The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller (6 page)

“I can handle it. See you later.”

With a laugh she said, “Promises, promises,” and sashayed into the banquet hall.

It wasn’t hard to find William O’Grady. All you had to do was follow the snarling voice. O’Grady was as wide as he was tall, about five feet six, in chef’s whites. His sweaty, curly hair clung to his round scalp, his complexion as red as a setting sun. Hands on hips, he was screaming at a cook about the way she was cutting carrots for the salads.

“Are you mad? Julienned! They have to be julienned! That means like matchsticks! Sliced! Not these— these chunks! Who the hell do you
think you’re preparing food for? Bugs Bunny? We’re serving the most powerful people on the planet! Slice the damned carrots thin!”

O’Grady spun to glare at Derek. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Maintenance. I understand you’ve—”

“Oh, so now you decide to show up! This kitchen is a goddamned disaster area!”

Derek didn’t think so. It was huge, gleaming stainless steel, dozens of ranges and ovens and work areas. Chef O’Grady had a white-coated staff of well over a dozen to berate, belittle, and bark at, with plenty of room to maneuver. The air smelled delicious— roast chicken, baked fish, succulent beef. Derek understood the initial menu included prime rib and mahimahi and garlic mashed potatoes. He had slim hopes that he’d get to sample some of it in the kitchen during dinner. Steam filled the air, making the area feel like a sauna. The air conditioning couldn’t keep up. Derek said, “What’s the biggest problem?”

“If you people were doing your job, there wouldn’t be a problem! What kind of incompetents are you? Why is my kitchen such a disaster area?”

Derek waited, unruffled by O’Grady’s tantrums. “What needs fixing first?”

“You shouldn’t have to fix anything! It should have been working properly! If you would—”

Derek glanced pointedly at his watch. “What’s first?”

“The gas ranges, three and four. They’re always on high. How can we cook if we can’t turn down the heat? Have you ever heard of simmer? Have you ever heard of low? Have you—”

Derek pushed past O’Grady and walked over to where a handful of cooks were struggling with a dozen saucepans. “Which ones are three and four?”

One of the cooks, a round-faced kid with hazel eyes and a shock of thick brown hair, said, “These two. Can’t turn ’em down.”

“Yeah? Probably the switch contacts are shorted shut. We’ll need to close it down, then I can fix them in no time.”

“Hurry!” screamed O’Grady.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Let’s get it shut off, dude, so I can get you back to work.”

He patted the poor cook on the shoulder and headed out into the
hallway to retrieve his toolbox, feeling guilty for the amount of verbal abuse the guy was receiving. Derek had sabotaged the ranges and the freezer the day before so he would be in the building when the summit began. He didn’t want to leave it to chance that something might go down in one building while he was stuck in another. As much as possible, events were proceeding the way he had intended.

Secretary Mandalevo stared at the computer screen, reading through all the documents and conclusions Akron had e-mailed him. Fingering the computer keyboard, he gazed out the window of Air Force One, noticing a broad expanse of river below them. Probably the Mississippi, he thought.

A heavyset blond guy appeared in front of him. “Secretary Mandalevo?”

Mandalevo quickly snapped the computer screen shut. “Yes?”

The guy stuck out a pudgy hand. “Frank Arlen. Washington Post. Mind if I sit down?”

Before Mandalevo could say anything, Arlen flopped into the seat across from him. Arlen flipped open a notepad. “Thought I’d just get some notes before we hit Colorado. Naughty, naughty, the way you’ve got all the press segregated from the summit.”

Mandalevo shrugged. “I’m not part of those arrangements.”

Arlen swept a greasy lock of blond hair off his forehead and fumbled in his coat until he found a pen. “Just want to confirm a few things. You started your career with the State Department, right?”

Mandalevo stared at the reporter. He did not like dealing with the press. He never had, and in his recent position as National Intelligence Director he liked it even less. He was a career bureaucrat. He started as an intern at the State Department, worked his way up to a series of postings around the world at U.S. embassies including Greece, England, Germany, Saudi Arabia, Kenya, Russia, and Argentina. He spent three years at the Central Intelligence Agency in the Intelligence Directorate, four years with the United Nations, then was made ambassador to Spain, then ambassador to the U.N.

