The Devil's Pitchfork (23 page)

With reluctance McIlvoy and Spigotta had an agent usher Tetchin out of the building, then Spigotta and Pilcher directed her into a sparsely decorated interrogation room. It was not sweat-stained and didn’t have battered furniture. It just looked like an empty office with a couple chairs. There was no two-way mirror because the Bureau had a tiny camera embedded in the wall that could not be seen. Khournikova and Pilcher sat in two chairs on either side of a small Formica-topped table. Spigotta remained standing, leaning against the far wall.

Spigotta looked at the ceiling for a moment, then gestured for Pilcher to handle the questioning.

“Who are you?” Pilcher asked.

“Who are you?” she countered.

“Special Agent Aaron Pilcher, Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Special Agent Frederick Spigotta.”

“I’m Irina Khournikova. I am a Russian citizen in the employ of the Russian government. I am currently on assignment in Washington, D.C. I assume you are taping all of this.”

“Yes,” Pilcher nodded.

Pilcher thought he heard Spigotta grunt, but nothing followed. He paused for a moment, trying to get his bearings. Spigotta wasn’t giving him much to work with. Spigotta’s preferred persona for interrogations was Raging Bastard or Seriously Bad Cop. But Spigotta was just watching, which wasn’t his style at all. Pilcher knew that the woman had already interacted with him, with both of them, in SIOC. Officious Prick was out and so was Icy Bastard and Surfer Buddy. He was afraid he was going to have to play it straight, his least successful persona, Old Pro.

“Fine, Agent Pilcher,” Khournikova said. “As you have no doubt determined, my area of expertise is Russian counter-terrorism. Your country is not the only country to have to endure terrorist attacks. For several years I have been pursuing a man who for a long time we believed was a Chechen named Surkho Andarbek. We did not know much about this man. He appeared to be a loyal Chechen, a restauranteur, a man with very little background. Then he became part of the separatists, then a leader of the separatists. Then he was reported dead.

“At some point after he
died
, a group operating on the Russian/Georgian border began smuggling weapons in and out of Russia. What little we could determine about them was that they were multi-national and called themselves The Fallen Angels. They appeared to move in and out of any number of countries with impertinence. Rumors were that they were highly skilled intelligence agents, rogue agents who had fallen out of favor from their countries. They were more like a cult than a group of terrorists in that they seemed to have undying loyalty to their leader, a charismatic man who called himself The Fallen or Fallen. The few members of The Fallen Angels that we ... captured, provided no information that was significant. We did, however, acquire a photograph of their leader, this Fallen, and we determined that he was Surkho Andarbek. However, we received some information only recently that Surkho Andarbek was an American, a rogue CIA agent named Richard Coffee.”

“How did you find this information?” Pilcher asked. “What’s your source?”

“It is not important.” She gazed steadily at him, her dark eyes unflinching.

Pilcher paused, glanced at Spigotta, who seemed lost in thought. He turned back to Khournikova. “It might be important.”

She said nothing, but continued to meet his eyes.

He continued. “Where is Richard Coffee now?”

“Here,” she said.

“Here as in the United States?”

“Yes. Here in the Washington area.”

“Where?”

“I do not know.”

“How do you know he’s here?”

She shrugged. “I have contacts.”

“Who?”

“It’s not important.”

“Yes,” Pilcher said, leaning forward. “It is. We need to find out where Coffee and his people are. You can help us.”

Her expression gave nothing away. “I have given you all the information I have. I would like to see this woman you claim is Irina Khournikova. If she is a Russian citizen, as you suspect, we will fully cooperate in identifying her if we can.”

“You can,” Spigotta said from the rear of the room.

Khournikova looked at the senior agent. “It speaks,” she said.

Spigotta moved toward her, his large bulk menacing. “Why do you think Fallen is here, Ms. Khournikova?”

“My sources—”

”Who are?”

“It’s not important.”

Spigotta scowled at her. “I will decide what is and what isn’t important.”

She didn’t respond.

Pilcher was going to open his mouth to speak when Spigotta said, “Agent Pilcher, I want you to continue with your line of investigation at the White House.”

“But—”

”Now!” Spigotta snapped.

Doubtfully, Pilcher got to his feet. “You’re sure?”

