The Devil's Pitchfork (20 page)

”Domestic?” Spigotta’s face burned red.

“Not really,” Pilcher said. He supplied the sketchy information Derek Stillwater had acquired.

Spigotta raised his hands. “Everybody, listen up. We’ve got a back story. Aaron, you’ve got the floor.”

Taking a deep breath, Pilcher described what they knew so far. When he was done Spigotta pointed at a slight, scholarly-looking man. “Adams, you’re our terrorism guy. Ever heard of The Fallen Angels?”

“No, sir.”

“Get on it.”

“I’d like the photographs you’ve got.”

Spigotta nodded and Pilcher turned them over.

 Pilcher said, “Um, John ... these could all be bullshit. As far as Coffee goes, I’m a believer. Everything else though ... pretty suspect.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

Agent Jonathan Adams took the files and rushed out of the SIOC.

“Unrau.” Spigotta pointed at a heavyset woman with brassy brown hair and thick eyeglasses. “Who at the Russian embassy would know about this group?”

“Yuri Arkady Rostovitch,” she said without hesitation.

“Please arrange an invitation for Mr. Rostovitch to join us here.”

“Yes sir.” She turned to leave.

“Bridgette?”

Agent Unrau turned back.

“If he declines, send out a team of agents to deliver him here ASAP.”

She paused, no doubt thinking of the consequences of kidnaping a Russian embassy official, then shrugged and smiled. “I’m on it, sir.”

Spigotta continued to direct his troops. Pilcher took a moment to slip into a chair. Waves of exhaustion washed over him. He leaned back and glanced up at the VDT displaying the vans. To Ray O’Brien, manning the keyboard, he said, “Is the explosion on there?”

Ray looked over, his face flushed. “Yes. You’re lucky.”

“Yeah. Let’s make sure the media doesn’t get hold of that until we want them to.”

“Yes sir.”

Spigotta was in conference with another agent, a serious-minded female agent that Pilcher recognized as one of the senior domestic terrorism people. He didn’t, right off hand, remember her name. His cell phone buzzed. He clicked it on and identified himself.

“Pilcher, this is Zerbe, in the lab.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I’ve been tearing that phone to pieces you found? I’ve brought up the call history and  will be uploading it to the system for you to access in just a minute. I’ve put a team on analyzing the calls. We should have most of that nailed down in less than an hour.”

“Good. See if you can speed them up.”

“Yes, but...”

Zerbe’s voice dropped to a low tone, almost a whisper.

“What is it?” Pilcher said, sitting up straight.

“Sir, one of the last numbers called? It’s Sam Dalton’s private number.”

It took a second for Pilcher to focus on the name. “Sam—”

”The Deputy Director of Homeland Security, sir.”

Pilcher’s brain raced. “Okay,” he said. “No big deal. These Homeland troubleshooters have direct access to the directors during a crisis. Do you have a—”

”The call was about three-thirty this afternoon,” Zerbe said.

Pilcher blinked. He had been thinking that after killing the Russian, Derek Stillwater had used her phone to call his bosses because his own was busted. But in the middle of the afternoon...

“Hey, Zerbe,” he said, voice low. “Keep a lid on this, understand?”

“Does this mean what I think it means?” Zerbe responded.

“I hope not. But we’ll work it. Thanks.” Pilcher clicked off and stared over to where Spigotta was directing agents. Spigotta must have sensed the focus of Pilcher’s gaze, because he turned to look at him. Pilcher waved him over.

“What?” Spigotta said.

“We need privacy for this,” he said, getting to his feet.

Spigotta narrowed his eyes. “You look even more like shit than you did before.”

“Private,” Pilcher said.

Spigotta led him over to a quiet corner, his back to the walls so he could glare-off anyone approaching. “Okay, Aaron. I don’t know how you could possibly have more bad news.”

“This Russian woman phoned Sam Dalton this afternoon, less than two hours after they stole Chimera. It’s in her cellular records.”

Spigotta raised his eyebrows. “Meaning...?”

“I don’t know. But it could mean that Dalton was in on this. Don’t forget, he’s former Military Intelligence. Richard Coffee’s former Military Intelligence. Stillwater claims he’s getting the run-around from Military Intelligence.”

“Fuck,” Spigotta said. He glared around SIOC. “Fuck,” he repeated. “What’re we going to do?”

