The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller (4 page)

Mandalevo looked over at Johnston, eyebrow raised.

“We don’t know,” said Johnston.

“What do you—”

“We don’t know,” he repeated. Those three words he felt were often the three most important in intelligence circles. Most politicians didn’t get it; they always felt that an answer was necessary. “It was a cellular call, but the NSA never did track down exactly where it came from.”

President Langston stood up. “One question, Jim.” His voice held barely contained rage.

Everybody rose to their feet. Secretary Johnston said, “Yes, sir?”

“Do you have assets in place to deal with Coffee, should he make an attempt at the summit?”

“As I said, sir, the Secret Service runs security at National Special Security Events. They have been informed and are doing everything possible.”

President Langston banged his fist on his desktop. He growled, “No, Jim. That’s not what I asked. Do you have an asset in place to deal with Richard Coffee?”

Johnston understood the question. “Yes, sir. I do.”

“Very well. Let’s move on.”

As Johnston and Mandalevo left the Oval Office, Mandalevo said, “What was that about?”

Johnston scowled. He glanced back over his shoulder. In a low voice, he said, “You were there when we briefed him on this. We both remember it. He’s getting worse.”

“I’m aware of that, but that’s not what I’m talking about. What was that all about?”

“What was what about?”

Mandalevo stopped and looked at him. “What asset was the president talking about?”

Johnston shook his head. “We have assets in place all over Cheyenne Hills, Robert. It’s what the Secret Service does. The service’s preparations for the summit are excellent. You’ve been fully informed of the situation.”

“I’m the National Intelligence Director.” Mandalevo’s eyes narrowed, one of the few signs he gave that he was annoyed or even angry. “I should know what you have up your sleeve. What asset was the president talking about?”

Johnston said, “Robert, you’ve been fully briefed on security for the summit.” He turned and walked away.

You don’t need to know, thought Johnston. The only people who know are me, Derek Stillwater, and President Langston. Johnston understood something about Richard Coffee that not everybody appreciated, even Robert Mandalevo. If Coffee couldn’t seduce people to join him, he would bribe, blackmail, or threaten them. He had fingers into governments and intelligence agencies all over the world. Johnston
trusted Mandalevo, but who knew who else might have access to that information? Especially if it was information Coffee really wanted. And one thing Johnston was sure of— Richard Coffee was very interested in knowing if Derek Stillwater was still alive.

Secretary Mandalevo returned to his office in the West Wing and walked past his secretary without a word, slamming his door behind him. He had a window overlooking the south lawn, but otherwise the office was mostly remarkable for how small it was. In the White House, and especially in the West Wing, proximity to the president was the real indicator of status, and he was reasonably close— a short walk down the hall. But windows and size of the office were also indicators of how important you were to the administration, and of your own personal importance to the president, and he knew it.

He stood in his small office and clenched his fists, thinking, stewing. This little skirmish exemplified everything that was wrong with the National Intelligence Directorate— it had been created to increase communication between the different intelligence agencies in the U.S. government after 9/11. Instead, it had inspired everybody to become even more protective of their own turf. He’d hoped that by keeping his office in the West Wing with easy access to the president that it would become symbolic of his importance. That turned out to be wasted effort, and not a day went by that he didn’t consider moving over to Liberty Crossing, but thought it would be viewed as an even bigger admission of failure.

Also, every time he considered moving to the national intelligence headquarters, he knew what kind of message that would send to the press— Mandalevo’s cutting his losses, throwing up his hands with his frustration with this administration, and hiding out at Liberty Crossing.

Plus, he didn’t like the way President Langston was behaving these days. The Fallen Angels were a clear and present danger to the United States, but so was al-Qaeda and a number of rogue countries around the world. You couldn’t put all your focus on one enemy or a different enemy would sneak up behind you while you were occupied. He felt his
continuing presence in the West Wing and his easy access to the president would only strengthen his point about America’s enemies and the need for constant vigilance.