Spigotta’s face turned beet red. His voice was low and guttural as he bit off the words. “I am sure, Aaron. Now. And one more thing.” He paused.

Pilcher waited.

Spigotta said, “I want you to go next door, turn off the recorder and destroy the tape of this interrogation.”

Pilcher flinched. This is an act, right? It’s got to be. “Sure,” he said. He glanced at Khournikova, whose face was expressionless. “Yes sir.”

He left the room. Spigotta came after him, closing the door behind him. “Destroy the tape, Aaron.”

Pilcher cocked his head. It hadn’t been an act. “What’re you going to do?”

“Whatever I have to do. It’s none of your concern. Just do it.”

Pilcher set his jaw. “Rick, if this blows up you could lose your career.”

Spigotta slammed the palm of his hand against Pilcher’s chest, knocking him back against the wall. Up and down the corridor heads turned. Spigotta’s voice was a low rasp filled with anger. “Listen to me, Aaron. We are at war. Most of the heads of our government have been killed in a terrorist attack. The Joint Chiefs are dead. The Director of FEMA, HHS, the FAA, the National Security Advisor, the FBI and the CIA, just to name a few. If these Fallen Angels are behind it, we can’t sit around worrying about anybody’s fucking civil liberties because there’s been less than nine hours between attacks. What’s next? We need to know
now
. The rest of the government’s going to be running around like herd of frightened sheep trying to figure out who’s in charge, not to mention the inevitable political infighting as the politicians jockey for position. So you do what you have to do and I’ll do what I have to do.”

Pilcher stared at Spigotta and slowly nodded. “Yes sir.”

“Understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Go.”

Pilcher turned his back on Spigotta and went next door to the room containing the taping equipment. On the monitor he watched as Spigotta walked back in the room. Khournikova looked up at him. In her accented voice she said, “So, the Bad Cop is back. Where’s your rubber hose, Agent Spigotta?”

Spigotta reached out and slapped her so hard her head snapped back against the wall. “We’ll get to that if we have to, Ms. Khournikova. We’ll get to it if we have to. It’s up to you.”

Pilcher’s finger hovered over the off button.

32

Rock Creek Park

D
EREK CRASHED THROUGH THE
trees, hands held above his face to protect his eyes from the clawing fingers of tree branches. Still, they whipped his face and snagged his hair and tore at his arms. Stumbling through a creek up to his knees in water muck, he staggered away from the sounds of his pursuers.

The night vision goggles were gone. The Colt assault rifle was gone. His phone was gone. He realized, swatting at his hip, that his Colt .45 was gone as well, lost in one of his struggles with Dalton.

He was caught in the trees, unarmed except his wits, his juju beads and four-leaf clover, being hunted by what he thought were four well-armed, highly-trained and utterly ruthless killers. And he didn’t believe that Sam Dalton had been telling the truth. He did not believe that Richard Coffee, a madman from his past, wanted to take him a live. Maybe once. Maybe earlier. But not now.

And even if he was wrong ... why risk your life on the desperate bargaining of a traitor?

He heard footfalls off to his right and veered left. Occasionally a sliver moon peeped through the trees, but otherwise the woods were dense and dark, a wild place in the heart of Washington, D.C.

He broke unexpectedly into the open, crossing onto one of the many hiking paths in the park. This one was about six feet wide, a foot path of packed dirt created by the hard rubber soles of a thousand hikers.

Derek froze, considering. As best he could tell, the path ran roughly north and south. His pursuers were to the east. Should he cut back into the woods or should he take the path, striving for a faster pace?

He strained to hear above the thunderous pounding of his own heart. There were the small sounds of scuttling nocturnal animals: raccoons, opossums, squirrels, chipmunks, and their hunters, hawks and owls, maybe fox or feral cats. Small branches creaked and groaned in the light breeze. Further off was the sound of D.C., the rumble of cars, a distant siren ... many sirens, he thought, too many.

Behind him a dark figure appeared on the path.

Startled, Derek leapt into the cover of the trees, the decision made for him. There was the sharp rattle of gunfire and something plucked at his leg. He staggered, fell, clambered to his feet, the sting in his leg growing into a hot blade of pain.

He pushed on, tree to tree, boulder to boulder, slowing.

Another rattle of gunfire. Bark splintered near his head. He turned, breath burning in his chest. He fingered the juju beads around his neck, wondering ...

