The Devil's Pitchfork (9 page)

Derek remembered being stationed in Korea with Richard and how quickly Coffee had picked up the language. Fast enough to get around, talk to the natives, barter in the stores and order at the restaurants. They had only been in Korea for six months.

According to his file, Coffee had been at the very top of his training group and was considered to have “significant leadership potential.” His marksmanship was rated as “excellent,” which was above “sharpshooter.”

He had, like Derek, served in Panama and been stationed throughout the world: Korea, Japan, Germany, England, Italy, Cuba. With his language skills he had been shifted back and forth between liaison and training positions with the locals, and what was probably translating materials used in Psychological Operations or Psyops.

After Coffee had been exposed to an unidentified mix of chemical and biological agents, Derek had rushed him to the nearest medi-vac chopper where he had been whisked away to the 807
^th
M.A.S.H. Derek had been ordered to move with the advancing troops to evaluate the ongoing risk of biological and chemical weapon attacks.

He had not been able to check on his friend until the end of the war. He was informed that
“Captain Richard Coffee had died of unexplained lung and neurological damage caused by an unspecified and unidentified combination of biological and chemical agents believed to have been stored at the arms depot at An Nasiriyah.”

His body, Derek had been informed, had been shipped home to Boulder, Colorado for burial.

It was all in the file.

Well, Derek thought, flipping to the end again ... not quite all. Under the circumstances he would have expected a complete medical file including an autopsy report. Coffee’s death had been unusual, an anomaly in a war with relatively few casualties. On the other hand, medical records in a war zone were something of a luxury and thousands had been mislaid during the Gulf War. Perhaps that had happened in Coffee’s case.

Given the later controversy over Gulf War Syndrome, the unexplained mix of health syndromes many veterans had complained of, it was slightly odd that the one certifiable American death by Iraqi biowarfare weapons wasn’t more thoroughly documented.

Or was that why it wasn’t?

Gulf War Syndrome had never been satisfactorily explained. Many in the military believed it was all nonsense, just veterans trying to get more money or insurance benefits out of Uncle Sam. The latest “official” explanation was that the wide and varied mix of simultaneous vaccines given to such a large group of people in preparation for desert warfare against a country with a penchant for using bio and chem weapons had overloaded many G.I.’s immune systems, leading to the odd mix of health problems.

Derek had always assumed the reason Coffee’s death had never reached the media was because it would have given ammunition to the Gulf War Syndrome argument.

But now he wondered.

He flipped through the file again, trying to pinpoint what he was missing. What wasn’t there that should have been?

Leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes and let his mind drift. There was something there, he knew, some odd little factoid that he was trying to remember.

Yi-Ru-Han Kyoung-Wu-E-Neun Seo-Du-Reul Su-Ga Up-Seum-Ni-Da.

You can’t hurry this.

He sat up. Opened his eyes. Flipped through the file again.

When he and Coffee had been stationed in Korea, playing tag with North Koreans along the DMZ, evaluating land mines and North Korea’s biological and chemical weapons potential, they had shared more than a few beers in Seoul bars.

He remembered Coffee, tilting his bottle of Hite beer, a popular Korean brand, and saying he had plans to leave the Army.

“Don’t we all,” Derek had said. “You’re out of your mind, though. We’re lifers. Where else are you going to get your regular adrenaline fix? I tell you, Java, you’re not going to get the same buzz playing golf.”

“CIA,” Coffee said.

Derek rolled his eyes. “What? With your background in languages? They’ll stuff you in an office the size of a telephone booth in Langley, probably in a fucking sub-sub-sub-basement somewhere, and you’ll be translating grocery lists and bureaucratic memos twelve hours a day. Fuck it. I don’t believe you.”

“Nah. I applied, man. I’d make a great field agent.”

“Bullshiiiiittt.”

But now, Derek couldn’t find it. Had it been bullshit? Would it have made it into military records if Coffee had officially applied to the Central Intelligence Agency?

He tried to remember the look on Coffee’s face when he had told him. Had he been serious? With Coffee—Java as he was called by everyone—it was hard to tell. The man had been a world-class poker player and one hell of a liar.

“Fucking CIA cash cow,” Derek said, his voice sounding slightly strained in the empty room. He glanced at his watch. He had to make up his mind soon. Was this a chase of the wild-goose variety, or a long-shot worth pursuing?