He glanced for a moment at the most important thing in the room— the photograph of his family that rested on a corner of his oversized maple desk. His wife, Laura, who died three years earlier of ovarian cancer. His twin daughters, Megan and Midge, short for Margaret, now grown. Megan lived in Los Angeles, an agent with the Gersch Agency in Beverly Hills. Midge, following her father’s footsteps, worked for the State Department in the U.S. embassy in Greece. He was proud of his daughters. He missed them. He missed all three of them.

He turned and stuck his head out the door and said, “Get Bill on the phone,” and ducked back inside his office.

A moment later his phone buzzed and Marcia said, “Lieutenant General William Akron for you.”

Akron was the deputy director of the National Intelligence Directorate, and worked out of their newly built headquarters at Liberty Crossing in northern Virginia. The former director of the National Security Agency, Akron ran the day-to-day operations of the NID. “Robert, shouldn’t you be heading over to Andrews?”

“In a couple minutes. I need you to get some files and e-mail them directly to me on Air Force One ASAP.”

“No problem.”

“I want everything we know about Richard Coffee and The Fallen Angels. In particular, I want everything we have on an NSA intercept in August between Richard Coffee and the Reverend Lieutenant Colonel Jeremy Sebastian in Colorado.”

“Do I need to know what this is about?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Okay, Robert. Understood. Anything else?”

Mandalevo thought for a moment. “Get me the file on Derek Still-water. In fact, here’s what I really want to know about Derek Stillwater, Bill. Find out if he’s really dead.”

“Dead?”

“Check social security, check Homeland Security payroll and benefits records. Anything else that might be relevant. I have a suspicion—”

“Robert? What’s going on?”

“Stillwater was always Johnston’s go-to guy. Johnston’s got somebody undercover at Cheyenne. I wonder if Johnston pulled a switch.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him. I’ll get the information for you. Anything else?”

“No, not for now.”

“Yes sir. Have a good trip, sir.”

Derek Stillwater pushed his work cart in front of him through the tunnel connecting Cheyenne Hall to Colorado Springs Hall. The three buildings— Cheyenne Hall, the International Center, and the Colorado Springs Hall— were laid out in a rough triangle, making a combined 185,000 square feet of meeting space. Each building was connected by an underground tunnel and the basement areas of each building were a maze of narrow corridors, public meeting rooms, offices, and power plant and technical areas.

His boss, Steven Planchette, had been pleased to see him and promptly sent him over to Colorado Springs Hall to replace burned-out lights in two of the conference rooms, and fix a backed-up toilet in the women’s restroom on the main floor. Ah, the glamorous life of the undercover agent, he thought. Yet, in a way, he had enjoyed his eight months here. The jobs were straightforward, short-term, and you could see the results immediately— and generally speaking, nobody tried to kill him in the process.

His work cart was about the size of a garden cart and contained all the tools and parts he might need for these sorts of jobs— screwdrivers, wrenches, hammers, wire cutters, an electric drill, and bits. It was painted a deep maroon. It had his name on the side: Michael Gabriel. The label was twofold: one, so people wouldn’t— in theory— presumably poach tools off it, and two, so if he pissed off a guest they’d know who to report. He had added a bumper sticker to personalize it further. It read: What if the “Hokey Pokey” Really IS What It’s All About?

So far he had encountered no guests, but the Secret Service and DSS people were omnipresent. A pair of agents, two men in dark suits, stopped him. One’s head was triangular shaped, his chin tapered so he looked like a fox or a ferret. He said, “ID and paperwork,” snapping his
fingers. Derek shrugged and produced the documentation. The other agent looked bored. Ferret Face looked over the paperwork and gestured for Derek to open the cart. Derek did. The agent poked around and shrugged. “Lot of potential weapons in there.”

Derek shrugged back. He pointed to the bulge of the gun under the agent’s coat. “Real weapon right there.”

“Damn straight,” the agent said. “Well, you check out. Move on.”

Derek did. He was stopped twice more on his way to his repair jobs. Other agents passed him on without checking his identification. It was unpredictable, which was probably the intention.

