The Devil's Pitchfork

21

On top of the building Derek shook himself awake, “No,” on his lips. He moved stiffly, ruefully thinking that he should have kept moving, not taken a break here out in the night air. He willed away his memories of his recruitment, of the complexities of the anthrax case, of his own frustration with the lack of communication between the investigating agencies and his vocal complaints to General Johnston that what Homeland Security needed were troubleshooters who could work inside or outside the existing bureaucracies. Someone, he had written in a now-famous memo, “to evaluate, coordinate and investigate” in a fluid, non-bureaucratic fashion. And how he had calmly, unthinkingly, braided the noose into which he would shove his own neck.

Derek tested his side and struggled to his feet. He moved cautiously across the roof to the room containing the elevator housing for the building. The steel door was locked. Of course, he thought, leaning against the concrete block of the squat outcropping. Anything else would be just too damned easy.

The door was designed to give access to the roof. He crouched by the door and examined the lock in the poor light. He could hear sirens below him. He wished he had his GO-Packs with him. One of the tools he carried was a power rake, a noisy but effective electric lock pick.

He pulled off his belt, which was a money belt. He unzipped the compartment. Along with several hundred dollars in cash, he kept the basics of a set of lock picks, a tiny flashlight, a steel match to start a fire if need be, and a narrow piece of steel that could be used to either ’loid a lock in lieu of wrecking a credit card or, in a pinch, be used as a tiny knife or screwdriver. He took out the picks and went to work on the lock. Within ten minutes he was inside the building and looking for an empty apartment.

The first four apartments were occupied. He muttered, “Hey, is this Jimmy Ray’s place,” to irritated residents. God only knew what they thought of him. It didn’t matter becase they never opened their doors, just hollered through them.

When there was no response at the fifth door he went after the lock with the picks and was inside within two minutes. He did a quick recon to assure himself nobody was home, then made for the telephone in the kitchen. He dialed James Johnston’s office and got the voice mail. He left a message and tried Sam Dalton’s number. Voice mail again.

Puzzled, he couldn’t imagine that either man had just gone home during this crisis. He had Dalton’s cell phone, and was again transferred to voice mail. He left a tense message indicating he’d be out of touch for a while, and hung up.

Now what?

The apartment was similar to the one belonging to Irina Khournikova. Two tiny bedrooms, a bath, a kitchen dining room combination. Based on photographs on the wall the residents were an older couple.

He ran through a list of people who might be able to help him, thought of Aaron Pilcher and tried that number again. Busy. His gaze fell on his hand. There was a phone number scrawled on the palm. He grinned. Well… why not?

Twenty minutes later the coast guard helicopter was hovering over the roof of the building. A rope dropped about twenty feet from the hatch. Derek had spent the time lurking in the shadows, waiting for the Tylenol he’d stolen from the apartment to take effect. He sprinted out from hiding and strapped the harness around his chest. In moments he was being helped into the chopper by the Texan. “This is a little bit irregular,” he said.

“But much appreciated.”

“There are a couple TV choppers heading in,” said Cynthia Black, the pilot. “Let’s get out of here.”

Derek gave a thumb’s-up and the chopper roared away. He wondered what the local cops were thinking. Through the helicopter’s windows Derek looked at the Washington Monument jutting upward from the base of the mall.

Black said, “It would probably be a good idea if you tell us what’s going on. We’re going to have to eventually justify using the chopper as a taxi.”

Derek leaned forward and groaned. “You got a first aid kit here, by any chance?”

The Texan nodded. Derek pulled off his windbreaker and gingerly peeled the blood soaked shirt away from his ribs, grimacing. “I need some help here.”

“You need a doctor.”

“Later… but… you could set me down at Walter Reed. My truck and gear’s hopefully still over there.”

Cynthia Black repeated herself. “We need to know what’s going on.”

As the Texan cleaned and bandaged Derek’s wound, Derek considered her request, if that’s what it was. “I can’t tell you everything because your security clearance isn’t high enough.”

