The Devil's Pitchfork (28 page)

Derek didn’t move. Nadia? Nadia was Irina?
Was that why Ling kept referring to her as the one you call Irina?
A sense of horror crept over him as he stared into the barrel of Coffee’s gun, realizing what a knife-edge he had been blindly walking. If Coffee confirmed it, then someone named Irina Khournikova—the real Irina Khournikova?—was being held at FBI Headquarters. They weren’t holding the woman he referred to as Nadia because Nadia, who had been posing at Irina Khournikova, was dead. He had tortured her to death. But who was the real Irina Khournikova?

Derek expected Coffee to gun him down right here. He saw the mad light in his eyes, the way his finger pressed on the trigger.

Then Coffee laughed, a wild, joyous burst of laughter. He put the gun down, spinning it on his finger like a gunslinger and slipping it into his holster. “C’mon, man. Get dressed. Time to give you a tour of the facility. You’re gonna love it.”

Derek carefully got dressed. Carefully, because the acupuncture needle he had palmed from the table was inserted in the waist of the scrub pants.

42

Rock Creek Park

A
ARON
P
ILCHER SHOWED HIS
ID badge to the cops who had cordoned off the parking lot near the park. The cop directed him to park his car to one side. Pilcher did so, climbing slowly out of the car, his energy nearly gone. His body was once again soaked in sweat from his nightmarish trip through the White House, fear and stress leaching from his pores. He would have to take a break soon, get a couple hours of sleep, but first Spigotta had told him to run over here, check on things. There were reports of shootings and then an explosion...

What he saw was the burning wreckage of two vehicles and a helicopter. The area was lit up in flashing red and blue and white. The stench of burning fuel permeated the air. Heat baked off the wreckage. Half a dozen police cars, two fire trucks, a swarm of firemen and cops. He gaped at the helicopter. Was it...?

He looked around for the person in charge and located a bulky man shouting through a bullhorn at rescue workers. Pilcher strode over, ID ready. He introduced himself. The man’s jacket indicated he was with the fire department. He glanced at the ID and said, “Probably need NTSB, too. Looks like somebody shot down a Coast Guard helicopter. Blew up a couple trucks. There’s a two dead guys, too. One over there and one over...”

 Pilcher didn’t wait around. He jogged over to the first body, which was being guarded by a uniformed cop, waiting for detectives or M.E. people to arrive. Pilcher flashed his badge again and took a look. The guy looked military. Maybe it was just the haircut, short on the sides, the old whitewalls. And not familiar.

“Any ID?”

“Waiting for the detectives. I’m not touching the body.”

Pilcher frowned, glanced tiredly at his borrowed watch, then hurried over to the other body, lying near the woods. The female cop guarding this body placed her hand on her weapon as he approached. He slowed down, keeping his badge up.

He took one look at the body. “Shit,” he said.

“Do you recognize him, sir? He looks familiar to me.”

“He should. Shit.”

Pilcher flipped out his cell phone and punched in Spigotta’s direct number. On one ring Spigotta snarled, “What is it now?”

“It’s Aaron. This accident site? There’re two dead bodies in the area. One’s unknown. The other’s Dalton.”

There was silence on the line, then, “Fucking dead, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Well kick the motherfucking corpse for me, Aaron. Who killed him? I’ll pin a medal on his goddamned chest.”

“I don’t know. We’ve got two burning SUVs and, uh ... a downed Coast Guard helicopter. It looks like the one that was shuttling Stillwater around.”

“Survivors?”

“I don’t know.” He looked over at the crumpled and blackened helicopter. A firetruck was pouring foam on the wreckage. “I don’t think so, though.”

There was uncharacteristic silence on the line. Finally Spigotta said, “Is there anything you can do there, Aaron?”

Pilcher hesitated. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted anything to do with the interrogation of Irina Khournikova. “I need to spend a little more time here.”

“Fine. But get back here ASAP.”

“Sure.”

Pilcher nodded, took a moment to absorb the scene. As he did, somebody shouted, “I found someone!”

He spun on his heels toward the voice. A number of EMTs and firemen rushed toward the edge of the woods. He sprinted after them. Heat radiated off the burning helicopter, like standing at the gates of hell. He elbowed his way through the crowd to find two EMTs kneeling next to the crumpled figure of a woman in a Coast Guard flight suit.

