The Devil's Pitchfork (26 page)

Spigotta chewed on his cigar, staring at her. “You know what, Ms. Khournikova? I think you’re blowing smoke. I think Samuel Dalton, who nearly assassinated the President today, is in cahoots with you and your people.”

“My people?”

“Russia.”

“There is no advantage to Russia for the catastrophe that has occurred today.”

“You are enemies of the United States. Have been—”

Khournikova cut him off. “Agent, the cold war is over. I freely admit that we lost. We wish to trade with the United States. We wish to have a strong economy, to be able to compete on the world marketplace. To have peace and prosperity.”

“You’re run by a bunch of mafiosos—what d’ya call ‘em, oligarchs.”

Khournikova dipped her head. “Yes, this is true. But it does not mean that decapitating the U.S. government is in our best interests.”

“Who knows what you folks think is in your best interests. Maybe you think you can get away with this. What I want to know is, where’s Sam Dalton?”

“I don’t even know who he is. I have been hunting Richard Coffee.”

Spigotta looked sour. “Richard Coffee died in 1991 during the Gulf War. That’s what our records say.”

“Perhaps you can explain to me why Derek Stillwater—a man you claim I must be working with—killed a woman claiming to be Irina Khournikova. She is not. I am—”

”We’re working on an ID of the woman, don’t you worry. We’ve got that handled, Ms. Khournikova.” Spigotta leaned forward, getting very close to the Russian woman. In a soft, menacing voice, he said, “But you gotta tell me, lady ... where’s Sam Dalton?”

“I do not know who he is or where he is.”

Spigotta’s hand swept out. It did not connect as planned. The Russian agent rolled her head back and caught Spigotta’s wrist in her hands. In a flash she was inside his grasp, lveraging him to the hard floor in a Judo shoulder-throw. She was at the door, too late realizing it was locked. She spun, thinking,
I will have to immobilize him or kill him to get out of here.

Spigotta was on his feet, his gun in his hand, eyes hooded. “Fool me once, shame on you,” he growled, and pointed the gun at the chair. “You
don’t
want to take another shot at me, though. Trust me on that.”

A drop of sweat beaded on her forehead as she sat back down in the chair.

38

The Fallen Angels’ Headquarters

R
ICHARD
C
OFFEE LOOKED DOWN
at the unconscious form of Derek Stillwater. He tapped his chin with his index finger for a moment before turning to Ling, who was removing a sterilized tray of acupuncture needles from a cabinet, momentarily flooding the room with UV light.

“Well Ling? Is your patient telling the truth?”

In an even voice Ling said, “His answers are consistent.”

Coffee burst into a deep bellow of laughter. “Ling ... that’s not what I asked.” He moved across the room in what was almost a lunge. Ling tensed, nearly a flinch, but Coffee stopped next to the examining table. He leaned down close to Derek. He patted Derek’s cheek and in a soft voice, as if speaking to Derek alone, said, “Hey buddy ... I asked Ling here if you were telling the truth. It’s a simple question. There are really only three answers. They are yes ... and no ... and
I don’t know
,” he finished, his voice filled with quiet menace.

Ling’s left eye twitched. Just once. In a barely audible mutter, Ling said, “I don’t know, Fallen.”

“Ah,” Coffee said. “But you have hurt him.”

“Yes, Fallen. I have hurt him.”

“Perhaps you have not hurt him enough.”

“Perhaps,” Ling said, a touch of enthusiasm creeping into his voice.

“You can do this.”

“With pleasure.”

“Yes, I understand that about you, Ling.” Coffee looked up and met Ling’s gaze, judging him. Ling was the first to look away. “All men have a breaking point. Don’t they, Ling?”

“In my experience, yes.”

“And are you anywhere near Derek’s breaking point, Ling?”

“He is very strong. He has ... “ Ling licked his lips, searching for the right words. “Derek Stillwater appears to have great mental flexibility. He is perhaps able to compartmentalize his response to the pain I am presenting him.”

Coffee frowned. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning his answers appear to be too consistent. He is either telling us the truth, that he turned Irina Khournikova over to the FBI...”

Coffee took a step closer to Ling. The two terrorists, Sven and Ivan, who had observed Derek’s torture with little or no emotion, now watched closely for any sign that Coffee would want them to act. “Or?”

“Or,” Ling said, “he has created a story to cling to. As he faces the pain, he knows that his story is the only thing that will keep him alive or end the pain.”

