The Devil's Pitchfork (22 page)

Aaron nodded. “Something—”

”Full alert,” the agent said. “It’s the White House.”

Hair still wet, back in his begrimed suit, Pilcher arrived in SIOC to find the Command Center a buzzing swarm of high-tension activity. He noticed the difference immediately upon leaving the locker room anyway. Nobody walked, they ran as they moved down the corridors. Voices were either raised in harsh, rushed dialogue, or urgent, confidential whispers. Eyes were wide, faces drawn tight, the sudden tension palpable.

Someone raised the stakes, he thought. But how?

In SIOC, Spigotta was deep in conversation with someone Pilcher recognized as Terrance McIvoy, the Deputy Director of the Bureau.

Then his attention turned to one of the many TV monitors lining the walls. This one was tuned to CNN and it was a live feed at the White House, which was lit by the red and blue flashing lights of civilian and military emergency vehicles.

Spigotta saw him and waved him over. “We’ve got a situation,” he said. “A gas attack—maybe VX, maybe sarin—on the White House.”

Pilcher felt sucker punched. He wanted to sit down. He wanted to wake up and find this to be a nightmare. A really bad nightmare.

“Is—”

”So far the only known survivors are Colonel Zataki from Detrick, Secretary Johnston from DHS, and the President.”

McIvoy said, “Director Boardman is believed dead. As are the Joint Chiefs, the director of the CIA, FEMA, the CDC, the national security advisor and most of the White House staff.” McIvoy ran a hand through his thick dark hair. “We also believe the First Lady and the two children are dead.”

Pilcher blinked, speechless.

Spigotta said, “The Army and our Hazardous Materials Recovery Unit are going to treat the White House as a crime scene. The liaising agent there is Simon Berra. I want you over there to see if there are any leads.”

“Where’s the President?”

“President Langston, Zataki and Johnston are at Walter Reed. The President’s location from this point on is going to be classified. As is the Vice President’s.”

Pilcher ran a hand through his own thinning blond hair and blew out a lungful of air. “Okay,” he said. “What—”

”You’ll go where you’re needed,” Spigotta said. “So first, go to 1600 and talk to Berra, see what the inside teams are seeing.”

“You want me to go in?”

Spigotta frowned. “Do I? No. But if you think it’s necessary to see with your own eyes, yeah, suit up and go in.”

“Yes sir.”

Spigotta was going to suggest something when Agent Unrau, the agent Spigotta had sent to the Russian Embassy, entered SIOC escorting two people over to where they stood.”

Agent Unrau brushed red hair off her forehead and pushed up her glasses.  “Director McIvoy .... Agent Spigotta. This is Ivan Sergeyevitch Tetchin, with the Russian Cmbassy.”

Before Unrau could introduce the woman with them, Tetchin stepped forward and offered a big, meaty hand. In his fifties, he was a large, bulky figure with a shaved scalp and ruddy complexion. “I am the security attaché at the Russian Embassy. We understand you believe there is some sort of Russian connection to today’s terrorist activity.”

McIvoy took the offered hand. “Yes, we have information indicating this group, The Fallen Angels, is responsible for today’s attack. We understand further that they are based in Russia.”

The woman spoke for the first time. “The Fallen Angels are not Russian. They are multi-ethnic, believed to be led by a Chechen named Surkho Andarbek.”

“Yes,” Aaron said, jumping in before Spigotta or McIvoy could speak. “That’s our information, too. Just a moment. May I have a word with you two for a moment,” he said to Spigott and McIvoy. They moved out of earshot of the Russians.

“Surkho Andarbek might be Richard Coffee,” said Pilcher. “At least, if anything Stillwater got from Irina Khournikova is accurate.”

“So it would be best,” McIvoy said with a nod, “if we didn’t let the Russians know the Chechen group was actually being led by an American rogue CIA agent.”

Pilcher nodded.

“Excellent advice. Okay.”

They returned to the Russians. The woman, who was tall with short reddish brown hair worn in an elegant shag cut, focused her brown eyes on Pilcher. “We understand you have the body of a Russian national.”

Spigotta said, “She’s at the morgue in D.C.”

“Who is she?” Tetchin said.

“She was identified to us as Irina Khournikova. She claimed she was with your ‘T’ Directorate, but we believe she was actually working with The Fallen Angels.”

The Russian woman, her English excellent with only a slight accent that could have been mistaken for German or Serbian, said, “She is not who she claimed to be. I wish to see her body.”

