Free Resurrection Day by Glenn Meade Page A

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