“So,” Coffee said, considering. “What you’re saying is, he’s lying or he’s telling the truth.”

Ling’s face fell just enough to suggest that Coffee had missed some of the nuance he was trying to provide. “I am saying that it is possible that Stillwater may fear the repercussions of the truth more than he fears the pain.”

Coffee turned to look at Derek. “Will he tell me the truth?”

“With enough time ... and pain ... all men tell the truth.”

“And when do you know?”

Ling shrugged.

“Can you wake him up?” Coffee said.

Ling sighed. “He is already conscious, Fallen.”

Coffee turned suddenly toward Derek. “Playing opossum, Derek?”

Derek opened his eyes, but said nothing. Coffee looked down at him. “Ling here can increase the pain. Would you like that?”

“No,” Derek said.

“So tell me the truth. Where is Irina?”

“I told you. I turned her over to the FBI. Unless they released her, they’ve got her at the Hoover Building.”

Coffee studied him. He nodded. “Okay. Right, Derek. Okay. I believe you. Or I believe you enough. I have someone inside the bureau. I’ll check. In the meantime...” Coffee gestured at Ling. “Ling will see if he can get you to change your story. He will see if he can determine whether you’re more afraid of the truth than the pain. He’s good at it.” Coffee left the trailer, letting the door slam behind him.

Ling approached Derek. “It probably no longer matters,” Ling said. He began to insert acupuncture needles into a number of points along Derek’s body: in his temple, behind his left ear, by his collar bone, in his hips, several in his feet and legs. Ling held up a needle. “I trust you will find this to be a very interesting experience. You see, pain is in your mind. Your brain can take only so much pain. It will then dampen the pain, creating its own opiates to numb it. The nerves became tired, your serotonin levels between nerve endings becomes depleted. But I can open you to an entire new level of experience...”

Ling inserted the needle into the palm of Derek’s right hand. It was as if a cool breeze was suddenly blowing over his fevered body. The previous aches and pains vanished. He felt an odd sense of well-being, almost euphoria. Every sense became acute. He could smell the sweat of the two terrorists, smell the gun oil and the gunpowder that clung to their clothing. He could hear Ling’s breathing, vague sounds from outside the trailer, the hum of electricity, the air conditioning. The air around him caressed his body like a gentle lover’s touch; it had weight, texture.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Ling said, and inserted another needle, this one into Derek’s shoulder.

Derek bit back a scream as his body suddenly exploded as if on fire. Every neuron fired, telling his brain that he was on fire, that he had fallen into lava, that his skin was red, scorched, turning black, sloughing off his body.

Ling withdrew the needle. Convulsing, Derek gasped for air, his brain incapable of letting go of the agony of the flames. Ling said, “Now, perhaps I should ask you ... where is Irina Khournikova?” He held up the needle. “Or we’ll burn again? So tell me, old friend of Fallen’s ... where is Irina Khournikova?”

Derek stared at the Asian and thought, kill me. Kill me now. If I tell him, they’ll kill me now. Why protect myself? I’m dead. Tell him that I killed Irina Khournikova in that apartment. Tell him. Anything. Anything but that burning ... anything.

Spangled fish danced before his eyes and he was suddenly on his kayak racing cross the quicksilver waves of the Chesapeake Bay, feeling so light and nimble it was like walking on water. In his mind he dipped his hand into the water, took a handful, thinking ... this is the shape of water ... and splashed it on his forehead, soaking his shirt...

Derek said, “I turned her over to the FBI...”

Ling inserted the needle once again. Again, Derek felt the flames engulf him, but somewhere deep, deep in his brain there was water...

39

R
ICHARD
C
OFFEE LEFT
L
ING’S
trailer, his mind in turmoil. He felt as if his brain were segmenting, fragmenting into shards of memory. The past had doubled back on him, a past he had spent years trying to forget.
Where was Nadia?

The thought was a whisper, a chorus of voices in his head.
Where was Nadia?
For Nadia Kosov was Irina Khournikova. Yes. Nadia was Irina.

He stood in the expanse of pavement between trailers and felt a wave of confusion nearly overwhelm him. Irina Khournikova. The Russian woman from the ‘T’ Directorate who had been hunting him for so many years. With an effort he tried to control the explosion of memories spinning in his head.

