'

'And?'

'They put her away somewhere secure, for reasons of national security, until this thing's over, one way or the other.'

'Jesus, Matt, the Post would go wild with a story like that. Kidnapping one of their reporters? They'll tear the White House to shreds when they find out.'

'That's not my worry, Tom. God knows, we've got enough of our own.'

'So who's the journalist?'

'Her name's Nikki Dean.'

Washington, DC 3.55 a.m.

'You've heard of me, Kursk?'

'Tell me any state official in Moscow who hasn't.'

Razan brushed dust from one of the warehouse packing crates, sat, lit a cigar. 'So, Yudenich has an old score to settle? But then people like him always have. What did you do to him, Kursk?'

'Does it matter?'

Razan shrugged. 'I suppose not.'

'If this isn't your business, why are you here?'

'I heard you were asking questions. Yudenich heard too. Not that the questions you were asking mattered much to him. He saw an opportunity to settle a debt, nothing more. But to me, your questions mattered very much.'

'Why?'

'We'll get to that.'

'What about Yudenich?'

'He gets his pound of flesh, but I get to talk with you first.' Razan flicked ash from his cigar. 'Of course, you may have no reason to satisfy my curiosity, knowing that your death is a certainty. Perhaps all I can do on your behalf is ask that your passing be made less painful.'

'You and your kind, Razan, you make me sick. You take a life and it matters nothing.'

Razan shook his head. 'Don't label me with Yudenich. I'm not a bloodthirsty animal. But this isn't my business. Yudenich simply obliged me. Of course, I could ask him to forget about taking his revenge, but knowing Yudenich he wouldn't listen.' He shrugged. 'I doubt it will matter much, but perhaps I will ask anyway.'

'And in return?'

'You tell me why you're so interested in Nikolai Gorev.'

'You know him?'

'We served together as paratroopers, many years ago.'

'Do you know where he is?'

Razan shrugged, blew out a ring of smoke. 'Even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. Nikolai Gorev is one of the few men I respect, a hero to my people. I'd rather kill myself than betray him, especially to the scum of the FSB.'

Kursk's pulse quickened. 'You do know where he is, don't you?'

Razan ignored the question. 'You still haven't answered. Why were you asking after Gorev?'

'You wouldn't believe me.'

'Try me.'

'There's much more to this than you can know, Ishim Razan. Like you, Nikolai Gorev and I go back a long time.'

Razan frowned. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'A long story. You can hear it if you want. But first I need your solemn promise you'll keep what I tell you a secret ... '

Razan tossed his cigar on the floor, crushed it. 'I'm losing my patience, Major. And you're in no position to make conditions.'

'I need your word, Razan, if I'm to trust you.'

Razan considered, nodded. 'Very well, if it matters that much. You have my word.'

'Your solemn word.'

'As God is my judge. Now talk.'

On the fourth floor at Secret Service headquarters, between 10th and 11th Streets, a light blazed in Harry Judd's office. As he eased the telephone back in its cradle, he stood, lost in thought.

The call he'd just made had unsettled him. The truth was, he felt stunned, as if he'd been hit with a baseball bat. For the last eight hours, the four suspects on his list — General Horton, Mitch Gains, Bob Rapp and Charles Rivermount — had been subjected to the most intense surveillance anyone could imagine. In its attempt to find the White House source, Judd's plan had been simple — one of the oldest tricks in the book. You feed a single suspect false information and see if the information is made use of. If it comes back at you through another source, then you know who fed the source and you have your man.

In this case, there were four suspects, which made things more difficult. Each of them, of necessity, had been fed the same lie. But the same rules applied — whichever one made use of it was the guy you wanted to nail. However, actually catching the culprit in the act of passing on the information was how Judd hoped he was going to nab his man. He knew it wasn't going to be easy, but he had done his best to cover all the angles.

For a start, apart from their regular Secret Service protection detail — which had been primed about the surveillance — each suspect had a covert squad of eight men assigned to watch him. 'Watch' was hardly the word. Unknown to Rivermount, Gains, Rapp and Horton, their every movement and their every word was under scrutiny. Every e-mail they sent, every phone call they made, every person they met, every gesture they made in public was being noted and recorded.

Three men in each of the surveillance teams were riding in special vans — two vans to each suspect. These men were Technical Security specialists, and the vans were fitted with every high-tech, ultra-sensitive listening and recording device imaginable: directional and parabolic microphones, cellphone scanners, VHF and UHF receivers, infrared cameras. One van remained near each of the suspects' homes, the other followed them — at a safe distance — while they travelled in their official cars.

Not that there had been much movement that night, official or otherwise. All of the suspects had attended the scheduled 9 p.m. NSC meeting and all had left the White House by 1.30 a.m., escorted by the Secret Service details to their respective homes in the DC area. And all had made phone calls almost as soon as they returned home. General Horton two, Mitch Gains three, Rapp two, and Charles Rivermount six. All of the calls had been from their land lines, except four, which had been made on cellphones.

The men's respective land lines had been bugged since late the previous afternoon, but bugging a cellphone wasn't as easy. There were no exposed wires or wall phone sockets you could clip a bug into. If you got your hands on the cellphone, sure, you could bug it with a miniature ESID, but unless you employed the services of a pick-pocket forget it.

Still, there were other methods. All of the suspects had cellphones supplied by the White House — as NSC members, they were on twenty-four-hour call. Each of them also had individual cellphones of their own. Judd had got the numbers of each and every one and passed them on to the surveillance teams. He also had a dozen men down at the exchanges of the cellphone network providers — a court order always worked wonders recording calls from each of the four NSC members, including their private mobiles. With the help of the network providers, who could triangulate the calls, Judd could also confirm roughly from where a call was being made, and its destination. As well as all that, the Technical Security specialists parked near each of the suspects' home were using directional scanners to listen in on cellphone frequencies, hoping to snatch any nearby dialogue, just in case one of the suspects was using a phone that wasn't officially registered to him.

Result: Zero.

Not a single one of the calls the suspects had made that night had contained a single mention of the lie that each of them had been fed. Of course, a message could have been passed on in code during a seemingly harmless conversation. For that reason, the recorded conversations were being picked over relentlessly, listened to again and again in case they contained some hidden meaning, some secret code. And the destination of the calls themselves had been traced — friends, wives, girlfriends, sons and daughters, relatives and, in the case of Charles Rivermount and Mitch Gains, business associates. None of the people who had been called — Judd had checked the list — was worthy of suspicion, except one. A call to Nabil Rahman al-Khalid, a business partner of Rivermount's. That particular conversation — lasting five minutes forty seconds, but which sounded harmless — was being given special scrutiny, but as yet it had produced zilch. No suggestion of a hidden coded message, or at least none that could so far be determined. Then, at 2.56 a.m., Judd got a breakthrough.

One of the Technical Security specialist teams, scanning the airwaves outside a suspect's home, had snatched and recorded a brief but highly interesting ninety-three-second cellphone conversation. One of the team had sped back to headquarters with the recording. When Judd heard it, his blood ran cold. Then his shock was replaced by excitement, for by intercepting the call the Technical Security guys had hit on an invaluable tool that might just help in locating the terrorists. He'd immediately called Rob Owens, the Secret Service Assistant Director of Protection. Owens was rushing to headquarters right now.

Judd got no pleasure admitting it — but they had found their White House source.

Washington, DC 4.20 a.m.