Derek moved through the steel doors separating the tunnel from Colorado Springs Hall, took a right, and pushed his cart toward the freight elevator. As he waited for it, a trio of people in dark suits approached. They walked with purpose, deep in conversation. When the elevator door opened, the lead agent, a slim white-blond man in a dark suit, said, “Well, since it’s here. Hold up.”

Derek obediently pushed the Door Open button and waited for them to enter. The second agent to enter had a head like a cement block, with gray hair cut short and ears that protruded like handles from the side of his head. His suit was black and had an odd cheap cut that didn’t fit him all that well. He scowled at Derek, scanned the cart, then seemed to dismiss him.

The third person was a woman. She had long reddish-brown hair, high cheekbones, green eyes, and an oval face. She squeezed into the elevator. It was tight with the four of them and the cart. Her gaze slid over Derek for a moment before she turned her back to him and stared at the elevator door as they rose to the first floor.

Derek’s heart hammered in his chest. He knew the woman. She was with the FSB, the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, or Russian Federal Security Service. Her name was Irina Khournikova. And she knew him, too.

The guy with the head like a cinder block, his voice heavily accented, said, “Everything seems to be running clockwise.”

The blond guy seemed puzzled. “Er—”

“Like clockwork,” Khournikova said. “Everything seems to be running like clockwork.” Her English was nearly perfect with only a slight Russian accent.

“Da. What did I say?”

“Clockwise. In circles,” said Khournikova.

The Russian man frowned. “No, no. Like clockwork. Da? Going as planned. On schedule?”

“It’s looking good,” the blond said cautiously. His hair was so blond it looked almost white, his complexion pale and chalky. Derek wondered if he was an albino.

The elevator doors opened, and the three agents moved away. Khournikova didn’t look back at him. Derek pushed the cart out of the elevator and headed in the direction of the women’s bathroom. He passed by two more security stations and answered their questions and showed them his paperwork and let them look at his cart. When he finally made it to the women’s bathroom, he knocked on the door to make sure no one was inside, then propped it open with a yellow plastic sign indicating the restroom was closed for repairs. He grabbed his toolbox and went to see what the problem was with the toilet.

It looked like somebody had tried to flush a tampon, he thought, and went about unclogging the thing. He heard steps behind him and said, “This restroom’s closed temporarily. There’s one—”

Irina Khournikova stood just inside the doorway, a gun in both hands, aimed directly at him. Her voice was soft. “Hello, Derek. Been a while.”

Derek, on his knees in the toilet stall with a plunger in his hand, glanced over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows. He tried to appear nonchalant. “So you’re a bad guy now?”

Irina narrowed her eyes and stepped farther into the restroom. The restroom was slightly larger than a double-wide trailer, broken into two duplicate sections joined by a foyer. It screamed money and elegance, and Derek thought it was rather silly— wine-colored marble, gold-plated fixtures, frosted-glass light sconces. He tried to act casual, but he kept his eyes on the gun.

“So,” Irina said, “the U.S. government faked your death— just like they faked Richard Coffee’s death. Perhaps your government should stop doing that.”

“They probably should. But when it comes to Coffee I’ll take any edge I can get.” Derek turned and clambered to his feet. “Put the gun away, please.”

Irina shook her head. “There was quite a bit of speculation by both our governments as to whether you were actually a part of The Fallen Angels.”

Derek took two steps closer to Irina. She backed up, but didn’t lower the gun. “Stay where you are,” she said.

“You’re questioning my involvement with Coffee? Don’t be an idiot. I have more reason to doubt you than anybody, and you know it. Last time we met you and Coffee disappeared at the same time. That doesn’t inspire confidence. Why are you here?”

She jerked the gun at him. “Stop moving in on me.”

“Okay.” He took a fast shuffling step sideways toward a row of maroon marble-topped sinks, momentarily out of her sight. She spun immediately after him. And froze.

Derek kicked out and swept her legs from under her. She hit the marble floor hard and Derek was immediately on her, one knee pressing down on her wrist, the other on her chest. With her free hand she slammed him in the ribs. With a groan he twisted the gun from her grasp and leapt off her.

She rolled instantly to her feet in a graceful motion, pulling another semiautomatic from inside her jacket.