Two figures materialized around him, rifles raised.

Slowly, reluctantly, Derek raised his hands in surrender, hoping that Coffee—Fallen—still wanted him alive.

One of the men spoke into a throat mic with a thick Slavic accent. “Omega 3 and 4 have secured subject.”

Derek didn’t hear a response. All he could hear was the rushing of blood in his ears and the hard thud of his heart in his chest, his breath burning in his throat.

“Let’s go,” one of the men said, and shoved Derek toward the trees. Stumbling in the dark, he moved in the direction they told him to go, wondering bitterly just how long he had to live.

33

The White House

A
ARON
P
ILCHER FELT OVERWHELMED
by events. Donning a biohazard protective suit, he was being primed by an FBI agent on the Hazardous Materials Removal Unit. She was an aggressive forty-something with thick glasses, mouse brown hair that looked cut with a kitchen knife, and all the tact of a four-year-old.

“Don’t touch anything. Look and get out. Are you claustrophobic?”

“A little,” Pilcher said, already starting to sweat in the heavy rubber suit lined with activated charcoal. Chem suits didn’t breathe—that was the point.

“Don’t panic. Keep calm. Take deep breaths. If you start to panic, leave, get out of the building. Do not open the suit.” She brandished a finger in his face. “Do
not
open the suit. If you open the suit, you die. Period. Understand me?”

“Yes. Open the suit. Die. Got it.” His stomach churned, but he ignored it.

“Once you’re outside, either way, whether because you’re panicking or because it’s time to go, wait to be washed down. Can you handle this?”

Pilcher wasn’t sure he could, but he said he was fine. Then he said, “How long will it take to decontaminate The White House?”

Agent Brettano fixed her hazel eye on him. “It’s VX gas,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“You’re looking at the former resident of Presidents, Agent Pilcher. We’ll probably never be able to decontaminate it.”

He blinked, imagining it. What would they have to do? Incinerate it, one piece at a time? Block it off? Burn it to the ground and bury it in concrete, like Chernobyl? Involuntarily he felt a wave of rage wash over him. Dalton, that bastard. They were going to get him for this.

Brettano snapped her fingers in his face. “Are you paying attention?”

He was now. “Yes,” he said.

“Good. Listen closely. Your life isn’t the only one you risk if you panic in there, understand? You put my teams at risk and all the other people in there if you freak out. So I’m going to ask you again. Can you handle this?”

Pilcher looked her in the eye. “Yes. I can handle it.”

“Okay. Suit up.”

The suit was hot and awkward. The air from the tank smelled and tasted stale and metallic. He could smell his own sweat, bitter and acidic, the stench of fear.

The West Wing was well lit ... for a graveyard. Pilcher had been told the body count was over one hundred. The VX gas had been released directly into the White House ventilation system through a cold air intake. Brettano had said in an ominous voice pinched with anger, “In DHS Deputy Director Samuel Dalton’s office.” The missing man. Hundreds of agents hunted him now, but so far, nothing.

The VX gas canister had been described to Pilcher as being a Coke can on the outside, but there had been a timed release mechanism on the inside. Dalton had been able to flick a switch on the bottom of the can, screw the brass grate back over the hole in the wall, then leave the White House on business. When the White House had been full of cabinet members, White House staff, the Joint Chiefs and various experts on dealing with biological and chemical emergencies, it had gone off, spraying a fine mist of one of the most dangerous substances on the planet through the ventilation system of the venerable old building.

An armed soldier in a chem suit, M4 carbine at the ready, met Pilcher. Pilcher pointed to the FBI stencil on his own suit. “I want to see Dalton’s office. Ground zero.”

The soldier nodded, waved over another similarly clad soldier, and led Pilcher up a flight of stairs and down a hallway lined with offices. Further on he saw a larger area with glass-walled cubicles. Apparently in this administration the Secretary and Deputy Director of the Department of Homeland Security warranted their own offices close to the Oval Office.

Two corpses remained in the hallway, one a young redheaded woman in a tan pantsuit, a sheaf of scattered paperwork dealt like cards around her body. Further down the hallway was the body of a crew-cut man in a navy blue three-piece suit. In his ear was a piece of molded plastic. His suit coat was crumpled beneath him to reveal a gun and holster. Secret Service, Pilcher thought.