The Devil's Pitchfork (21 page)

Liz jumped to her feet, a fierce expression on her face. “I’m the only living expert on this virus. I’m not going to roll over and.... I’m fighting. Understand? I’m fighting. And there’s no reason for you to risk a needle stick when I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.”

“You need rest,” Jaxon insisted.

“Stop it! Just stop it!” Liz pulled the I.V. pole close to the bed. “You’re acting like a doctor. This isn’t a doctor-patient relationship. It’s not! I’m a guinea pig.” She hooked the saline bag into the stand and sorted out the clear plastic lines. From the tray she laid out the needle and rubber tourniquet. “I’m a goddamned laboratory animal and you’d better figure that out fast because there’s not a lot of time.”

Perching on the edge of the bed, Liz strapped on the tourniquet, flicked at the bulging vein in the crook of her left elbow, then deftly inserted the needle. With considerably less dexterity she tore off a piece of surgical tape and taped down the needle.

Standing, she hung the bags of the antiviral medicines and manipulated the lines and needles until they were feeding into the I.V. lines. “Dosage?”

Jaxon said, “Set the drip rate... Here. I can do that.” With her clumsy gloved hands she adjusted the drip rate of the I.V.s.” She turned to Liz. “We can get you a phone so you can call your parents.”

“Later,” Liz said. “Here’s what I need. I need a computer with an Internet connection. I’m going to connect to U.S. Immuno’s database. I need full access to all our work on Chimera. I’m one of the few alive with security clearance.”

Jaxon crossed her hands over her chest. It was a comical posture in the blue spacesuit. Her voice was muffled. “We can do that.”

“And I need one more thing,” Liz said. “I need you to get hold of Dr. Lester Hingemann. He’s at Michigan State University, in the Life Sciences Department, Microbiology and Public Health. I want him either on the phone with me ASAP or even better, some sort of video conference call. And do it quick. Track him down.”

“Who is he?” Jaxon asked.

“He’s a bacteriologist and an expert on immune responses to bacteria. He’s the leading expert on
Yersinia pestis
.”

“Chimera is a virus,” Jaxon countered. “You know that. What good is—”

”Do it! I have an idea. It might be a long shot, but...” Her eyes welled up with tears and she brushed them aside with both hands, the lines to the I.V. jiggling and bouncing. “It’s time to make the longshots.”

Jaxon nodded. “I’ll get right on it.”

28

Washington, D.C.

D
EREK PARKED THE
E
XPLORER
in the funnel of illumination cast by an overhead light in one of the many parking lots along the huge Rock Creek Park. The park was over 21, 000 acres and ran for over five miles. Situated in the heart of Washington, D.C., it was a huge, dark wilderness in which to ambush or be ambushed. It was also a popular body dumping site for the D.C. area. Only fools or bad guys ventured there after dark. Derek knew he wasn’t a bad guy...

He sat in silence for a moment, taking in the tall trees and tumbles of boulders. Less than twenty-four hours ago he had been paddling his kayak on the Chesapeake Bay, living aboard his boat, occasionally traveling to other countries to discuss bioterrorism with military experts. Sometimes he taught classes at Georgetown or lectured at one of the military academies. Life had been relatively simple.

Times change. Yet all he craved was to reset his life back a day.

He sighed and tried to concentrate on the problems at hand. Rock Creek Park was not safe at night. Just ask Chandra Levy, the senate intern who disappeared prior to September 11
^th
. Linked by an affair to Senator Gary Condit, her disappearance had struck a national chord, the investigation covered on the nightly news, on CNN, her picture on the cover of People magazine.

Then nineteen of Osama bin Laden’s martyrs had slammed a couple planes into the World Trade Towers, the Pentagon and a Pennsylvania cornfield. Nobody except Chandra’s friends and family spent much time thinking about her after that until some guy found her body in the park while he was looking for turtles in one of the creeks.

Right around here, Derek thought.

He retrieved his Rigel 3250 NightVision goggles, double-checked his Colt to make sure it was loaded with a full magazine, the safety was off and he had a round in the chamber. Strapping the goggles on his head, gun in hand, he left the Explorer and melted into the woods. This was strictly recon. Derek didn’t think Tollifer or anybody else would have gotten here ahead of him. Still, he crept silently from tree to tree and shrub to shrub, slipping behind rocky outcroppings and over boulders, making sure the perimeter was secure. The world was lit up in a ghostly green glow.

