Resurrection Day (70 page)

At the safe house, Moses Lee was drinking coffee, sitting on an easy chair by the front window, the MP-5 cradled in the crook of an arm, when Rashid came into the living room, followed by Gorev. 'How are you brothers doing?'

'You've been keeping a close watch on the street?' Rashid asked.

'Sure. I was on watch until midnight, then I grabbed some sleep and Abdullah took over. Now it's my frigging turn again.' Lee stood, his muscles bulging beneath the stretched cotton of his T-shirt, and gestured towards the window. 'Don't worry, it's all been real quiet. No cops in sight, no neighbourhood assholes bothering us.' Rashid went over to the window, anxiously pulled back the filthy curtain, peered into the street, and said over his shoulder to Gorev, 'She should have been here by now.'

'Maybe she's caught in traffic?'

'She's on a motorcycle, Gorev. She shouldn't have that problem.'

'What if it broke down?'

'Then why didn't she call here? She has the number.'

A look of concern crossed Gorev's face, but he tried to shrug his anxiety off. 'Don't worry about Karla, she'll be here.'

Rashid frowned doubtfully, said to Moses, 'Keep a good lookout. If you see her arrive, let me know.' He checked his watch, turned back to Gorev. 'If she's not here in the next twenty minutes, we'll go without her.'

8.32 a.m.

Speeding north-west on Route 4 towards Forestville, twelve miles from the centre of DC, Collins was in a state of fevered anxiety. The strain under which he had been living for the last three days had got even worse since he'd heard the news about Kursk and the woman. He and Morgan had sped back from Chesapeake in a state of amazement. Collins' mind was on fire, his body taut as a coiled spring. They'd found the safe house.

But would Rashid still be there? What if he'd already left, moved the chemical? Even if he hadn't, how would they gain access to the house without alerting the people inside? And even if the device was still there, could they disarm it in time? What if the whole thing went haywire? He hoped to God Murphy had some kind of plan, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised how near impossible the situation still was, and how infinitely hazardous. He was convinced that Rashid was the kind of terrorist who, at the first sign of any kind of trouble, wouldn't have a single qualm about turning himself into a martyr and taking half the population of Washington with him.

Rashid. The hope of finding him again made Collins' pulse race, and he sweated as he stared fixedly ahead. Morgan drove like a madman, the speedometer climbing to over a hundred as he held the accelerator hard to the floor, the siren wailing as they sped along the fast lane, the engine growling. 'The mall's coming up on the right,' Collins yelled. 'Take the next exit.'

Morgan swung off the highway, and two minutes later they roared into the shopping-mall parking lot, where Murphy had arranged for them to meet Kursk. Parked in the forecourt they saw the Savana with dark-tinted windows, Kursk waiting beside it. He waved, then rolled open the Savana's rear passenger door, and a woman got out. Collins saw that it was Karla Sharif. She looked pale and drawn, and as Morgan went to pull up beside the Savana Kursk immediately rolled the passenger door shut again, and the vehicle revved and screeched away, heading out of the mall. Collins was confused, his mouth agape. 'What's going on, Kursk?'

The Russian yanked open the Ford's rear door, guided Karla Sharif into the back seat and jumped in after her. 'I'll tell you on the way.'

8.59 a.m.

The vacant warehouse was just off the South-East Freeway, a quarter-mile from Fulton Chase. It had been closed for business for almost four months, but that morning the unfenced parking lot was occupied by a half-dozen cars, two Dodge vans with dark-tinted windows, and at least two dozen anxious-looking federal agents.

A grey Ford Galaxy tore into the lot, sped towards the vehicles and jerked to a halt. Tom Murphy jumped out, lathered in sweat, the rear doors opening as three more agents climbed out behind him. Murphy ran over to one of his men and roared in near-panic, 'Where the fuck's Collins and Morgan? They ought to be fucking here by now!'

The man nodded past Murphy's shoulder as yet another unmarked FBI Ford suddenly screeched into the lot. 'They're right behind you, sir.'