“Fine,” McIvoy said. “That can be arranged. But how do you know she isn’t Irina Khournikova?”

“Because,” she said. “I am Irina Khournikova.”

30

Rock Creek Park

D
EREK MARCHED
S
AM
D
ALTON
at gunpoint, night vision goggles again perched on his own face. Dalton’s hands were on top of his head as he walked and Derek didn’t bother telling him when low-hanging branches were going to smack him in the face. Derek was having enough problems controlling the urge to empty the assault rifle into Dalton’s back.

“He wants you alive,” Dalton said.

“He being...?”

“Fallen.”

“Ah,” Derek said. When Dalton stopped walking, confused by a wall of shrubbery in the darkness, Derek nudged him to his left. “The mysterious Fallon. Or is it Fallen? What’s his real name?”

Dalton laughed. “Your pal and mine, Richard Coffee.”

“The Lazarus of the terrorist set. Okay, I’ll bite. Why does Richard want me alive?”

“Maybe he feels he owes you.” Dalton stumbled on a patch of rough ground, flinging his arms out for balance. Derek adjusted his grip on the rifle, sure Dalton was going to try something, but Dalton regained his footing and placed his hands back on his head.

“Feels he owes me for what?” Derek said.

“For saving his life, man! What do you think?”

“A thank you note would have been sufficient. I’m touched. Really. How about you, Sam? Why are you involved in this?”

Dalton stopped and turned. He was taller than Derek with broad shoulders and chiseled features. He still kept his light-colored hair military short and his square jaw belonged on a recruiting poster. Derek knew Dalton was in his early fifties, but didn’t look it. Derek raised the XM-177, ready to shoot if necessary.

“In a word? Money.”

“Let me guess,” Derek said. “The Fallen Angels sell whatever they can beg, borrow or steal to the highest bidder.”

“Bingo.”

“And with your military and government contacts, you can get it or show where it is. For a fee.”

“Right. And don’t forget, Derek, I worked Delta anti-terrorism intelligence for a decade. I have contacts with the
buyers
. Just like you do.”

Derek grew cold and still. “Do I?” he said

“Sure, man. You’ve consulted with most of the legitimate governments that manufacture CBW, you’ve made contact with some of the people that want them. You’re a gold mine. Between the two of us, we could bring in half a billion a year just hooking up the right people.”

Tiring of the direction of the conversation, Derek ordered Dalton to turn around and keep walking. Their feet crunched softly on the leaves and pine needles, the wind rustling the branches of the trees. Even in the eerie green light of the night scope, he saw Dalton smile. Derek didn’t like that smile. He felt it was a bad omen, the Deputy Director knowing something he didn’t. Dalton was too confident.

As they continued east toward the parking lot, Derek said, “Let’s say I’m interested. How do I get in touch with Coffee?”

“Through me. C’mon, man. Blow off the helicopter and tell them you’re going to take me in. Then we’ll just ... disappear, man. I’ll take you to Fallen and we’ll be on our way.”

“Maybe I want to negotiate my own deal with Coffee,” Derek said. “Why should I split with you?”

Dalton laughed. “I knew you were right for the deal. You split with me because I have access to Fallen. Without me, you’re out of luck.”

Derek was starting to get flares in the night scope. The parking lot and its lights were not far away.

“Where’s Coffee?”

“You mean The Fallen. Richard Coffee’s dead. He died in Iraq.”

“Semantics,” Derek said. “You’re playing word games and your own head’s on the block. You’re going in. If you cooperate, tell us where
Fallen
is, where
Coffee
is, well, things might go easier on you.”

Dalton laughed. Derek didn’t like the laugh. He liked it even less than Dalton’s secretive smile. It was filled with contempt and irony, as if Dalton knew things that Derek did not. And he was afraid he was right, that Derek was seeing barely the tip of this particularly deadly iceberg.

“You are full of shit,” Dalton said. “Full of shit and uninformed, pal. There isn’t a plea deal in the whole universe for me.”

Above them Derek heard the roar of the incoming Mako helicopter, circling in over the parking lot. The plan was to turn Dalton over to them and rush him to FBI Headquarters. In his ear Cynthia Black said, “Derek, we’ve got something, we’re not sure—”

Breaking out into the open, Derek heard a whooshing sound. Over the radio: “Shit!” Followed by an explosion. The sky lip up as the rocket propelled grenade struck the Coast Guard helicopter. The night vision goggles flared and for a moment Derek was blind. Clawing at the goggles, he was too late. Dalton spun, his fist slamming into Derek’s jaw.