His gaze settled on the chair where Colonel Tallifer, the Military Intelligence spook, had sat.

What would I do if I were M.I. and somebody official came around trying to dig up something they’d buried a long time ago?

He came around the desk and took a look at the other chair in the room.

He found it attached to the right metal leg with a magnet. What appeared to be a bug--of the electronic kind.

Holding the tiny transmitter between his two fingers, Derek dropped the listening device into his second half-finished can of Mountain Dew. He rattled the can good and hard. “Half-full or half-empty, Colonel Tallifer? What do you say?”

Derek called O’Reilly with a simple request: the current location and phone number of Captain Simona Ebbotts and a lift to a rental car facility.

“What is that noise, sir?”

Derek had been shaking the Mountain Dew can during their brief telephone conversation. “Sorry. Nervous habit.”

“Yes sir. We can supply a vehicle. Secretary Johnston has expressed his desire for full cooperation.”

“I’m sure he has. Thank you. That will be fine. The phone number, though?”

“I’ll get it for you, sir.”

“Good. And Sergeant? This request is confidential.”

“Yes sir.”

The military vehicle O’Reilly came up with was a forest green Ford Explorer. Derek loaded his gear into the back, took the slip of paper with Simona Ebbots’ contact information on it, thanked O’Reilly and sped away. He didn’t want to use his cellular phone for this. It took a mile of driving before he found a pay phone in front of a 7-Eleven.

The number was in San Antonio, Texas. Glancing at his watch, he decided to try the work number first. It was late, but it was an hour earlier in Texas.

Using a phone card, he dialed the number. After four rings, a female voice said: “Brooke Community Army Hospital, Medical Surgical Floor.”

“Dr. Simona Ebbotts, please.”

“Hhmmm. I think she’s with a patient.”

“Please tell her it’s Derek Stillwater and that it’s an emergency.”

“Well...”

“Tell her,” he said, voice short.

“Just a moment please.”

He waited. And waited. He glanced at his watch again. He wondered how the investigation was going. What was Pilcher up to now? Spigotta? More important, what was ... what was Richard Coffee and his band of merry men doing?

Because, whether true or not, he had begun to think of the terrorists as being linked to Richard Coffee.

He thought about the woman he was trying to get hold of. His ex-wife. A military marriage that lasted two years until their separate careers had forced them apart more than they were together.

“Derek, what do you want?”

“Hi Simona. Look—”

”No, Derek. We’re very busy here. I’m doing follow-ups on surgical patients. And we’ve gone to Code Red, but nobody knows why. What do you want?”

“I know why you’ve gone Code Red,” he said.

There was silence on the line. “I thought you were retired.”

“I’m with Homeland. A troubleshooter.”

More silence. “This news in Baltimore...”

“Yes.”

“What is it?” She knew. She was so smart, he thought. She knew.

“Bioengineered. Nothing like it. Pretend it’s smallpox without a vaccine.”

“Dear God. What do you need from me?”

“I need the names of some nurses and doctors who worked at the 807
^th
M.A.S.H. in February and March of 1991. Iraq. People with good memories.”

“I can do that,” she said. “Honey. I can get you a list of names in ten minutes.”

Derek’s mind locked on ‘Honey.’ He remembered Simona with long dark hair she usually wore in a braid. Remembered braiding that hair for her a time or two, both of them naked, fresh out of the shower, pink and clean, her fine straight back in front of him, her long silky hair in his fingers. So long ago.

“E-mail it to me,” he said, and gave her his address. “Thanks, Simona.”

“Derek...” Her voice broke. “Take care of yourself.”

He smiled. “What a concept. Bye, love. And thanks.”

He sat in the Explorer in the 7-Eleven parking lot, watching what looked like three gang members shoulder through the front door. Baggy jeans hanging off their asses, Baltimore Ravens jerseys, red doo-rags on their heads. He hoped they weren’t knocking the place off. He didn’t have time for crap like that. He made his next call on his cell phone.

“Pilcher here.”

Derek ID’ed himself.

“Where the hell are you?” The FBI agent demanded. “Find what you wanted at the Pentagon?”