“Are you writing a profile on me?”

“No, no. Just background.”

Mandalevo cocked his head. “How about instead of dancing around like this you just come out and ask me whatever it is you planned on asking me after you asked all the stuff you already know.”

Arlen gave an aw-shucks shake of his head that didn’t even come near being sincere. “Hey, ya got me. What I want to know is whether or not you think the creation of the Office of the National Intelligence Directorate actually did what it was created to do. I mean, it’s supposed to be nonpolitical.”

Although not a politician, Mandalevo understood the use of political capital and the way in which information was coin of the realm and a tool. The NID was definitely political and no, it probably wasn’t doing what it was designed to do. And if he said that his career in government would be over. He said, “Is there a question in there, Mr. Arlen?”

“Never mind. Know you’re not going to answer that one. How about this one, then? What is the NID’s current data on Richard Coffee and The Fallen Angels?”

Mandalevo returned a flat stare. “It’s classified.”

“I have a source that claims Coffee might do something at the summit.”

Mandalevo didn’t respond to that. Arlen poised, pen in hand. “Do you have a comment, Secretary Mandalevo?”

“I do not.”

Arlen scribbled something down. He glanced up and said, “What’s your take on the president’s current erratic behavior?”

“I find nothing erratic about the president’s behavior. And if this is where your so-called interview is going, it’s terminated. Goodbye, Mr. Arlen.”

“Hey, let’s not—”

“I have work to do. Please leave.”

Arlen, a smile on his face, got up and walked back to the press section of the plane. Trying to put that encounter out of his mind, Mandalevo reopened his laptop and studied the files more closely. There was little new information on Richard Coffee and The Fallen Angels. He had been fully and appropriately briefed over the last year on what little was known about their remaining members and Richard Coffee. It was useful information, but probably not as political currency.

Confirming that Derek Stillwater was alive, on the other hand, if used in the proper way, could be political dynamite.

During the first U.S. encounter with The Fallen Angels, Derek Stillwater had been directly involved in a number of deaths and illegal procedures. After the conclusion of the crisis, Stillwater was placed on leave from the Department of Homeland Security pending a Justice Department and congressional investigation.

Those investigations had been ongoing when Stillwater was called in to investigate a series of domestic terror attacks in Detroit. During the resolution of the case, Stillwater was reported to have died.

Mandalevo considered the implications of Stillwater’s fake death. He gave James Johnston credit for pulling off an intelligence coup. Stillwater was undoubtedly a talented troubleshooter, though he wasn’t one to color inside the lines. But if given the correct slant, it looked as if Johnston— with the full cooperation of President Langston— had faked the death of a government agent in order to end an FBI and congressional investigation. Stillwater’s death had conveniently ended the investigations.

Stillwater was a bureaucratic problem. Although gifted in a crisis, he was an impossible political liability the rest of the time, unwilling to play by the rules.

In a lot of ways, Mandelevo didn’t really care. As the director of national intelligence he was involved in a power battle for funding and control of intelligence with the Central Intelligence Agency, the Defense Department, the National Security Agency, and the Department of Homeland Security.

He knew members of Congress who would be very interested in knowing about this— members of Congress who controlled funding for the U.S. intelligence apparatus and who were not necessarily friends of James Johnston. So, how to make good use of this information?

Mandalevo opened his laptop and began writing a carefully worded briefing to several members of the Senate Intelligence Committee.

Carl Smith strode to the middle of the parking lot of Discovery Park in Colorado Springs. This part of the park was dominated by soccer fields, their goal zone nets empty. Beyond were forested foothills crisscrossed with hiking trails and tempting views of the Rocky Mountains just above the tree line. The air smelled of coffee and donuts and mountain air and pine.

A good-sized crowd milled about, swigging coffee from biodegradable paper cups and chatting. A few early birds had lit up joints, but in general the crowd was a sober pack of free-worlders determined to save the planet from democracy, capitalism, and free trade. Quite a few eyes followed Smith’s movements, and when he raised the bullhorn to his lips, there was a swell of murmurings, then applause.

“Good morning.” Carl’s voice boomed across the parking lot. “How is everybody today?”

