Resurrection Day (5 page)

An Arab man stood in the teeming rain, smoking a cigarette, watching the activity outside the Union Station from across Columbus Circle, two hundred yards away. Mohamed Rashid was in his late thirties, a tough-looking stocky figure with olive skin. His hair was cropped short, dyed blond. He wore a gold earring and a leather baseball jacket with 'Yankees' emblazoned on the back. He walked back to the blue Explorer parked twenty yards away at the kerb, yanked open the passenger door and climbed in. Nikolai Gorev sat in the driver's seat. 'Well?'

Rashid grunted. 'They've found it. Now let's finish what we have to do.'

Half an hour later, in heavy rain, the Explorer pulled off the main Baltimore highway and turned east, down a minor country road. There was no traffic at that hour of the morning. The road was deserted and badly lit, and in the rain and pitch darkness Nikolai Gorev carefully watched his speed. Five minutes later, on Rashid's instructions, he pulled in and halted beside a pair of chest-high wrought-iron gates with a low stone wall on either side. A plaque was fixed to one of the padlocked gates: Floraville Cemetery.

'Wait here,' Rashid told him. He slipped on a pair of thin black leather gloves, took a bulky package a little bigger than a brick from under his seat, and stepped out into the downpour. Vaulting the cemetery's stone wall, he landed on a gravel path. He walked for over fifty yards across the crunching stones, passing dark legions of headstones, until he came to a polished granite slab. Inscribed on the stone was a name: Margaret Coombs. Taking a notebook from his pocket, Rashid recorded the woman's name, her date of death, and the exact location of her burial. The grave was neatly kept, with a granite border, limestone chips covering the ground inside, and several bunches of dead flowers lying withered on the tomb, the falling rain drenching the crisp cellophane. Rashid took a pearl-handled flick-knife from his pocket and clicked the button. The blade flashed. He knelt and scraped away a section of the limestone chips until the wet earth beneath was exposed.

Then he began to dig with the knife, scooping out the moist topsoil, making a recessed hole no more than a foot square. When he had finished, he placed the package neatly in the hole, replaced the earth on top, tamped it down with his gloved hands, then covered it again with the limestone. Removing a pencil torch from his pocket, he briefly flicked it on, making sure there was no evidence of the grave having been disturbed. His task completed, he stood, his body drenched, then trudged back, vaulted the wall and climbed into the waiting Explorer. He tugged off his gloves. 'It's done. Let's get out of here.'

Without a word, Nikolai Gorev started the engine and turned back towards the Baltimore highway.

6.15 a.m.

The man came awake to the sound of his bedside telephone ringing. He switched on the nightstand lamp, plucked the receiver from its cradle and listened to the caller's terse message. 'Thank you. Please tell the President I'll be there,' the man answered, and replaced the receiver.

Climbing out of bed, he pulled on a dressing gown and anxiously crossed to his bedroom window. He was wide awake, had barely slept all night. Drawing back the curtains, he stared out at the rain-washed darkness. The call he'd just taken over a secure line had come from the White House communications room, which had conveyed the very same message to sixteen important men and women scattered across the country, members of America's prestigious National Security Council, summoning them to an unscheduled 8.30 a.m. meeting with the US President in Washington.

Roused from their beds, they would, at this very moment, be making urgent plans to travel to the US capital. As one of the President's closest advisers, and a respected Council member, the man was expected to be there. He was used to urgent calls from the White House in the middle of the night. But this one was very different. Unlike the other men and women contacted by the communications room that morning, who were totally unaware of the dire emergency that required their presence in the White House, he already knew the reason for his summons.

A dangerous journey was about to begin, and he knew that had any of his White House colleagues been aware of his remarkable secret, they'd have judged him guilty of the worst treachery, a traitor to his country. But the man thought differently. He had been guided by his principles, his hopes, his dreams, his vision, and he was totally committed to the role he was about to play. Yet he still shuddered, thinking of the days ahead, knowing they'd be fraught with hazards, would endanger the lives of hundreds of thousands of Americans.

The next seven days would decide the future course of his country. And with it the fate of the entire world. He looked back at the clock on his nightstand.

6.20.

Resurrection Day had begun.

Georgetown, Washington, DC Sunday, 11 November 9.50 a.m.

