Resurrection Day (7 page)

'Where to, lady?'

'Dupont Circle.'

Two blocks from the apartment building, Karla Sharif hailed a passing cab. The middle-aged, driver smiled, shot her an appraising look. 'For you, lady, anywhere.'

As the cab merged with the traffic, Karla saw the driver glance at her appreciatively in the rear-view mirror. She avoided meeting his eyes, turned her face away, stared out of the window. They drove past the Pentagon and across the Roosevelt Bridge, heading towards DC and New Hampshire Avenue. Washington had been her home for the last ten weeks, and she had been surprised by its beauty.

When she'd arrived it was September, and still hot, the white stone buildings shimmering in the sweltering heat. In the following weeks she had helped Rashid set up the safe houses, assemble the equipment, and scour the city looking for suitable warehouses and storage facilities where they could stash the deadly cargo. But that first week, Rashid had made her take him on a guided tour in her car to familiarise him with the city, pointing out places and buildings of interest: Washington Harbour, the White House, the Smithsonian Institute, the homes of the rich and famous who inhabited Georgetown's chic seventeenth- and eighteenth-century town houses. At the Lincoln Memorial they had climbed the steps to look out over the reflecting pool, then visited the rooftop bar of the Hilton with its stunning views of the capital. Washington, she had always thought, was the least American-looking of US cities, with its absence of skyscrapers, and she had told Rashid that the law forbade any structure higher than Capitol Hill.

Karla looked out at the crowded streets, at the faces passing beyond the cab window. Don't think about anything other than your mission, they had told her. Force yourself to focus on nothing but your cause. But how could she not think of the sea of faces she saw every day? The mothers and fathers and their children in the neighbourhood where she lived. The people in her apartment block, the faces she saw in the streets: old faces, young faces, black faces, white faces, and every colour in between, all living in this multicultured city. The little boys and girls playing in the parks. The penniless black men she passed on 14th Street; the polite young policeman who gave her directions for the subway. How could she not see the lives she would help destroy if everything went wrong?

And how could she not think of her own beloved Josef? He was the sole reason she was here, prepared to risk her own life, so that he would live. She sank back in her seat, tried to focus on her mission. She was Karla Sharif, thirty-eight years old, a Palestinian. As Safa Yassin, a Lebanese-born emigree, she had illegally entered New York's Kennedy Airport in early September and travelled by train to Washington, DC. The false American passport, green card and social security number had been acquired for her by the mujahidin. Even her car and driving licence had been prearranged — the licence was a genuine document, but with a false address.

'We're here, lady.'

The driver's voice cut off her thoughts. Karla Sharif paid the fare, added a dollar tip and climbed out. Crossing the pavement, she lingered in front of a bookstore window. When she was certain the cab had driven off, she turned away from the window and walked east, checking every now and then to make sure she hadn't been followed. Two blocks farther on, she hailed another taxi and told the driver to take her back to Alexandria. When she stepped out of the second cab, she walked the short distance to the apartment.

The complex was in one of the less desirable parts of Alexandria, near the old docks. The sign on the wall outside said: Wentworth Apartments. They were discreetly set back between two rows of red-bricked two-storey town houses, and Mohamed Rashid had rented a one-bed unit on the second floor. She noticed his blue Explorer parked outside in the lot and stepped up to the apartment entrance. The lobby door was unlocked, and she could have stepped inside, but instead she jabbed her finger at the intercom buzzer to her left. Almost instantly, a man answered. 'Who is it?'

'It's me, Karla.'

'Come up,' the man ordered. For a second, Karla hesitated at the lobby entrance. It seemed like the mouth of a menacing cave she didn't want to enter, knowing what lay ahead, knowing what she and the others had to do that day.

But there was no going back now.

She stepped inside the Wentworth's open lobby door and closed it behind her.

8.55 a.m.

A silence had descended on the situation room after Professor Fredericks had made his terrifying statement. The President was the first to speak, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper. He addressed Fredericks again. 'Professor, I'd like to ask you another question.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Where could someone get a chemical like this from? And by that I also mean what's its origin?'

'Difficult to say. But its extreme toxicity suggests to me it could be one of the newer Russian Novichok gases you may have heard about, or something similar.'

'Novichok?'

'Literally, it means newcomer. Mustard gas was a first-generation gas. Those like Zyklon B second. VX is third-generation — a class of incredibly powerful chemical weapons that take toxicity to a whole new level, and to which Novichok belongs.'

'You're saying it could it have come from Russia?'

'It's possible. Russian VX, more commonly known as RVX, is similar to US-manufactured VX, but has some structural differences in formula. I'm seeing those same kinds of structural differences in the sample we analysed. But it's just as possible it could have been manufactured somewhere else, other than Russia. Saddam Hussein is known to have experimented with Novichok gases. As have the Chinese and the Iranians. Or it could have been manufactured independently, in secret. But that would take a lot of money and research. You're talking about employing the services of top scientists.'