There comes a time in every crisis situation, as a deadline looms and there's no obvious sign of a positive resolution, when panic sets in. No matter how hard law enforcement agents and hostage negotiators try to control the tense, final moments of a difficult situation — especially one that presents an extreme threat to human life — panic starts to rear its ugly head. Some negotiators like to call it 'deadline hysteria'.

As resolution nears and tensions climb high, exhaustion starts to factor into the equation, nervous fears arise, and stark terror begins to take over. Tom Murphy liked to compare such moments to a kind of hurricane. And as the storm whipped up, as the elements raged all around and people went crazy, he liked to employ a certain tactic: tell everyone around him to shut the fuck up, find a quiet place in the middle of the blizzard of activity, block his mind to the frantic immediacy of the deadline, and try to go through his checklist of 'things to do' in clear, calm, logical steps.

Except this morning it wasn't entirely working out that way. First of all, after a desperate, hurried talk with Karla Sharif, he had Collins, Morgan and Kursk take her into the rear of one of the vans to quiz her some more, get her to draw them a detailed layout of the interior of the safe house, give them names and descriptions of the people inside, and then keep her out of the way for now, because Murphy had two dozen agents buzzing around him, all waiting to be told what to do, or desperate to fill him in on the frantic activity that had been taking place in the last fifteen minutes while Murphy had been speeding to the rendezvous from headquarters. He jabbed a finger at one of his men. 'Dave, what's the story with our guys doing the recon?'

'We've got three of them on the street where the house is. One of them took a walk by the property two minutes ago. There's a grey Plymouth parked on the street and a black Yamaha motorcycle parked right in the driveway.'

'Any sign of activity?'

'Absolutely none. And all the curtains are closed, upstairs and down, so our guy couldn't see a thing inside.'

Murphy thought: if the Plymouth and motorcycle are parked outside, what were the chances that the van was still in the garage? Had Rashid already moved it closer to the centre of the District? Please God, let it still be in there! 'Tell those guys if they see anything move I want to know about it immediately. What's the house look like?'

'Two-storey, run-down. The same with most of the properties along the street.'

'What about the garage?'

'Our guy says it's got a metal pull-down door that looks solid enough. He thinks you're not going to be able to beat it down or break in from the outside without making a lot of noise. But we might be able to ram it.'

'No! That's too dangerous. If the chemical's still in there, we could set the damned thing off. Are the houses either side of the property occupied?'

'It looks like it.'

'Do any near by look unoccupied?'

'Unless we go knocking on doors, it's going to be hard to tell. You want our guys to do that?'

'No! I just want them to watch the damned house and do what they're supposed to do for now!' His face and shirt drenched with perspiration, Murphy turned to another of his men. 'What about our tech people, have they got their listening equipment set up yet?'

'They're doing it right now, Tom. They're in a van parked near the end of the street, out of sight of the house.'

'Tell them to stay there. I don't want them moving any closer, even if they can't pick up anything.' Murphy didn't know whether the directional listening devices in the tech van would help much, but it was worth a try. 'Did any of the guys on the street try and get a look near the rear of the house? I want to know if we can gain access the back way.'

An agent carrying a two-way radio spoke up. 'One of them is doing it right now. He's going to call me back. But he thinks if the other houses near by are anything to go by, there should be a small rear garden that backs on to the house behind.'

'For God's sake, tell him to be careful. They might have a lookout.'

'He's aware of that, Tom.'

Murphy was shaking inside with a mixture fear, exhaustion and nervous excitement, and knew that every agent around him was feeling the same turmoil. With barely an hour to go before the deadline, and no way of knowing when Rashid would move, tension electrified the air. His reserves of energy dwindling, Murphy was aware that deadline hysteria was starting to creep in.

'Then let me know as soon as he calls you.'

For the umpteenth time, Murphy wiped sweat from his face, then he raced over to the green van where the woman was being held and jumped in the back.