Rolling away, still blind, the Colt rifle was ripped from his grasp. He knocked off the goggles, struggling to his knees.

There was a second explosion as the helicopter crashed to the pavement in a harsh, earth-shattering roar.

Dalton now stood with the rifle aimed at Derek. “So long—”

Derek never heard the bullet that killed Dalton. One moment he was on his knees waiting to die, the next Dalton’s body jerked and fell forward onto the grass, blood soaking his camouflage fatigues. Dalton’s last words were a barely audible, “That bastard—”

Derek lunged for the XM-177, but a bullet whined past him and he turned for the cover of the trees instead. In his ear he heard a familiar voice: Richard Coffee had tapped into his Coast Guard frequency.

“Hello, Derek.”

Derek didn’t reply. He moved deeper into the woods, staying close enough to view the parking lot but stay out of sight.

“Nice SUV,” Coffee said. “Hope you’ve got insurance.”

There was another whoosh, followed by an explosion that Derek was certain was the sound of an RPG hitting a Ford Explorer.

“I could use a man of your talents,” Coffee said. “But you’re going to have to come out with your hands up or we’re coming in after you.”

Derek didn’t wait. He turned and plunged deeper into the woods, racing north. Behind him he heard the rattle of gunfire as Coffee and more of his terrorists came on in pursuit.

31

FBI Headquarters

A
GENT
S
PIGOTTA CLOSED HIS
eyes for a moment when the Russian woman announced that she was Irina Khournikova. He craned his neck back, as if to relieve tension, then pressed his fingers against his eyelids. Aaron Pilcher wondered if Spigotta was going to have a stroke right there in SIOC.

Pilcher recovered quickest. He said, “Not that identification seems to matter, but do you have any?”

The woman, Irina Khournikova, removed a wallet from her purse and handed Pilcher her passport. He gazed at it, then passed it to Spigotta who glared at it, then handed it to Agent Unrau, who had escorted the Russians in. “Let’s get this verified.”

“Yes sir,” Unrau said, heading out of SIOC with Khournikova’s passport.

Spigotta seemed unusually off-balance, so Pilcher took control. It surprised him that Spigotta and Deputy Director McIlvoy seemed so uncertain. “Mr. Tetchin, Ms. Khournikova, let’s go to a room where we can talk.”

“I want you over at the White House,” Spigotta said.

Pilcher stared at his superior. “I think I need to be here for this, sir. There are plenty of agents at the White House. I’ll go after I get some information here.”

Spigotta again looked surprised, but McIlvoy nodded. “Sure. Good idea.”

They led the Russians out of SIOC and down the hallway to an interrogation room, but unexpectedly, Ivan Tetchin stopped outside the room and turned. “I will be returning to my embassy,” he said slowly.

“We need to talk to you now,” McIlvoy said.

Tetchin cocked his massive shaved head, a stubby fat finger tapping at his cheek for a moment. “I know nothing of this dead impostor you have spoken of and even less about this attack on your President. Any information I may have about The Fallen Angels can be more directly handled by Ms. Khournikova. They are, I believe, her area of speciality.”

Spigotta’s voice was a low rasp. “I don’t give a good goddamn what you say right now. You’ll--“

Tetchin raised a hand. His voice was soft. “Agent Spigotta, Director McIlvoy. I have diplomatic immunity. I am returning to my embassy. What has happened at the White House and how or if it connects to The Fallen Angels and this attack on your research facility may or may not have repercussions for my government. I must brief Ambassador Romanovitch immediately. I will request that he assign somebody to cooperate with you fully in this matter if we are able.”

“If you have information about the attack on President—”

Khournikova’s voice cut Spigotta off. “If the attack on President Langston was made by The Fallen Angels, it is not a Russian matter, it is an American matter. The head of this organization is an American CIA agent named Richard Coffee.”

“And you know an awful lot about him, Ms. Khournikova,” Pilcher said. “Maybe you could enlighten us.”

“Ivan, I will contact you later.”

Tetchin met Irina Khournikova’s gaze. Something passed between the two of them, something strange. Pilcher wasn’t exactly sure what they were saying to each other, but he got the peculiar feeling that Tetchin was not upset to get away from Irina Khournikova.