“She’s alive,” one of them said. “Leg might be broken, shoulder ... ribs ... but she’s breathing.”

The crowd stepped back as someone brought in a stretcher. The EMTs deftly eased her onto the stretcher and attached a bag of saline. When the needle went in her arm she opened her eyes. The EMTs placed an oxygen bottle over her mouth, but she said something.

“What did she say?” Pilcher shouted, barely heard over the sound of the trucks and the crowd and the fires. “What did she say?”

“Who’re you?”

“FBI. This has to do with the attack at the White House. What did she say?” He pushed his way to the side of the gurney and looked at the woman. The scorched name tag on her flight suit said C. Black. He said, “What did you say?”

She looked confused, blinked, closed her eyes. Then: “Crew?”

Pilcher said, “How many were in your crew?”

“Two,” she said, barely audible.

Pilcher looked up at one of the firemen who shook his head, gesturing toward the helicopter. “Was there anyone else?” Pilcher asked.

“We’ve really got to get her to a hospital,” the EMT said.

“Was there anyone else?” Pilcher asked.

Cynthia Black opened her eyes for a moment, said, “Stillwater...”

“Derek Stillwater?”

“They ... they caught him.” Then she was silent. The EMTs rushed her out of the crowd toward a waiting ambulance.

They caught him
, he thought.
They?

He looked around the parking lot. At the two trucks that looked like they’d been hit by rockets. At the two dead men, including Sam Dalton. At the crashed helicopter with its two dead crewmen and the pilot who had miraculously survived the crash and resulting explosion.

They
caught
him
, he thought.

Deep in thought, he walked slowly away from the flaming chopper toward his car. He stood at his car for a minute, looking around, wondering who
they
were. Wondering who had killed Sam Dalton. He shook himself, thinking it through. Thinking about his gut reaction to Derek Stillwater.

He climbed in his car and followed the ambulance to Walter Reed. He wanted to be there when—and if—the pilot of the Coast Guard helicopter woke up.

43

The Fallen Angel’s Headquarters

D
EREK STAGGERED DOWN THE
two metal steps of the medical trailer after Richard Coffee, sinking to his knees on the hard pavement. Coffee turned to look at him, a speculative look on his face. “Bad day, huh?”

Derek struggled to his feet. “You might say that.”

“Sorry,” Coffee said. “I never thought you’d be the one coming after me. Dalton told me it would be a possibility, but he’d try to keep you off it.”

Derek stood and tried to catch his breath. The world was gray around the edges and he felt weak. His stomach roiled and churned, his wounds ached and his head pounded. “You thought you could trust Dalton?” he panted. “You’re dumber than I thought you were.”

Coffee’s backhand to Derek’s face lifted him off his feet and slammed him to the pavement. Derek looked up again into the black maw of Coffee’s handgun. “I have very little reason to keep you alive, Derek. Don’t give me more reasons to kill you now.”

Derek held his hands out to his side. Blood trickled down his chin. He waited.

Coffee put his gun away and held out a hand. Derek stared at the extended hand for a moment, then took it and let Coffee assist him to his feet. Coffee patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry about that. Been under a lot of stress. Had to give a death order for my wife, you know.” The way he said it was jovial. “Hey, that reminds me,” he said. “Whatever happened to that woman you were dating, that doctor. What was here name? Simona, right? Whatever happened to her?”

Coffee led him toward the double-wide trailer with the complicated ventilation system. Derek was pretty sure he knew what was there and was pretty sure he didn’t want to go in. And equally sure that he didn’t have much choice in the matter.

“I married her,” he said. “Then we got divorced.”

“Didn’t have to have her killed though, huh?”

Derek couldn’t read Coffee’s expression. Bi-polar didn’t quite cover the mood swings. Bi-polar with delusions of grandeur and psychotic breaks might
start
to describe Richard Coffee.

“No,” Derek said. “I didn’t. And neither did you. You could have trusted her to keep her mouth shut if she was so loyal to you.”

“Did you tell the truth, Derek? Did Ling get to you?”

Derek didn’t reply. Because in truth, he had not told the truth. Would he have if Ling had a few more hours or another day or two? You bet.

“Dalton. Irina. I’m not sure it’s safe being on your team, Richard.”

“Sacrifices sometimes have to be made. Nadia would understand.”

