Resurrection Day by Glenn Meade Page B

Professor?'
    Professor Elliot Johnson Fredericks wore half-rim glasses, and his sober expression made him look like Mr Serious. When Murphy had first met him earlier that morning he knew immediately that the professor wasn't the kind of guy to linger over a beer or pass a fun evening of stud poker with. But then he guessed that anyone who was a key-holder to a Pandora's box that could wipe out half the planet wouldn't exactly have been comedian material either.
    Fredericks removed his glasses and looked troubled as he held up the sheaf of pages. 'I've got the results. But first, I'd like to clarify something.'
    'What?'
    'You said this entire matter was to be kept absolutely secret?'
    'Correct.'
    'Even so, if only for the sake of my curiosity, as director of this laboratory, do you mind telling me what the hell's going on? Where did you get this vial?'
    'Sorry, Professor. This goes a lot higher than me. The bottom line is everyone here keeps their mouths zipped — and I mean airtight — until you get the say-so to do otherwise. I've no doubt you and your colleagues are used to that kind of injunction. You work for a government establishment.'
    Fredericks looked affronted, handed over the sheaf of stapled pages. 'Look at the last page of the report, please. It identifies the contents of the vial.'
    Murphy accepted the pages. Most of the report was written in technical jargon he couldn't understand, complete with tables of analysis figures. He quickly nicked to the last page, which read like a summary of results, but written in reasonably plain English. He took several minutes to digest the lines, then looked up, open mouthed. 'You've just got to be kidding me, Professor.'
    'We did three individual tests, to be absolutely certain. There isn't a shred of doubt.'
     
    9.45 a.m.
     
    Nikolai Gorev sat forward on the couch and flicked the TV remote to NBC news, keeping the volume low. A newsman was giving his report at the scene of a bungled filling-station robbery in Georgetown, where two youths had been shot dead by police. Gorev flicked through the other news channels, national and local, and sampled the bulletins.
    Violent robberies, shootings, race-related crimes and murder: a killing spree by two students at a high school in Idaho which had left three students dead and four wounded; two white men in Alabama had knifed a homeless black man to death because he'd asked them for money. Life was going on normally, or as normally as it could in America. No panic in the streets since the taped message had been delivered, or dire warnings to Washington's citizens about an imminent threat to their capital. Which meant the people in the White House were obeying their instructions.
    Gorev flicked off the set. He'd slept for barely four hours after he had returned with Mohamed Rashid from the cemetery in Floraville, but he was wide awake now, his adrenalin flowing. He heard the shower running in the bathroom. After a few minutes it stopped and Karla Sharif appeared wearing a bathrobe, the flimsy cotton straining against her hips and buttocks. 'Did you keep watch on the news?'
    Gorev tossed the remote on the coffee table. 'There were no warnings.'
    Karla sat down beside him. She had a face that changed from interesting to beautiful, depending on her mood, and the kind of figure that could make other women envious. Gorev knew that with its high model's cheekbones and almond-shaped brown eyes it was a face that could stop men in their tracks. But that wasn't why he loved this woman; there were countless other reasons. 'By now the Americans will have had time to digest the contents of the tape. And most probably they'll have analysed the vial.'
    'What if they make the threat public, or try to evacuate the city?'
    'According to Rashid, they won't, not if they've any sense. How could they empty a city under our noses, Karla? We'd see it happening. Believe me, the Americans will play this game exactly as they're told to.'
    'And if they look for