Finally he slung the goggles over his shoulder and moved away from the light, standing just inside the tree line, motionless.

Right on time, a Jeep Cherokee pulled into the lot.

Through a whisper mic clipped to his collar, Derek said, “See anyone?”

“Negative, sir. Not in the immediate area,” Cynthia Black’s voice spoke in his ear.

“Check.”

The Cherokee stopped, motor running. From the trees, Derek inspected the driver. It was Tollifer. Keeping to the cover of the woods Derek moved to a flanking position. Into his mic he said, “Anything?”

“Not nearby. There’s a van at the next lot up, and some traffic on the road. Light tonight.”

Slipping from shadow to shadow, Stillwater approached the Cherokee. Finally, heart thudding in his chest, Stillwater crept around to the driver’s side, gun pointing toward Tollifer.

“I saw you in the rearview,” Tollifer said through the open window.

“I was more interested in your rear seats.”

“I’m alone.”

“Shut it down and get out. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Tollifer followed directions, standing opposite Derek, hands out to his sides. He was no longer in uniform, now wearing khaki Dockers and a dark polo shirt.

“My sidearm’s in the Jeep,” Tollifer said.

“Forgive me for not just taking your word. Assume the position.”

Tollifer leaned against the Jeep, legs spread, arms wide. Quickly, keeping his gun pressed against the back of the Military Intelligence man, Derek frisked him. “Okay,” he said, moving back two steps.

Tollifer stood up and turned to look at him. “Satisfied?”

“Hardly. Let’s walk.”

Tollifer shrugged and fell into step, crossing the parking lot.

“Tell me about Richard Coffee,” Derek said.

“You read the file.”

“The file’s bullshit.”

“Not as far as I know, it isn’t.” Tollifer stopped and turned. “Do you know something different?”

“Keep walking.”

Tollifer stepped away. “As far as we know, Coffee died in Chechnya working for the CIA.”

“Why bug me at the Pentagon?”

Tollifer hesitated.

“Tollifer.” Derek waved the gun to get the man’s attention. “I’m not having a good night. I’m pressed for time. Talk to me.”

Tollifer considered him for a long moment. Then, “Is he alive?”

Derek was perplexed. “You tell me.”

“I think so. Yes. Is he?”

“Yes. I think he’s the head of this group—”

”The Fallen Angels,” Tollifer said.

“You know of them?”

Tollifer nodded slightly. “Yes. They’re ... sort of a hobby of mine.”

They moved across the lot, in and out of lights, keeping to the edge of the illumination, savoring the shadows. Derek noted bats flitting among the trees, their agitated flight paths unmistakable.

“Hobby?” Derek said. “Why?”

Tollifer stopped and turned. Derek adjusted the aim of his Colt. Tollifer held his hands out. “Hey, I’m unarmed. I think we can help each other.”

“So talk.” He didn’t lower his gun.

“If Coffee’s alive,” Tollifer said. “I want him.”

“Why?”

They locked eyes. Tollifer finally said, “Anthony Tollifer.”

“A relative?”

“My brother.”

“Okay. I’m listening.”

“This is off the record. Let’s call it a rumor.”

“I’m not a congressional hearing, Tollifer. Talk. Tell me a story. I’m all ears.”

“Tony worked for ... a certain government agency in Virginia.”

The CIA, Derek thought.

Tollifer went on. “Tony had a certain kind of training. A special skill set that this government agency doesn’t like to admit that it employs.”

An assassin, Derek thought.

“This government agency sent Tony into Russia, Chechnya to be exact, to bring in a rogue agent.”

“Coffee.”

“You bet. Coffee was off the reservation. Way off. He went from intelligence provider to infiltration, to leading a fucking civil war. A war that the Powers That Be decided was no longer prudent policy. Coffee was a loose cannon rolling around the deck and Tony was sent over there to tie him down. But Tony disappeared. At the same time, Coffee disappeared. But there was a new group, independent of the Chechens, called The Fallen Angels. Made up of a bunch of disenfranchised agents from all over the world, committed to making money and causing trouble. I’ve spent years putting this together from sources I have in the DIA, CIA, NSA, all over the world. These Fallen Angels, they’re like ghosts. Phantoms. But they exist and I’m convinced Richard Coffee killed my brother and is now leading this terrorist group. And I want him, Stillwater. I want to put a bullet in his—”

Tollifer’s head exploded, his brains and blood and bits of skull splattering over Derek, the shot ringing out a moment later. Derek dived, rolled, and was on his feet, sprinting into the shadows, heading for the relative safety of the trees. More gunfire exploded into the silence. He returned fire in the general direction of his assailants, emptying his gun. He didn’t have an extra magazine on him. He raced through the trees, unable to stop long enough to pull on the night vision goggles, running blind, branches scratching at his face. He tumbled behind a tall granite outcropping and laid still, silently donning the goggles. The world lit up in a sea of green.