A cheer rose from the crowd. Dozens of people raised signs with slogans painted on them in vibrant bloody colors. Smith liked this crowd. He liked how easily manipulated they were. All they needed was a shove in the right direction and they would do the rest. The signs read things like:

G8 with a circular slash through it.
G8=PROFITS OVER PEOPLE!
DOWN WITH ECONOMIC TYRANNY! LANGSTON IS A WARMONGER!
U.S. OUT OF MIDDLE EAST!!

Half the crowd had brought plastic mop buckets and wooden spoons and banged the buckets like drums. At first it was an unorganized thud and clatter, slowly gaining momentum into a low, primitive heartbeat.
Smith noted with satisfaction that half a dozen TV cameras were taking it all in.

Smith, voice magnified by the bullhorn, said, “Are you ready for the world to hear our voices?”

“Yes!!!”

“Are you ready to show the G8 the power of the people?”

“Yes!!!”

“Are you ready to show the G8 where the real power is?”

“Yes!!!”

“ON THE BUSES!!!”

Four battered yellow school buses were lined up in the parking lot. The crowd swarmed toward them like sheep toward a slaughter chute. It took a few minutes to fill them, the TV reporters squeezing on to catch all the action— a good demonstration, violent or otherwise, was much better news than a bunch of politicians massaging each other’s egos for three days. The buses pulled out of Discovery Park and headed toward the Cheyenne Hills Resort.

In the lead bus, Carl Smith, whose given name was Carlos Santos, hung onto the shiny stainless steel pole by the door and shouted to the riders, “What do we do at the checkpoint?”

Somebody shouted, “We fuck ’em!”

“We march!” Santos shouted. “We march! They can’t stop us! We have the right to be heard! ONE VOICE!!”

A handful in the bus shouted, “ONE VOICE!”

Louder, Santos shouted, “ONE VOICE!”

Everybody this time: “ONE VOICE!”

“ONE VOICE!”

“ONE VOICE!!!”

The chant in the bus was deafening. Santos raised his fist in the air. “REVOLUTION!!!!”

The crowd roared: “REVOLUTION!!!”

Tobias Leeman watched Air Force One touch down at Peterson Air Force Base, which shared landing strips with the Colorado Springs International Airport. It was a picture-perfect landing on a clear, warm June day. When the jet slowed to a halt, six black limousines sped across the tarmac toward the plane. The airport had been shut down to commercial traffic. Only a handful of the press had been allowed in to watch the transfer. The area had been completely shut down to the public, who could not get closer than the outer perimeter.

Secret Service Agent Marilyn Ashland said, “Mr. Leeman? Ready?”

Tobias Leeman was a tall, lanky, bald man. His perpetual scowl was masked with a thick dark beard. His official title was the White House deputy national security advisor. His official title for the summit was Sherpa. Each country represented at the G8 Summit had a Sherpa, whose job it was to organize the activities of their leader. During critical negotiations, the president of the United States was only accompanied by his Sherpa and an interpreter.

Leeman would be able to communicate with his staff using the most cutting-edge tablet computers and Groove software. His task, besides organizing the event, was as the principal policy analyst. Directly beneath him was a pair of sous-Sherpas, one representing the U.S. interests in finance and the other in foreign affairs. In this case, the secretary of commerce and the deputy secretary of state.

Leeman chewed on his lower lip. “Give them a few minutes.” He glanced over to where the press waited like jackals at a watering hole. He slapped his cellular phone to his ear and growled, “Ed? How’re we doing?”

Edward Fanconi was the deputy United States chief of protocol, and it was his duty to welcome the leaders of the other countries, perform
an arrival ceremony, and shepherd the leaders to a brief ceremony led by President Langston.

Fanconi’s deep, careful voice boomed through the telephone. “It’s a fucking nightmare, Tobey. The goddamned Saudi contingent refuses to land after the Israeli contingent and the Israelis, good God, they—”

“AF1 just landed.”

“Thank God. I’m juggling, trying to make everybody happy. I hope—”

“Gotta go, Ed. Balls to the wall.”

Leeman hung up and cocked his head at Special Agent Ashland, a middle-aged woman with high cheekbones, pure white hair she wore to her shoulders, and a strong, determined jaw. “It’s showtime.”

Lauren McCullough knocked on the door to President Langston’s quarters on Air Force One and stepped in. “Ready, Mr. President?”