That got their attention. “But let’s put it this way,” he continued. “I’m tracking a terrorist organization. I’m part of Homeland Security. You’re part of Homeland Security. I answer directly to Secretary Johnston. Therefore, I outrank you in every way. As of right now, you work for me. My military rank was Colonel. So I outrank you in that way, as well. Are there any questions?”

Cindy Black met his gaze and shook her head. “No sir. But I will need to notify my commander.”

“Fine. Tell them you’re working directly for Secretary Johnston. We’ve got a mission. Suffice it to say, it’s probably one of the most important missions you’ll ever undertake. Take it seriously.”

22

It took agent Aaron Pilcher almost an hour to race from the U.S. Immuno facility to Washington, D.C., spending most of it on his cell phone shouting orders. When he finally reached the address Derek Stillwater had given him, he realized instantly that something had gone wrong. Although there were FBI vehicles, most importantly an ERT van, there were also half a dozen D.C. police vehicles. Shit, he thought. How did they get involved?

He climbed out of his Ford Taurus, badge hung on a laniard around his neck. Simultaneously he was approached by a uniformed D.C. cop and an FBI agent in a three-piece suit.

“Sir,” the cop began, “this is a crime scene—”

”He’s with us,” the agent said, identifying himself as Agent Ron Tittaglia. “Agent Pilcher, your line’s been busy. We’ve got a situation here.”

Pilcher sighed. He glanced at the cop. “I’ll get with you in a minute.”

The cop, a middle-aged guy with flinty gray eyes and gray sideburns, hesitated. Pilcher raised his badge. “FBI. National security. Shoo!”

With a sneeze that sounded an awful lot like a muffled “fuck you,” the cop went off to inform his superiors that another federal pain-in-the-ass was here to muck things up.

Pilcher turned back to Tittaglia. “What’s going on?”

“When the ERT team and my group showed up this place was swarming with local cops. Seems some doctor from Walter Reed got shot a couple hours ago.”

“Here?”

“No, over on 19^th, by Reed. Name was Austin Davis.” Tittaglia took a deep breath, organizing his thoughts. He was short and wiry with curly graying hair and a bristly mustache.

“So—”

”They got witnesses who saw the shooting. Saw some guy they think might be a Derek Stillwater jump into a Chevy Blazer during or after the shooting and disappear. He was supposedly meeting Davis at a local pub, Jimmy’s. One of the wits got the plate number on the Blazer.”

“Do they think Stillwater shot this doctor?” Pilcher asked, glancing around at the cops. He saw a couple he thought were detectives talking earnestly to the uniform he had blown off. It was only a matter of time before he got hauled into this and he wanted to see the scene first.

“Not as far as the D.C. cops can tell,” Tittagia said.

“Good. Tell me as we go to the scene.”

Tittaglia led him toward the entrance. “The D.C. cops would gladly pin Davis’s death on Stillwater right now, but they claim he’s just a witness. They got a real reliable witness who said it looked like Stillwater was being bracketed after the doc got popped.”

“Jesus, what did he grab hold of?”

“Who?”

“Stillwater. He’s with Homeland Security. One of those troubleshooters.”

Tittaglia led him up the stairs. “No shit?”

“No shit. He called in the scene here. So why do the cops—”

”The two patrol guys found Stillwater in that Chevy Blazer. They had a BOLO on the plates. When they tried to take him in for questioning he resisted arrest. One of the patrols has a sprained wrist and a broken jaw from where Stillwater kicked him when he jumped over the truck.”

Pilcher stopped on the second floor landing and focused his gaze on Tittaglia. “He jumped over the Blazer?”

“Well,” Tittaglia said with a shrug. “Over the hood of the Blazer. To listen to these cops talk, Stillwater was Superman or something. One drew down on him and the other was trying to take Stillwater’s gun when he overpowered them and ran. One chased him, but he went over a fence and disappeared. They shot at him and it looks like they hit him. There’s a blood trail, but it disappears.”

“They think somebody picked him up?”