“Who’s Nadia?”

Surprise and confusion mixed with a considering expression flashed across Coffee’s face. “Her real name is Nadia,” he finally said. “Nadia Kosov.”

“Then who is Irina Khournikova?”

“The real Irina Khournikova?”

Derek nodded.

“A huntress,” Coffee said. “A nemesis. A stalker. A vigilante. Someone who wants me dead.”

“President of your fan club, right?”

“You might say that,” Coffee said.

Derek didn’t know who was being held at FBI HQ. It was, like about a million other things, out of his range of understanding. What he did understand was that Richard Coffee was nuts and that he had stolen Chimera M13 and he and his band of merry men intended to use it. He also understood that while he was still alive it was his responsibility to try and stop that from happening. Even if he died doing it. And of course, if he lived and The Fallen Angels succeeded in releasing the bug, he’d probably die anyway.

He didn’t know if he could kill Coffee right here. Coffee had not been tortured for the last hour or two, been shot twice or in general had a shitty day. If Derek jumped him it was likely that he, Derek, would end up dead and Coffee and his Fallen Angels would go about their business as planned. Even if he did managed to kill Coffee, he didn’t know if that would stop the plan from going into affect.

He was inside the circle. He was alive. That was probably more than anybody at DHS could ask for.

“What are you planning on doing?” Derek asked.

“I’ll show you.”

“I’d just as soon skip the show-part of show-and-tell. Why don’t you just tell me.”

Coffee turned and for a moment Derek thought he was going to get a fist in the face again. Instead Coffee laughed and said, “You’re not calling the shots today, Derek. I don’t owe you. I’m not glad you’re here, but who knows? Maybe you’ll be useful. Lee might be able to use your expertise ... or something.”

“Kim Pak Lee?” Derek said.

Coffee turned again. “You know him?”

“Irina ... Nadia showed me his dossier. Is he growing Chimera?”

“Indeed he is.”

“Are you going to sell it?”

Coffee snorted and stopped in front of the entrance to the double-wide. “Money is going to be a thing of the past, Derek. Get used to the idea.”

“Why? Why release the bug?”

Coffee smiled. “Because somebody’s going to eventually, Derek. Why not now? Why not me?”

“This isn’t Mount Everest. You don’t have to do it just because it’s there.”

In a conspiratorial whisper Coffee said, “I’m doing it because I can, Derek. Simply because I can. Haven’t you ever wanted to dance on the grave of the world?”

“Not literally.”

“Well I’m going to.” He pointed to the entrance of the double-wide. “Time to see how Lee’s doing.”

Derek felt his heart rate accelerate. He didn’t want to go into the double-wide trailer. It was a laboratory. Probably some sort of jury-rigged Level IV containment facility. Dr. Kim Pak Lee was inside in some sort of spacesuit growing Chimera. There was only death inside the trailer.

Derek walked through the doors, swallowing back bile.

It was an airlock, of sorts. A small anteroom with a double sealed door and a key pad. Coffee punched four digits into the pad and said, “Steel reinforced.” The lock clicked and he opened the door, ushering Derek inside.

The next room, also small, was a locker room. Coffee said, “You’re dressed fine. I’m stripping down. Don’t try anything funny, Derek. I’m still armed.”

“Where would I go?”

“You and I both know that if you kill me a major part of your mission would be accomplished.”

Keeping the gun aimed, Coffee kicked off his boots, slid off his jacket and stripped down to his underwear, removing a pair of scrubs from one of four metal lockers. Awkwardly, but still keeping the gun ready, he pulled on the clothes. Derek did nothing, just waited.

They passed through another sealed door, having to push against a suction of air. This room was flooded with purple UV light. The spacesuits hung on hooks. Derek frowned. He wondered if the suits hung in the light 24/7. UV broke down most synthetic materials. It was okay to expose the spacesuits to UV for a limited amount of time to kill microorganisms, but around the clock exposure would cause the spacesuits to deteriorate prematurely. Small holes and tears, shredding ... it was a good way to end up dead in a hot zone.

Coffee began to awkwardly slip into a spacesuit.

“Do I get one?” Derek asked.

“Sorry. Why bother?”

Derek felt light-headed. His worst nightmare. Naked in a hot zone. He clenched his fists, trying to stop them from trembling.