In the cramped cabin, Karla Sharif was seated between Collins and Morgan, with Kursk facing her. Perspiration dampened her face and she looked under enormous strain, her body trembling so much that Murphy wondered whether she was going to break down. 'We're going to need your help,' he told her urgently. 'We're going to need you to get us inside the house. Do you think you can do that?'

'I ... I don't know.' Her eyes were terror ridden.

'Listen, lady, we haven't much time and you're the only hope we've got,' Murphy said. 'And Rashid's expecting you, right?'

'Y ... yes.'

'Then we need to do it fast.' Murphy turned and snapped at one of his men, 'I want a wire on her! Get her wired up for sound, right now!'

'Tom,' Collins interrupted, 'we've got a problem here.'

'What?'

'They're expecting her to arrive on a motorcycle.'

'What?

When Collins explained, Murphy groaned, hammered his forehead with the heel of his hand. 'Oh, Jesus ... ' In all the frantic activity, he hadn't even thought about how Karla Sharif was meant to travel up from Chesapeake. Where the fuck was he going to get an identical blue 1,000cc Honda at this stage? It was a major fucking spanner in the works, and he shook his head in total despair. 'Jesus, we're fucking screwed, Jack.'

'Maybe there's still a way we can get her inside.'

'How, for Christ's sake?'

Collins explained, and when he had finished everyone turned to look at Karla Sharif, who was suddenly very white as Collins said to her, 'The question is, do you think you can do it?'

Izzy Madek smacked his lips. After a busy ten-hour night shift, his ass glued to the seat of his grey metro cab, he was looking forward to a breakfast of scrambled eggs, some hash browns, a little bacon on the side, some crisp buttered muffins, and a cup of sweet hot coffee to wash it all down. He'd dropped off his last fare near the South-East Freeway and was cruising his ancient Buick towards his favourite breakfast stop off Minnesota Avenue when all of a sudden it happened. 'The fuck ... !'

He screeched to a halt. Two guys jumped out in front of the cab, one black, one white, both of them waving pistols. As Izzy slammed the brakes on hard, the white guy dashed over to the driver's-side window and flashed a gold badge. 'FBI! Get out!'

'The fuck have I done, man — !'

Collins yanked open the door, dragged Izzy bodily from the car. 'We need to borrow your cab.'

9.06 a.m.

Murphy had moved his command post to the end of the street, a hundred and fifty yards from the safe house. He was in the front of one of the Dodge vans, Kursk seated beside him, and both of them were lathered in sweat. 'Have we got everyone in place?' Murphy shouted to one of his men.

Wedged in the back of the cabin, a radio glued to his ear, the agent gave him the thumbs-up. 'We're all ready to go, Tom. Just give the word.'

Murphy made the sign of the cross, took a deep breath, and thought: This is it. If I mess things up, half a million people could be victims inside the next few minutes. He felt he was being crushed by the weight of the thought, but he'd tried to put everything in place, tried to cover every angle he could in the short time available. He'd considered trying to take over a couple of the houses across the street, entering them from the back and getting snipers in place to cover the front of the safe house, but it was too risky. Neighbours might see the activity and panic at the sight of heavily armed FBI agents swarming though their backyards; Rashid might be alerted, could have a lookout on that side of the street.

However, on Murphy's signal, six of his men, wearing Kevlar bullet-proof vests and armed with Heckler and Koch submachine guns, were ready to scale the walls at the rear of the safe house and go in the back way. A dozen more were in another Dodge van right behind Murphy, ready to move as soon as he gave the word. He'd advised his agents of the interior layout of the house that Karla Sharif had provided — if he'd had enough time he'd have sent a couple of his people to study the interior of a similar property in one of the nearby streets, but the clock was ticking and he really didn't have that luxury. He was anticipating that the two other men along with Rashid and Gorev — an Arab named Abdullah, and an American black named Moses — would still be in the house, and would be heavily armed.