'So you can't tell the exact source?'

'Not as yet, sir, no.'

'How difficult would it be for a terrorist organisation to acquire the component parts to manufacture this chemical?'

'To produce what kind of quantity, Mr President?'

'Say the amount it would take to kill every citizen in Washington.'

The silence from Fredericks' end of the line was noted in the hushed situation room. 'Are you still there, Professor Fredericks?'

'Yes ... yes, sir, I'm still here.' Fredericks sighed. 'It wouldn't be at all difficult. The hardest part would be coming up with the formula. As for the actual chemical ingredients, they're fairly commonly available and easily purchased — most are derived from agricultural pesticides, pretty much like most deadly nerve gases. Even ballpoint pen ink is only one step removed from Sarin gas. Certain of the formulas aren't difficult to acquire either. The British invented VX, for example, and the method of preparation was first published by the British Patents Office over thirty years ago, and is still publicly available. With some simple lab equipment, almost anyone with a basic knowledge of chemistry could produce VX, or almost any other nerve gas. Many of them form part of a class of industrial chemicals known as organophosphates, commonly used as insecticides, but for military purposes they are manufactured to a much higher level of toxicity. For a long time now my colleagues and I have been warning about this same danger, Mr President.'

'I'm well aware of that, Professor, but to get back to the question of quantity — '

'If I were to give a rough estimate, a liquid ton of this chemical, correctly dispersed, might do it. That's about a thousand litres. The amount you'd fit in a typically small, suburban home heating tank. It would be more than enough to cause massive numbers of deaths.'

'And how does it work?'

'Just like VX itself, and pretty much like all other nerve gases, which are probably the most barbaric weapons ever devised. It affects the nerve motor receptors in the human brain and body. The synapses that carry brain signals between nerve cells shut down. A victim of a nerve gas attack would go into uncontrolled physical and mental spasm. The chemicals affect the respiratory tract and lung function, and the victim can't breathe. It feels like their lungs are on fire. The blood vessels often rupture. It causes an extremely ugly, violent death.'

'Are there antidotes?'

'Well, yes and no. There is an antidote called atropine. Victims exposed to VX, for example, would have to be immediately removed from the contaminated area and injected — which might not be possible if the gas has been dispersed pretty much everywhere. Coupled with that, you have to deliver atropine fast, and the method of injection isn't pleasant. It's usually delivered with a six-inch needle into the thigh muscle, or even straight into the heart. But atropine isn't always successful. It depends on how much of the toxic chemical a victim has been exposed to, and for how long. And remember, we're dealing here with something far more toxic than VX, so it's questionable whether the antidote would work at all in this case.'

'But if it did, could people be given the antidote before an attack?'

'In theory, if you had a proven antidote, yes.'

'How do we get one?'

'Whoever manufactured the gas may have one. They may not. If they don't we'd have to try to manufacture one ourselves.'

'How long would that take?'

'Impossible to say. Three months, six months, or maybe never.'

'Never?'

'All nerve gases attack the body very rapidly through the lung and/or skin tissue. They're absorbed almost immediately into the bloodstream and act aggressively. Gas agents are not like bacteria or viruses. They're highly toxic, lethal within a very short time — seconds and minutes rather than days and weeks. And this one's the most aggressive I've ever come across. It would kill instantly. It's so highly toxic that any antidote you come up with may prove completely ineffective.'

The President sighed. 'But surely it would be difficult to store?'

'Not at all. That's the great advantage of this kind of Novichok — it's usually held in binary form. By that I mean it consists principally of two benign chemicals that become lethal only when mixed together. The two chemicals can be contained in separate compartments within an artillery shell housing, or in separate chambers inside a missile, or some kind of protective container, even a sealed oil drum, for example. When the shell or missile — or whatever container is used — explodes, the chemicals combine to produce the toxic gas. I should point out that one of the reasons the Russians held Novichok in binary form was to circumvent future bans on chemical weapons. Stored as separate chemicals, they're mostly harmless. Combined, they're incredibly deadly. Another advantage is that binary form also makes it hard to monitor or detect.'

'How would this nerve gas be dispersed?'

'Several ways. By aerosol. By explosion — using a missile containing the liquid, say, or some kind of bomb, or even a cropduster aircraft. If a cropduster were used, the pilot would obviously have to wear a protective suit, otherwise he'd be a victim too, rapidly, though I think such a method is unlikely — it's far too difficult and unsafe. Or it might be dispersed naturally, by the wind, but that's an ineffective means also, unless the weather conditions are favourable. And by that I mean reasonably mellow winds blowing in the right direction. If they're too strong, they disperse the gas and reduce its effectiveness.'