Jack Collins saw the milk start to bubble in the pan, added a sliver of butter, then cracked a brown free-range egg with a fork and whisked it into the milk. He turned back to smile at Daniel, seated at the kitchen table, dressed in a Barney sweater and busily munching sugared Cheerios. 'How we doin' there, partner?'

'OK, Jack.'

'Better eat up your cereal, your scrambled egg's going to be ready pretty soon.'

'What 'bout my toast?'

'It's on the way, cowboy.' In truth, Collins had forgotten the toast. He popped four slices of wholemeal bread in the toaster and pressed down on the slide switch. 'Happy now?'

'I is happy, Jack.'

As Daniel avidly returned his attention to his Cheerios, Collins couldn't suppress another smile. No matter how often Nikki corrected her son, am always became is. I is happy. I is going to the toilet. And on bad days, when Collins witnessed the occasional argument between Nikki and Daniel, when the normally angel-faced boy got huffy and sulked in a corner, narrowing his eyes defiantly like the Devil's child out of Damien, it was 'I is not going to be a good boy, Mommy.'

Collins knew that Nikki had given up trying to correct the grammatical error months ago; Daniel would grow out of it eventually. Besides, she had admitted, it was even cute, and if grown-ups were honest with themselves, they pretty much all wanted their children to stay infants for ever. He knew from his own experience of parenthood that the months and years passed so quickly; before you knew it kids were teenagers, and that wonderful, magic experience of sharing in their childhood was too abruptly gone. In Daniel's case, he was long out of the baby stage. At night, the little boy still wore a diaper, but even that habit was coming to an end, and he was starting to insist that he shouldn't have to wear one. Collins turned down the heat on the pan, poured himself a cup of hot coffee, added a spoonful of sugar, then swallowed a mouthful. He could hear Nikki's voice out in the living room, busy on the phone, making the call she said she needed to make, but he couldn't hear the conversation. She'd arrived at his apartment ten minutes ago, looking cheerful. No matter what troubles afflicted her, or others, Nikki always tried to be upbeat. That was her way. It was part of what attracted him to her when he met her eight months ago. He remembered their second outing together, dinner at Old Ebbitt's Grill, when he had got to know her a little better, and she had told him of the funny incident from when Daniel was two, the first time her son had really seen her completely naked.

He had surprised her in the shower, pulled back the curtain, and on seeing the dark V patch between her legs, he'd exclaimed innocently, 'What's that thing, Mommy?'

'Never you mind. What are you doing in here, Daniel? Come on, close the curtain, that's a good boy, and let Mommy finish in the shower. We've got to get to the store.'

And Daniel pointed to the V again. 'Are you taking that with you, Mommy?'

Nikki had told him the story in that earthy way of hers that had made him crack up with laughter. He always felt good knowing she and Daniel were here. In the last two years he had been tossed through some rough seas, but with Nikki's help and friendship had come a stable sense of reality. And for company he also had the added distraction of a three-year-old soon to be four — endlessly active and inquisitive boy. Even the simple practicality of feeding Daniel his breakfast somehow gave him much-appreciated comfort.

The apartment in Georgetown was one-bed, with a tiny living room, a kitchenette and a bathroom the size of a closet. After he'd sold the house in Alexandria, Collins had moved here, hoping to make a fresh start, unable to live in the house any more because it haunted him, had such consecrated memories, but sometimes he felt he hadn't made any kind of start at all. He was forever trapped in his past, bound by its chains. The dreams still came. The memories still haunted. No matter what he did to try to forget, they still came back. And he knew why. They were all he had. All he had to remember the sacredness of their lives together, the life he had shared and lost with his wife and son. Strong sunlight poured into the kitchen, which was close to a mess as always. Cooking was not one of Collins's favourite pastimes, not something he excelled at, but he did it out of sheer necessity. For a long time after Annie's death, even eating had been difficult. He'd had a double loss to deal with, and he'd rarely cooked, just ate fast food when he felt hungry, which wasn't very often. He'd shed thirty pounds and hadn't put them back on. But now, cooking occasionally for Daniel and Nikki had become, at least, a small pleasure. The toast popped. He finished his coffee, whisked the scrambled egg some more, and when it was done he spooned it onto a plate and buttered some toast and cut off the crusts. Important that, otherwise Daniel bitched like hell. 'There you go, cowboy.'