In his ear Cynthia Black said, “Derek?”

He tapped once at the whisper mic, but didn’t speak. There were hunters in the woods. They were well-armed, they probably had night vision goggles as well, and they were hunting him.

In his ear Cynthia said, “We’re picking up four bogeys on IR. One’s about fifteen yards south of you. The other three are moving off to the west.”

He tapped the mic. Slowly, making every effort not to make a sound, he pulled a knife from a hasp on his belt. It had a nine-inch blade and was as sharp as a razor.

“He’s moving in your direction, ten yards.”

Black continued to feed him information. Abruptly she stopped and he knew it was because the bogey was close. He couldn’t hear anything except the sound of his own heartbeat. There was the soft whisper of a footstep and through night vision goggles Derek saw a figure move carefully past the boulder. The approaching bogey probably had night vision goggles. Infrared, too? Would he be tracking his heat signature? That was bad enough; movement would only draw his attention.

The bogey moved in silence, slow and stealthy.

Derek lunged. Crack! He stepped on a branch, which snapped under his weight. The bogey was alerted and spun, raising his weapon as Derek drove in hard. There was the sharp rattle of semi-automatic fire, the dazzle of the muzzle momentarily lighting up the woods. Derek hit him with his shoulder, driving up under the rifle, slamming it away.

The terrorist grunted and swung the butt of the weapon, making contact with Derek’s head. The night vision goggles went flying. Blinded, stunned, Derek fell backward to the leaf-strewn ground, rolling as he fell, kicking out and sweeping the killer’s legs from beneath him.

In his ear: “Three bogeys heading for your position.”

The two men crashed into each other, fingers grappling for throats, trying to gouge at eyes. “Air ... support,” Derek gasped.

He stayed in close, fighting to keep the rifle between them. If the terrorist could create space between them, bring up the weapon, he would cut Derek to ribbons.

There was the growing thunder of the helicopter, followed by the pok! pok! pok! of the Coast Guard .50 caliber sniper rifle, and the returning chatter of the bogey’s automatics.

The terrorist got his hands around Derek’s throat, squeezing.

Derek, gagging, didn’t bother to attack the killer’s arms. Tightening his fist, he smashed his knuckles directly onto the protruding snout of his attacker’s night vision goggles.

His attacker groaned and loosened his grip on Derek’s throat.

In his ear: “Two down...”

“I ... need ... light,” Derek sputtered.

The terrorist leaped back from Derek and was swinging his assault rifle up when the helicopter flooded the woods with the harsh glare of the floodlight.

Derek’s attacker involuntarily raised his hands to his eyes. Night vision goggles magnify existing light. Sudden illumination created a brilliant white flash in the wearer’s vision before the circuit breaker could cut in. Light, magnified by a thousand, exploded in his attacker’s eyes, searing his retinas.

Ducking in low Derek slammed his foot against the man’s knee, grabbed the rifle from his grip and turned it on him.

In his ear: “Fourth bogey closing—”

Derek spun as another camo-garbed assailant raced toward him. There was a loud pok! pok! pok! from above and the man collapsed to the ground.

Derek’s attacker was crumpled on the ground, clutching his leg. The helicopter hovered, then lit up the area again with light.

Raising the weapon, a Colt XM-177 assault rifle, he said, “Goggles off. Slowly.”

The man raised his arms and lifted off the night vision goggles, tossing them to the forest floor.

Derek’s jaw clenched and a tremor of disbelief rocked him. His attacker was Sam Dalton, Deputy Director of the Department of Homeland Security.

29

FBI Headquarters

A
ARON
P
ILCHER WAS TAKING
a quick shower in the locker room when an agent he didn’t know dashed in and stuttered, “You—you’re needed in SIOC immediately.”