'You mean it wouldn't have any harmful effect?'

'No, sir, that's not what I mean. The nerve gas would still kill its victims, but it just wouldn't kill as many. And there would still be long-term effects you'd have to deal with, people invalided with permanent nerve-receptor, lung or brain damage. Many would still die, but more slowly. Another problem — with VX, but the same should apply in the case of this derivative — is that it remains active for anything from three to sixteen weeks. So anyone in the vicinity up to three months after the dispersal would still run the risk of being contaminated. My guess is the sample we've got could remain active for even longer.'

The President took a moment to reflect before asking his next question. 'Professor, is there any possibility of error in the tests you carried out?'

'Mr President, you're at liberty to seek another opinion — '

'I'm not doubting your learned judgment, Professor. And I'll certainly seek other expert opinion, the very best this nation has. But for now, are you absolutely certain about the kind of damage this gas could inflict?'

Fredericks came back with a forceful reply. 'Mr President, let me be perfectly honest with you and put this thing in perspective, just in case you don't realise the truly lethal, awesome power of this chemical. You've got to think of it as kind of a poor man's atom bomb. With just ten ccs, that's a mere two tablespoonfuls of the stuff, I'd estimate it could easily kill tens of thousands of people in a confined space. And I do mean easily. Let's extrapolate that a little further for effect. If a terrorist had a large enough quantity of this chemical, say five or six of those thousand-litre oil tanks I mentioned, and they were strategically placed in major cities on the East Coast and about to explode, then I wouldn't just be worrying about Washington, DC. Me, I'd be worrying about most of the eastern seaboard — close to a quarter of the citizens of this entire country.'

Maryland 11 November 11.45 a.m.

Collins rubbed condensation from the windscreen of Nikki's dark green six-year-old Toyota Camry to get a better view. 'So what's the big secret? Where are we headed?'

They were on Route 4, heading towards Chesapeake Bay, that long inlet of seawater that stretches for almost a hundred miles, all the way from north Maryland to the Atlantic seaboard. Chesapeake in the sunshine was a beautiful expanse of water, the inlet coves dotted with pretty marinas and attractive bay properties that ran all the way along the length of the coast.

'Who says it's a big secret?' Nikki smiled. 'You know something, Jack Collins, you're worse than Neal for fishing for clues. Didn't they teach you FBI guys at Quantico not to pry into highly classified stuff?'

'What did you do? Steal military secrets you want to show me?'

Nikki giggled. 'You'll have to be patient. So stop prying, and just enjoy the ride.'

They had dropped Daniel off at his grandmother's. A spry, attractive widow, Susan Dean had met them at the door of her town house in Arlington. She was a little more reserved than her daughter, but there was warmth there, and a streak of independence that saw her, at sixty-four and a widow, still working as a part-time legal secretary. 'Don't you worry about this little man. He and I are going to have a terrific time, aren't we, Daniel?'

Daniel had become instantly tearful. 'I wanna go with Mom and Jack.'

'But we're going to have much more fun,' his grandmother told him. 'You'll have Mitzi to play with.'

Daniel loved playing with his grandmother's dog, Collins knew, but the boy wasn't won over yet. 'And don't you want to see the surprise present I've got for you?' Susan said enticingly. 'I picked it up yesterday at the toy store.'

Daniel's eyes lit up. 'Can I see the surprise now, Nanna?'

'Sure. It's all wrapped up in the front room. Why don't you go take a look?'

Daniel gave his mother a quick hug as his priorities suddenly shifted and he darted inside the house. Susan laughed. 'Works every time. Promise a surprise and they'll forget about everything else.' She gave them the assured look of someone who'd had the experience of raising four children and knew well how the diversion game was played. 'He'll be fine. You two run along. I've got your cell number if I need you, or in case he pulls Mitzi's tail off.'

An hour later and Nikki had passed Plum Point and turned off Route 4 on to a solitary track that ran parallel to the Chesapeake shoreline. It cut inland for almost half a mile until they came to a cluster of wood-and-brick two-storey cottages. Each had its own large plot, half a dozen of them lining the right-hand side of a private road. They looked neatly kept, except the one Nikki pulled up outside, which appeared neglected, the whitewash peeling, the picket fence rotted in places.

'You going to tell me where we are?'

'It's called Buff End.' Nikki switched off the Camry's engine. 'Don't you think it's pretty?' Collins saw that the cottage was protected from the harsh Atlantic winds by a semicircle of pine trees. About a mile away, across some fields, was a promontory that sloped out to sea. He knew Chesapeake Bay, and that the nearby coast was the habitat of several dozen species of seabirds. A few hundred yards farther along the shoreline there was a long stretch of sandy beach. The cliffs were forty feet high on some parts of the bay, made of crumbly sandstone, but those farther south reached a little higher. Erosion had eaten deep into the cliff face but the cottage was far enough back for it not to matter.