“Maybe. I’ve got to talk to one more person. Let’s just say I’ve found a set of extremely suspicious circumstances.”

“Give me a name, Stillwater.”

“It’s too early.”

Pilcher’s exasperated sigh burst through a clutter of static. “I don’t have to remind you the clock is ticking here.”

“No, you don’t. I understand what’s at stake. What’s going on at your end?”

“Spigotta’s moved to SIOC. Everybody’s on high alert. You tell me, how long would it take to make Chimera usable?”

“Depends on their plan. You only need to infect a couple people to get it going, if that’s their intention. Hell, infect a handful of your own people and send them out on the subway or take in an Oriole’s game. Sneeze on a salad bar somewhere. If that’s the plan, they could already be on the move.”

Pilcher was silent a moment. Then, “But if they need to grow more?”

“Anywhere from a few hours to a couple days. Not long.”

“That’s what I thought. Okay, Stillwater. End of briefing unless you share what you’re working on. I want the name.”

Derek grimaced. “I don’t want to send you on a wild goose chase.”

“It’s what we do,” Pilcher snapped. “Name a name or we’re through. And I’ve got info you want.”

Derek sighed. “Richard Coffee,” he said. “U.S. Special Forces.” He told Pilcher what he knew so far.

“Huh,” Pilcher said. “Bears some follow-up.”

“If I can do it fast. I should have a list of names of medical personnel in a couple minutes. Now ... what’s going on?”

“We recovered the vans.”

Derek sat straighter. “Where?”

“The Frederick Municipal Airport, second level of a parking garage. We got the license plates and makes from U.S. Immuno’s security cams and put out a BOLO. Local cops regularly cruise parking garages. Looks like they flew out of here. ERTs are going over the vans and we’ve got people checking over the airport manifests and questioning everybody we can find.”

“And the security tapes?”

“Spigotta informed me they’ve got about a hundred. He’s put as many people on them as they can find. Still, it’s going to take time. Plus he’s got a team doing background on all the personnel at U.S. Immuno. Somebody spilled details besides Scully.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“No,” Pilcher said. “How about you?”

“Nothing. Just M.I.’s odd behavior.”

“Let’s not use the C word, okay?”

“The C word?” Derek asked..

“Yeah. Conspiracy. I hate those.”

“I won’t if you won’t,” Derek said.

“Good, then don’t. Keep in touch.” He clicked off.

Derek pulled out his cell phone and checked his e-mail. Simona had sent him eight names, all scattered around the world. Except one, Dr. Austin Davis, an E.R. doc at Walter Reed. Right here in town.

Derek dialed Davis’s number. The man answered on the second ring. Derek told him he was an agent for Homeland Security and needed to talk to him about a patient he might have had in Iraq. Davis, his voice sounding very Kentucky or maybe Tennessee, said, “Iraq. Iraq now or Iraq back in ‘91?”

“‘91.”

“Sure. I’m wrapping up here, can’t talk. But I can meet you at Jimmy’s on 19th in half an hour. I’ll be the tall good-looking blond at the bar.” He laughed and hung up.

Derek checked his watch. Yeah, that might work.

Jimmy’s was two blocks down from the Walter Reed complex. Derek had expected a yuppie bar with ferns, but got instead an old-fashioned dark hole filled with wall-to-wall medical types more intent on drinking than socializing. He glanced at the bar and zeroed in on the guy he thought was Austin Davis. He was right. The tall good-looking blond at the bar. Austin Davis had gone anti-military. He wore his dirty blond hair long past his shoulders, and had a thick beard, reddish with gray making inroads. Tall and lithe with concert pianist fingers that tapped nervously on the tin bar, he wore a green scrub shirt and faded jeans. Derek verified who he was and showed him ID.

“You’re Simona’s ex, right?”

“Yes.”

Parker eyed him suspiciously. “Hey, I guess it can happen to anybody, but from my angle, you must have lost your mind to let her go.”

Derek silently agreed with him, but his response was, “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure. Gin and tonic.”

Derek placed the order with the bartender, adding a coffee for himself.

“Teetotaler?” Davis said, a question whose subtext Derek assumed was actually, Are you an alcoholic?

“I expect to be up all night,” Derek said, and explained what he wanted. He was halfway through his explanation when Davis said, “Richard Coffee.”