They continued climbing the stairs. Tittaglia shrugged again. “Either somebody picked him up or he ducked into a phone booth and used his cape to fly away. They sent out a bunch of cops looking, but he’s gone.”

“Okay. I’ll think about that later. What about the scene, the apartment. Is it secure?”

Tittaglia gestured to the third-floor doorway. “Yeah, secure. This is our terrorist hit, right? It got a name yet?”

“Nobody’s told me. It’ll be something like Project Bloodstream or something.”

“Sure,” Tittaglia said. “Anyway, the ERTs headed up here right away while the rest of us screwed around with the D.C. cops, pissing over turf. They didn’t come up here. Good thing, too. This is a major clusterfuck. Even knowing what’s going on, well, sort of knowing what’s going on, I gotta say this looks bad. If the locals tied this apartment to Stillwater, they’d turn it into a massive man hunt. He is Homeland, right?”

Pilcher and Tittaglia stopped outside the doorway to apartment 302. Pilcher squinted, cocking his head at the agent. “He is. An expert on biowarfare. He told me there’s a witness whose fingerprints we—”

”We got ‘em. Had ‘em rushed over to the lab ASAP. They’re running them now.”

“Fine. What did she—”

He stepped into the room and froze, his heart sinking. He should have put it together. Tittaglia had all but shouted it in his face.

“Your witness is dead,” Tittaglia said. “And it looks like Stillwater tortured her to death.”

Pilcher stared at the mess in apartment 302, trying to get a handle on what he was seeing. Wondering, even more strongly than he had before, what the deal was with Derek Stillwater. At U.S. Immuno and later at the Scully house he hadn’t acted much like an investigator. He had acted like a man seeing his worst nightmares come to life. Pilcher frowned over Spigotta’s comment that the USAMRIID people who knew Stillwater thought he had seen too much, that he was flaky.

Flaky, he thought.

The table and chairs had been overturned as if during a fight. Three living room lamps had been dumped on the floor, their cords torn out of the bases. A dead woman lay neatly on the kitchen floor. Too neatly. She lay on her back, arms by her side. There were marks on her wrists that suggested they had been bound with the lamp cords. Probably the legs, too, though the cords were now tossed carelessly in the corner. A clear plastic freezer bag was crumpled next to the cords and a cellular phone that appeared to be broken in three pieces. Pilcher thought it was Stillwater’s.

What happened here?!

The person in charge of this ERT team was a no-nonsense woman with black hair cut so short she was almost bald. She stood eye-to-eye with Pilcher and said, “We’ll have to get the local M.E. to do a post — that’s not our deal, as you know. My guess is she was tied to one of those chairs with the light cords. Somebody used the plastic bag to suffocate her, torture her, maybe, into talking.”

“You think she did?”

The tech stared at him. “I don’t know. But she died from it. And I can’t be sure, but I’ve got to wonder why if she died and her killer planned it that way, why he untied her and laid her out like this, unless it’s positioning, you know, like some sexual serial killers do? Posing their victims’ bodies? But this doesn’t feel like that to me. I may be reading too much into it. This is our terrorist thing, you said.”

“Yeah. The guy here was following a lead of some sort.”

“Yeah. The files, I bet.” She pointed to a series of manila folders now in clear evidence bags.

“Can I look?”

“Wear gloves.”

Pilcher took the files, donned rubber gloves and flipped through the evidence, frowning. Lots of photographs, but he didn’t like them. Something about the files, the excellent photographs but sketchy documentation in Russian. It struck him as being wrong. Too much of one type of information, not enough of another. He wasn’t sure what or why, but they made him suspicious. He wondered if they had made Stillwater suspicious.

Another tech walked past him carrying a computer. “We’ll tear it apart in the lab.”

“Good,” the head tech said. “Notice anything weird?”

“Yeah,” the tech said. “No phones.”

Pilcher looked up from the file. “What?”

“There’s no telephone in this apartment. The computer had a cable modem, the TV has cable. There’s almost no clothes in the closets, just a bed, the desk, computer, a few files — the ones you’ve got. Bathroom’s got a few toiletries and the kitchen’s pretty well stocked. But no phones.”