'Mom and Dad used to bring the family here for most of the summer when I was a little girl. Even when Dad wasn't on vacation he'd stay with us, and drive to work in Washington. We all loved the place. With the sea so close, farms near by, and lots of places to explore, it was a really happy time.'

'Your dad owned the cottage?'

'Part owned, with Frank, his brother.' Nikki smiled. 'Uncle Frankie to us kids, but Mom used to call him Rash. According to her, he was something of a guy about town in his day. He'd never married, and used the cottage as a hideaway, somewhere to bring his girlfriends and romance the pants off them. He passed away last year and left his share of the property to Mom. The past few months I've been coming by the odd free day I've had, trying to get it into shape.'

'How come you never told me?'

'A girl's got to keep some secrets. Come on, I'll show you around.'

She led the way up a loose gravel path on to the veranda and unlocked the front door. They stepped through a short hallway into a cosy front room that smelled of fresh paint. There was a blackstone fireplace, and a big old Zeiss telescope on a tripod, pointed seaward. Marine bric-a-brac garnished the walls — old conch shells, sculpted carvings made from shark bones, and mounted paintings of old schooners and frigates — which gave the place the look of a quaint mariner's cottage.

The kitchen was painted a straw yellow, creating a warm effect, and the paint cans and brushes that Nikki had used were piled on some old newspapers in a corner. She opened the windows downstairs, letting the salt air invade the rooms, then they went upstairs and Collins helped her open out the rest of the windows. The master bedroom had been cleared of furniture, and Nikki had rag-washed the walls in pale apricot, giving the room a feminine touch. The view from out over the water was stunning, sunshine sparkling on the calm bay waters.

'Another few weeks and I should be through with most of the decorating. I have to leave Daniel with Mom every time, otherwise he'd have us both covered in paint and I'd never get anything done.' Nikki took in the view with a deep breath, exhaled. 'Well, what do you think?'

'You did good work. And I can see how you'd like it here. Mind you, downstairs looks like somewhere Captain Ahab might have bided his time before he went in search of Moby-Dick.'

She smiled, gently punched his arm. 'Come on, it's not that bad. I'm looking forward to getting it finished. A little more paint and it'll be fixed up like it was when we were kids.' She turned towards the window, crossed her arms as if to protect herself against the faint chill in the sea air. 'Every time I come here, I find myself wishing for those days back. It's such a wonderful old house, Jack. Full of the warmest memories. I wish you could have known it back then.'

Collins saw the genuine yearning in her face, heard the trace of excitement her memories engraved in her voice. He looked out towards Chesapeake Bay. There were memories out there on the bay for him, too. When Sean was a child he'd often taken him there, sometimes with Annie, sometimes just the two of them, and that part of the beach where the sand dunes rose high had always been a favourite place for them all.

That terrible day, the day he'd received word that Sean had been killed on the USS Cole, he had driven alone out to Chesapeake, his mind numbed by an unfathomable grief. He had parked the car, taken a path along the cliff and followed a worn track down for two miles until he came to the beach, the one that he and Sean used sometimes to walk and play together on. It was deserted. An avalanche of heavy fog had rolled in off the bay, and he had walked along the shore as if in a daze. At every rise in the sand he could see Sean again as a small boy, his tiny face thrilled by some small discovery he'd made: a sand crab or a seashell — something trivial, but infinitely important to a child of four.

For hours that day, tortured by his precious memories, he had pushed on for mile after mile along the sand, like a man demented, driven on by his intense sorrow, completely lost in the past. It was as if Sean was still there and he could hear him again in the fog, giggling as he scurried on ahead playing hide-and-seek, then shaking with a fit of excited laughter when he was discovered.

Nikki touched his arm. 'Jack, are you OK?'

'Sure,' Collins lied, feeling a jolt of grief in his chest so sharp it felt as if someone had stuck a hypodermic in his heart. Looking into Nikki's face, seeing her concern, he wanted genuinely to share his memories with her, but knew they were too precious ever to be shared.

'You seemed distracted.'

He offered her a half-smile, spoke as gently as he could. 'Can I say something? I sort of get the feeling there's something more to this, Nikki. Unless you want a hand with the decorating?'

She blushed a little. 'They teach you that at Quantico, too? How to mind-read?'

'A woman's? Never. That's up there with the big, unfathomable mysteries of life.'

She laughed, slipped her arm into his, kissed him on the cheek. 'There's a restaurant over at Chesapeake Beach that serves great food. How about we lock up the cottage and talk there?'

Washington, DC 12.50 p.m.