'You not having a egg, Jack?'

'Not this morning, Daniel.'

'Why?'

'Too many eggs are bad for you. And I try not to eat too many.'

'Oh.' Daniel frowned, tried to fathom that one out, his face crinkled with concentrated puzzlement, before he obviously decided that the intensity of thought wasn't worth the effort, relaxed and went back to his food.

Collins heard a tiny laugh and looked round. Nikki was leaning against the door frame, her arms folded. Her hair was tied back, emphasising her oval face, a smile lingering on her lips. She wore a pale grey sweater under a dark leather jacket, dark woollen pants and black ankle boots, her only jewellery a pair of tiny diamond-studded earrings. She was not quite medium height, but her figure was well proportioned, petite but athletic looking, and she had an immediate impact far greater than her size or appearance could explain. But more than anything she radiated vitality and a youthful spirit, which both belied the fact that Nikki Dean was thirty-six, a divorced hard-working mother with a lively three-year-old boy to contend with and a busy career as a news reporter for the Washington Post. 'How are you guys doing?'

'We're doing OK.'

'I overheard the egg business. You got off lightly, you know. Count yourself lucky you didn't have to get into a detailed medical explanation of how egg yolk can raise your cholesterol and narrow your arteries. Daniel's a reporter's son, remember. Most times, he wants all the facts.'

'I think maybe you're right there.' Collins smiled.

Nikki laughed again, came over. 'He already had a muffin, juice and cereal before we left the house, you know.'

'Think yourself lucky. Some kids you've got to force-feed. I remember we used to have trouble with Sean the first couple of years. All he wanted was cookies and candy. Anything else you had to struggle to get down him.'

'Well, there's no chance of that with Daniel. That boy would eat out of your mouth.' She stood beside him, reached out her hand, gently rubbed his back. 'You get enough sleep after your call-out last night?'

'Five hours.'

Collins had returned to his apartment at 4.30 a.m. after the incident at the Union Station. He'd told Nikki he'd been called out but didn't explain the reason why. That was FBI business, and they rarely if ever discussed his work. But Collins was still none the wiser about the incident, and it rankled him that Murphy hadn't told him what the hell was going on. And the more he thought about it, the more odd it seemed. What the hell was in the locker? If it had been a bomb it would have been plastered all over the TV news this morning, but he'd watched the news and there had been nothing.

He'd thought about calling headquarters and speaking to Murphy again, or some of his colleagues, to find out if they knew anything, but he put that thought from his mind. He had the day off today, and he and Nikki had planned to spend it together. The talk with Murphy could wait.

'You sure you're not too tired?'

'Sure.'

'Mom? You not having a egg too?'

'Not this morning, Daniel. Just toast and coffee for Mom.'

Daniel looked back down at the table, engrossed again in his second breakfast. Collins poured Nikki some coffee and buttered her a slice of toast. 'You're sure that's all you want? No jelly?'

'Sure. No jelly.'

'You're not on a diet, are you?'

She leaned over, wiped a smudge of hot butter from his mouth, put a finger to his lips, winked at him. 'No way. Unfortunately, what you see is what you get, like it or not.'

'Did you get your call made?'

'Sure. I called Mom. I'm leaving Daniel over at her place for the day. Would you believe she's actually looking forward to it?' Nikki giggled, raised her eyes. 'Just wait until he gets started on her walls with his crayons. That ought to take the edge off her enthusiasm.'

'You've got something to do?'

'To tell the truth I thought I'd take you for a drive before you visit the cemetery this afternoon. But there's an ulterior motive. I got some news yesterday I'd like to tell you.'

'Yeah? What kind of news?'

Nikki was usually always upbeat, but this morning Collins thought she seemed even more perky than usual. He began to wonder whether she was just trying hard to uplift him, because of what day it was, the anniversary of Annie's death, or whether it was something else. There seemed to be an almost nervous excitement about her. 'You want to tell me what it's about?'

She smiled, shook her head. 'You FBI guys hate a mystery, don't you? No explaining, not until later. I'm not on duty again for the Post until tomorrow. And you've still got a couple of days off work. So we've got the entire afternoon and evening together. We can take a drive, maybe have some lunch. In fact, there's somewhere special I'd like to take you — it's kind of a surprise. And then I can tell you my news.'

Sunday, 11 November 8.55 a.m.