“She have a phone on her?”

“No.”

Pilcher turned his gaze to the broken cell phone on the floor. Stillwater had called him. From where?

He took out his own cellular phone and started clicking on the menu, checking his calling history, remembering the order of the calls he had made after receiving Stillwater’s two phone calls: the one about the apartment where he had told him about Irina Khournikova and the second one a while later that had been interrupted by the cops. The first call had been from Stillwater’s cell phone. The second call, though, had been placed from a different number. He jotted the number in his notebook, then dialed it from his cell phone.

The number rang and rang, but no one answered. Dammit, Stillwater! Where the hell are you?

Pilcher left the building and stood at the entryway, feeling the weight of the last nine hours on his shoulders. The night was warm with a light breeze, only a hint of smog. A pleasant night, not the type of night one would associate with such evil. Above him circled three or four helicopters, news TV he assumed.

“You the head FBI guy?”

Pilcher turned to face a broad-shouldered man in a trench coat. He displayed his badge identifying himself as Detective Christopher Flemming. Pilcher’s own I.D. still hung around his neck.

“I’m not in charge of this particular scene,” Pilcher said carefully.

“That would be Tittaglia,” Flemming said. “But you’re his boss.”

Pilcher nodded. “Sort of. What can I do for you, Detective?”

“You can tell me what this is all about.” Flemming kept his hands in his pockets but his expression was watchful.

Pilcher came off the steps and locked eyes with the detective. “You’re familiar with the attack in Baltimore?”

“Sure. We get Homeland’s bulletins, too. Code Red. Might even mean something for a change. This Stillwater one of them?”

Pilcher shook his head. “No. He’s a special investigator for the Department of Homeland Security. He’s at least a step or two closer to these bad guys—”

”He is a bad guy, Pilcher. He busted the jaw of a cop. He resisted arrest. He’s a material witness and a possible suspect in a homicide. We want him. He’s ours.”

Pilcher started to protest, but stopped. He changed tack. “Who was Austin Davis?”

“You tell me. He a terrorist?”

Pilcher shrugged. He needed information, not this crap. “I was told Austin Davis was a physician at Walter Reed. Is he military?”

Flemming scowled. “Was. Served in the Army in the Gulf War. He’s been a civilian since ‘92.”

There’s the connection, Pilcher thought. His gaze took in the remaining onlookers. Overhead at least two helicopters continued to circle.

Flemming said, “What’s going on upstairs?”

“Nothing to concern you.”

“If it’s a murder up there it’s our jurisdiction. If it’s in any way related to this Derek Stillwater, it’s our jurisdiction.”

Pilcher gave Flemming a flat stare. “It’s not going to happen, so don’t bother asking. File the paper if you have to, but that apartment is ours, end of story.”

Flemming started to protest, but apparently decided to save his breath. “This Stillwater, what can you tell me about him?”

Pilcher said, “Nothing. I can’t tell you shit. And you’re wasting my time. When Superman Stillwater took his amazing leap over the truck, managing to overpower two armed cops at the same time, which way did he go before he disappeared?”

Flemming glared at him. “What’s Stillwater do for Homeland? Some kind of spook?”

“Which way did he go, Detective?”

Flemming shook his head. “You tell me something and I’ll tell you something.”

Pilcher wanted to scream. “Fine,” he said through clenched teeth. “He’s an expert on biological and chemical warfare.”

Flemming’s eyes grew wide. “So this attack in Baltimore—”

”Hey, you’re catching on. Which way did he go?”

Flemming pointed.

Leaving the detective behind, Pilcher retrieved a big Mag Lite from the Ford Taurus and headed into the alleyway. The far end was blocked by a tall wooden gate. He aimed the flash toward the ground, saw what might have been dots of drying blood. He followed it to the fence. Impatient, he pulled out his cellular and punched in the number of Stillwater’s last known phone. He listened. Nothing. He shut off the phone and, with a sigh, pulled himself over the fence and dropped down on the other side. Pilcher, bending to the ground, found more of the blood trail, drips maybe six, seven feet apart. Stillwater hadn’t been bleeding in a way that seemed fatal and he had probably been moving fast. Did he have a vehicle around here? After he’d been picked up by the Coast Guard at the Scully house Pilcher had no idea how the troubleshooter had been getting around.