He blinked, back in Chechnya. What year was it? It was ‘94? Maybe? Surkho Andarbek had been high in the Chechen rebellion, a tactician and leader. His particular skill had been in stalking Russian military units and assassinating high-ranking officers. Even then, his name was known--Strong Warrior.

There had been a visitor touring their sector, a Lieutenant Colonel from the Russian Army. His name was Sergei Dobrovnik. He was evaluating the Russian mission in Chechnya, which was not going well at all. It was never ending, Russia’s second Vietnam, as if the Afghanistan war hadn’t been bad enough, now this mess.

Coffee’s intelligence network was prized by the Chechens and feared by the Russians, who only knew that their intelligence leaked like a broken water main. Their routes for the tour of the city were kept highly secret, known to only a few. Yet Coffee—Surkho Andarbek—had killed him with a rocket propelled grenade as his convoy passed through the streets. The boldness of his attack had made his name known throughout the country.

And two years later, now the head of the rebels, Surkho Andarbek heard that he was being hunted by a woman, Irina Khournikova. This woman was more than just a top anti-terrorist agent. Her lover had been Sergei Dobrovnik. Khournikova had sworn an oath to hunt the man who had killed her lover.

Coffee, then close to his fall, began to study this hunter. Indirectly, Irina Khournikova was responsible for the depth and breadth of Surkho Andarbek’s intelligence network in Russia and the rest of the world. It was because of her that he began even more recruiting of spies from within and without, developing contacts, spinning a web.

Coffee blinked, back in contact with reality. He glanced at his wristwatch, puzzled, wondering if he had actually been standing in the one spot for ten minutes. He looked around at his followers, busy preparing for the rest of the operation. Coffee knew they believed his trances brought visions.

And maybe they did, he thought. Because you cannot escape the past. The past has a way of unfolding and folding back in on itself. History does repeat itself, even if you remember it.

Like Derek. Derek had appeared like a phantom from his past.

Grimly, Coffee strode across the pavement to the double-wide trailer Derek had noticed, the one with the elaborate ventilation system. At the front of the trailer was an intercom. He punched the button and waited. After a moment a metallic voice said, “Yes?”

Coffee switched to Korean. “What’s the status of your tests?”

“Fallen. They are progressing.”

“Are you comfortable with the results so far? I want to proceed with the next stage.”

More silence. Finally the speaker said, “I do not have one hundred percent confidence in the vaccine. It has not been thoroughly tested.”

“It works on the animals?”

“Yes, Fallen. So far they seem effective, though not enough time has passed.”

“Yes. Yes. Do you need to test it on a human being?”

There was a longer silence. Finally, “Yes.”

Coffee smiled, thinking of Derek Stillwater. “I will bring you your test subject then. Your guinea pig.”

“One ... one of The Fallen?”

“No. A guest.”

“Ah. Soon?

“He’s with Ling. When Ling is done.”

“We need him alive.”

“Ling knows what to do.”

“Very well. We will make preparations.”

Coffee walked away, toward another trailer at the far end. As people passed, they nodded their heads in respect. His people. His Fallen Angels. He pushed his way into Trailer F. Three people were working at computer workstations. They were tapped into various news organizations and government agencies. The room was stacked with computers and TVs tuned to CNN and FOX and the other news networks.

“I need you to determine if the FBI has custody of Irina Khournikova.”

The man he spoke to was a slim Malaysian man, who nodded. He moved into the FBI logs and computer system, tapping at keys. He nodded. “Yes. It indicates that she is in an interrogation room on the fifth floor, in the Strategic Information Operations Center.”

Coffee nodded, thinking. Then he said, “I need e-mail. I need a direct e-mail, non-traceable, to our source in the Bureau.”

The Malaysian tapped keys. “O’Hara?”

Coffee nodded, thinking of sacrifices. He was going to sacrifice Derek Stillwater. Blood for blood.

40

FBI Headquarters

J
UDE
O’H
ARA SAT IN
his cubicle in the anti-terrorism division of the FBI, sifting through computer files. He wore the typical FBI uniform of dark suit, white shirt, though his was as wrinkled and sweat-stained as the rest of the staff’s. Hell, everyone was saying, had broken loose. They were mobilizing, but slowly, with so many cabinet members dead. He brushed a hand through his short sandy hair and closed his eyes, ignoring the pressure behind his ears and the pounding behind his eyes. His mind was a blank, frozen. Everyone was mobilized, the anti-terrorism division was going absolutely apeshit, and he was sitting there trying to come up with a game plan.