He had six black undercover agents on the street, two of them in a car fifty yards from the house, another two, the youngest of the bunch, dressed in baggy street clothes, loitering a little farther down the street, trying to look as if they were a couple of ghetto guys just chewing the cud. Four unmarked vans crammed with Haz-Mat people and chemical experts from the army Technical Support Unit were a block away, ready to race towards the safe house as soon as Murphy gave the order. A hundred more agents had arrived at the warehouse lot, his reserve waiting to be called on, and three helicopters were hovering over the South-East Freeway, all ready to rush to the scene if they were needed, like the half-dozen ambulances waiting in position just off the freeway, half a mile away.

As well as that, two expert hostage negotiators and two Arab translators were in the van behind Murphy, in case of a standoff. But Murphy doubted it would come down to that; gut instinct told him this was a do-or-die situation, with only two ways to go if Rashid was inside the house — either they killed him or he'd set off the device. Another thought troubled him: Karla Sharif. He knew she was in a high state of anxiety, barely hanging in there, completely on edge. She had been wired for sound with a one-way miniature transmitter, taped to her belly, the tiny microphone attached inside her blouse, which meant that Murphy would be able to hear — hopefully — what was being said inside the house. The signal level had been checked by his men — it was good, and he'd told Karla Sharif to try to keep her conversation in English when she entered the house.

Murphy thought: I just hope to Christ she can carry this through and do exactly as she's been told. Yet another question troubled him. Can I entirely trust her? What if she changes her mind once she gets inside the house?

He didn't even want to dwell on that thought. He mopped his face, took another look at the dilapidated red-bricked town house with his binoculars. Still he saw no movement. Please God, be good to me this day. He crossed himself again, removed his Glock automatic from his shoulder holster, made the decision. 'OK, we're going in. Get ready, guys.' The agents in the van started to finger their weapons nervously, the air in the sweaty cabin electric as Murphy flicked on the transceiver in his hand, pressed it to his mouth. 'Jack, we're all set up. Let's do it.'

Collins' voice came back on the radio. 'We're on our way.'

Five seconds later, Murphy saw the grey metro cab turn into the street from the other end. It moved slowly, hugging the kerb, moving towards the house. Murphy tapped the van's driver on the shoulder. 'Go!'

The Dodge throbbed into life, then started to crawl down the street at five miles an hour.

The grey metro cab cruised up the street. Morgan was driving, moving at barely ten miles an hour, Karla Sharif in the passenger seat behind him. Hunched down on the seat beside her, wearing his FBI jacket with the gold letters embazoned on the back, Collins had his Glock in his right hand. 'We're almost there, Jack,' Morgan said. 'Another fifty yards. Get ready, man.'

Collins rolled his sleeve across his damp brow, stared up at Karla Sharif's face. He saw that her legs were shaking, and it was obvious she was having trouble keeping herself together. 'You're sure about what you have to do?'

'Yes.'

'Just try and remember what we told you, OK? Keep it clear in your mind.'

Karla Sharif was still shaking. Collins thought: She's not going to be able to go through with this. Some instinct made him reach out, forget his hostility towards her, touch her hand reassuringly. 'Remember, we're right behind you.'

'We're here!' Morgan slowed the cab and braked gently to a halt, just ten yards short of the red-bricked house. Collins kept his head well down, but managed to look up again at Karla Sharif. He could feel her fear — it was like a living thing, and her trembling had got worse. 'Take a couple of deep breaths,' he told her. 'Then step out of the cab and do like I told you.'

Karla froze. She was unable to move, just stared ahead, her lips quivering.

Morgan suddenly turned to her. 'Please, lady! Don't let us down. You've got to do it!'

She was on the verge of tears. 'Promise me something?'

'What?' Collins asked.

'Promise me you'll try not to harm Nikolai.'

'That's going to be up to him. Now please, you've got to go. Step out, do like I told you, and try and stay calm.'

Trembling, and with supreme effort, Karla forced herself to step out of the cab. She shut the rear door after her, opened her bag and came round to hand Morgan a hundred-dollar bill through his rolled-down window. He shook his head, as if he didn't have change, then the two of them pretended to talk for a few moments, until Karla turned and with shaking legs started to walk up to the house.