Pilcher followed the blood, but lost it after twenty or thirty yards. Stillwater might have stopped bleeding or might have jumped into a car and sped away. He couldn’t tell.

He tried the cell phone number again, straining his ears to hear the ring. He raised his eyebrows. Was that…?

He followed the faint sound of the cellular phone ringing, growing louder as he approached another alley about one building down from the dead woman’s apartment. Slowly he stepped into the dark corridor. The sound of the phone was loud. He scanned the flashlight beam around. There was movement in the debris and a large black rat scuttled out, eyes glittering in the light before moving further into the shadows.

There!

Pilcher shut off his phone and the electronic buzzing stopped. There was no sign of Stillwater except a black cell phone in a pile of debris next to the gray stone wall of the building. He picked up the phone and carefully dropped it into his jacket pocket.

He felt conflicted. He had the phone. The phone was evidence. The phone was a direct link to the terrorists. He needed to get it to the lab as fast as possible and start a team of agents tracking down any calls that had gone out or come into the phone.

But what about Stillwater? Despite the fact the two men were from different agencies, Pilcher had recognized something in the man, a kindred spirit, someone who wasn’t interested in climbing the political or corporate ladder, in currying favor or kissing ass. Stillwater just wanted to get the job done.

Pilcher thought of his daughters. Whenever his energy flagged on the job he thought about his children and his wife, reminded himself that he was protecting them, creating a country, a world even, for them to live in safely. America… Americans… was too big a concept. Too ephemeral, too abstract. But he would fight for his children.

He decided to give the search for Stillwater ten more minutes, then rush the phone back to the lab.

So…

Where had Stillwater gone?

The alley was dark, dirty, the pavement slick with grime and grease and God-knows-what. There was a rotting food odor that seemed to rise up from the pavement. A rusted green Dumpster halfway down the alley spewed garbage — the rat’s home, no doubt. He flashed his light in the Dumpster, just in case, but saw only garbage. He was sure the cops would have, too.

He gazed upward, taking in the lit windows. Rooms with a view, windows looking nowhere. The lower windows were barred, not uncommon in a major city, but something that made Pilcher feel like a failure as a law enforcement officer. The bad guys should be behind bars, not the good guys.

His eyes lingered on the rungs of the fire escape ladder dangling a good four or five feet above his head. There was no way Stillwater, injured or not, could have jumped and snagged the ladder. Unless…

He stepped close to the nearest window and shined his light on the bars and the recessed concrete pane they were set into.

There. A smear of blood.

Glad for his regular workouts, Pilcher clambered up on the window sill, looking over to realize the bottom rung of the fire escape ladder was now neck level. He reached out, caught the bars and pulled himself up. To the top, he thought. That’s where Stillwater is. On top of the damned building.

He began the long climb up fire escape.

He was coming to the end of his ten minutes when he pulled himself over the ledge and onto the roof of the building. He shined the flash around and quickly recognized a small puddle of blood on the tarred roof. No drops. A puddle. It was hard to evaluate from blood, but Stillwater’s wound had been more than a scratch.

Blood, but no Stillwater.

He paced around, looking for him, but he wasn’t on the roof. Pilcher approached the elevator housing, a concrete and steel box in the center of the roof. There was a steel door and it was open. He let himself in. No Stillwater. Had he been here? Had he let himself into the building and walked out the front door while the cops were searching for him?

Pilcher checked his watch and decided he had to get going. He reminded himself as he let entered the building and descended to the main floor to not underestimate Stillwater. The man would get hold of him when he could.

But right now Pilcher had to get this dead woman’s cell phone to the lab.