“We should probably get somebody to talk to Dalton,” Aaron said.

Spigotta looked at him. “Dalton’s where, at the White House?”

“Yes. I think they’re out of the West Wing.”

“You’re up, Aaron. But wash your face first, whaddaya say?”    

26

Washington, D.C.

A
T THE SAME TIME
that Aaron Pilcher was arriving at the J. Edgar Hoover Building and General Johnston was listening to the National Security Advisor in the White House, Derek Stillwater was approaching the location on 17
^th
Street where he had left the Explorer. He came in circuitously, on the opposite side of the street, circling the block on foot. The chopper crew had informed him that the D.C. cops were probably looking for him for the shooting of Austin Davis. It was also possible, he thought, that the FBI might want to pull him in after they saw the carnage at Irina Khournikova’s apartment.

He didn’t know if the cops had any idea how he had gotten to Walter Reed. The Explorer had been supplied by the Pentagon, so it was possible nobody knew anything about it. Still, for the same reason he hadn’t wanted to be pulled in back at the apartment, he was making every effort to continue the investigation.

It was dark, late and traffic was light. There were only a handful of pedestrians, late-night barflies and people coming and going to social events, though in light of the day’s news, social events were few and far between.

He walked casually past the Explorer. The one good thing to happen so far was he still had the keys.

Without any kind of warning he popped the lock, got into the driver’s side, fired up the engine and pulled into the street. He began a complicated, random route, heading roughly in the direction of the Pentagon.

He found an open spot within shouting distance of the Pentagon and hunted through his GO Packs. There was a spare cellular phone and charged batteries. He sat in the driver’s seat, thinking it over. Should he call in, check with Dalton or Johnston? With a shake of his head he decided to do a little more work.

He rummaged through his wallet and came up with the contact information for Staff Sergeant Stanley O’Reilly, the military officer who had acted as his host at the Pentagon. The phone to O’Reilly’s office rang exactly once before it was picked up by O’Reilly.

“O’Reilly, this is Derek Stillwater.”

“Yes sir. How can I help you, sir?”

Perky little hotel clerk, Stillwater thought. He said, “You’re on duty rather late tonight.”

“Yes sir. We are at a heightened alert, sir.”

“Don’t I know it. Well, I would like contact information for Lieutenant Colonel Tallifer. Could you get hold of him for me.”

“Yes sir. Will you hold?”

“No. Here’s my number. Have him call me.” Derek rattled off his new cell’s number and clicked off. While he waited he rummaged through his GO Packs, looking for the nice little bag of amphetamines he kept there for exactly these types of occasions. He swallowed two hits of the speed with lukewarm bottled water from one of his packs. Cars drove by. In the night sky he saw helicopters, lots of them. He imagined there was a regular shuttle service between the Pentagon, USAMRIID, the White House and points unknown. He wondered if the President was on Air Force One. He hoped so. He hoped everybody was taking this seriously.

His phone rang. It was O’Reilly again. “Sir, Colonel Tallifer isn’t on the premises. His office indicates he is out.”

“What time did he leave?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Can you find out?”

“Yes sir. Will you hold?”

“Yes.”

He held. After a minute of dead air O’Reilly was back. “Shortly after you left, sir.” Something in the man’s voice communicated concern.

“Does that strike you as unusual, O’Reilly?”

Silence.

“O’Reilly?”

“Unexpected, sir. I’m not sure if it’s unusual. Since going to Code Red most of us have stayed on duty. We will be on duty be through the night, possibly longer, until emergency rotations are in place. The attack at U.S. Immunological Research is being taken seriously by the Pentagon, sir.”

“I see,” Derek said, mind racing. “Do you have cellular information or a home telephone number for Tallifer?”

“Yes sir. Here it is, sir.” O’Reilly rattled it off. Derek scrawled it down in a notebook.

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Are you making progress, sir?”

“On?”

“You’re working on that U.S. Immuno thing, aren’t you, sir? You are an expert on biological warfare.”

“Yes, I’m working on it,” Derek conceded.

“Are you making progress?”

“I hope so, Sergeant. I surely hope so.”

Above Stillwater’s Explorer, the Coast Guard helicopter circled.  Lieutenant Black, the pilot, said, “Still in sight?”

“You bet,” said Tex. He was using the chopper’s night vision capabilities to track the Ford Explorer. It was easier said than done, but this crew had been together for a number of years, beginning with search and rescue and moving to drug interdiction and then, post-September 11, 2001, into anti-terrorism activities.

They had officially become part of Derek Stillwater’s team, although “official” probably wasn’t the correct word. Since the Coast Guard was now part of the Department of Homeland Security, and Derek needed them, they were now working with—or for—the Homeland Security troubleshooter.

Sid Kerkowski, their third crew mate and gunner, said, “How’re we doing on fuel?”

“Fine for now,” said Black. She looked at Sid, whose youthful face was filled with anticipation.

“We’re rockin-and-rollin’,” he said.

Black rolled her eyes, but had to admit to a surge of adrenaline. She had been philosophical about their taxi services today. Although Stillwater had declined to give specifics, they had been following the news related to the U.S. Immuno attack and had a pretty good idea what the man was up to. When Stillwater finished justifying his commandeering their helicopter, she had said, “Whatever you need, sir, we can give you.”

“Well, thanks. I’m not sure—”

”Sir,” Black had said. “I’m not sure you understand. This helicopter...” She waved around her. “It was originally commissioned for drug interdiction, but its mandate has been broadened for anti-terrorism activity.”

“I see,” Stillwater said, but clearly he didn’t.

“No sir,” she said. “You need to know a little bit about this helicopter.”

Derek had sighed. “I’m not sure I have time for a sales pitch—”

”This is an MK-68 Mako,” she said. “It has a maximum speed of 168 knots and a cruising speed of 137 knots. Its range is 363 nautical miles.”

“That’s nice, but—”

”Shut up!”

Derek raised his eyebrows.

Tex spoke up. “Maybe Sid can explain.”

Stillwater turned to the third crewman. “What?”

Sid grinned. “We’re armed with an M240 machine gun, a Robar .50 caliber sniper rifle—”

”He’s a sharpshooter, too,” Black added.

“Yes sir,” Kerkowski said.

“And,” Black said, “we’re equipped with night vision goggles, FLIR—that’s forward-looking infrared, Light Eye and NightSun searchlight and a GPS moving map.”

“In other words,” Tex said, “we’re one well-armed, well-trained group of motherfuckers.”

Derek glanced around at the three Coast Guard officers. “Then I think we need to make a plan.” He paused, listening to the thunder of the helicopter rotor. “I think we need to set a trap.”

“A trap, sir?” Black asked.

“Yes.”

Tex brushed his mustache. “And what, exactly, are we going to use for bait?”

Derek smiled. “Me.”

Now, above the Explorer, Black’s radio crackled. “TS-One, receiving. This is Black.” The Coast Guard pilot had supplied Stillwater with a handheld radio to communicate with them.

“Any tail?”

“Sid?”

“Negative.”

“Negative,” she relayed to Derek.

“Okay. I’ll be back to you in ten.”

Derek phoned the number for Lieutenant Colonel Tallifer’s cellular phone. It was answered on the second ring with an abrupt, “Yes?”

“Colonel, this is Derek Stillwater, with Homeland Security.”

“Yes, Doctor. What can I do for you?”

“I need to meet ASAP to discuss Richard Coffee further.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything else to discuss, Doctor. You’ve read the file.”

“Yes, I have. And that’s exactly why we need to discuss it further.”

“Just a moment.”

There was silence on the line. Then Tallifer came back on. “I can meet you in about an hour. How about—”

”I’ll meet you at Rock Creek Park,” Derek said, and supplied a detailed description of the parking lot in the huge park where he wanted to rendezvous. “In one hour. I’ll be in the green Explorer.”

Before Tallifer could argue or negotiate, Derek clicked off. Then he radioed the helicopter to tell them the plan.

27

USAMRIID

C
APTAIN
J
AXON APPROACHED
L
IZ
Vargas with a tray of needles and tubes and pouches of saline and drugs. The faceplate of her spacesuit had fogged up before she could make it to one of the air hoses and she shouted to be heard. “These are the antivirals. We’re going to try a cocktail of Acyclovir, Ritonavir and Pleconavil.” Jaxon set the tray down and reached for an air hose, connecting it to her suit. It immediately puffed up and her faceplate began to clear.

Liz sat up from her bed in The Slammer and turned so her stockinged feet hung off the bed. “Take a break, Sharon,” she said.

“You just lay down and—”