23

Liz Vargas opened her eyes, then promptly closed them. She waited, eyes shut, listening. This is a nightmare, she thought. A very bad dream of the worst sort. I am going to wake up. I am in my own bed. I will get out of bed, take a shower, have a bagel and coffee, then drive to work.

She opened her eyes.

On a chair next to the bed she was lying on sat a figure in a blue spacesuit. Through the faceplate Liz recognized Sharon Jaxon.

The room looked remarkably similar to a hospital room. There was a TV on the wall, a hospital bed, a couch, chair and one of those wheeled tray-tables that only exist in hospitals.

A curtain hung over the window, but Liz was certain the window looked out over some observation area of The Slammer. The outer walls of The Slammer, she knew, would be like those of the Hot Zone, designed to keep lethal microorganisms inside.

Sharon Jaxon reached out and pinched off her oxygen hose to stop the roaring inside her suit. “How are you feeling?”

Propped on a pillow, Liz had to think about it. She was tired. That was understandable. It had been a totally hellish day. Long and stressful did not even begin to describe it. But aside from the fatigue? Well…

“I’m scared,” she said.

Jaxon’s helmet bobbed as she nodded. She reached out and patted Liz’s arm. “We’re going to make a decision in five hours whether to inoculate you with one of the early Chimeras. We’re running hourly antibody screens on the monkeys. In the meantime, we want to give you some anti-virals, but we wanted your opinion on which ones are the best bet.”

Liz struggled to a sitting position. “How long? How long have I been unconscious?”

“About fifteen minutes. Not long.”

Liz felt herself calm slightly. She had Chimera M13 in her system. Chimera was an astonishingly fast-acting virus, closer in reaction time to the effects of Salmonella or Botulism than a typical virus. It wasn’t something they had specifically designed for when they created the bug. There were arguments against a fast biological weapon. Some epidemiologists felt that bugs with rapid spread — and that killed their hosts — tended to burn themselves out. The spread of their infection, in other words, was faster than the travel velocity of its host. These scientists argued that this was why Ebola hadn’t run completely amuck and killed off Africa during the last two outbreaks in Zaire and Cameroon.

It was why smallpox, with a ten to fourteen-day incubation period was so lethal. During the infectious period the patient, not knowing they were infected, exposed a potentially higher number of people. Same thing with HIV, only worse.

The counter-argument was that a bug like Chimera could wipe out a vast population exactly because it acted so quickly.

Nobody knew which was true. Until Chimera hit the population, scientists could only guess.

“We didn’t try any anti-virals on Chimera,” Liz said, feeling hope flood her body like a warm drink.

“Colonel Zataki’s in Washington,” Jaxon said. “I got him on the phone just before he went into the briefing and he suggested we try Acyclovir, Ritonavir, Ribaviran and Pleconaril. Or any combination. What’s your opinion?”

“Briefing?” Liz realized she was distracted, that she should be concentrating on her treatment, but her brain, like a three-year-old’s, was looking for distraction. She was thinking, There is no cure, don’t you understand? I’m going to die and I’m going to die soon and it is going to be horrible.

Jaxon said, “He’s briefing the White House personally. He decided the aides they’d sent over weren’t smart enough to get it right. Plus the President called and told him to be there.”

“That would probably be a factor.”

Jaxon smiled. “Yeah. Liz… the anti-virals.”

“Why not all four?”

“I’ll check to see what the cross-reactions are. I’ll be back.”

“Did you ask Frank Halloran? He’d probably have an opinion.”

Sharon Jaxon shuffled out of the room without answering, the door closing behind her with a sucking sound. Liz sighed, trying to think, but couldn’t. Her brain would not work. All she could think was, I am going to die.

24

Secretary James Johnston settled into his chair at the long conference table and took a sip from the water glass by his spot, using the drink as an opportunity to inspect the people who had already arrived. The President wasn’t there yet, no surprise. The attorney general was — she would be chairing things — as were the Joint Chiefs, the director of the CDC and the director of Health and Human Services. He recognized Dr. Daniel Zataki from USAMRIID and was surprised. He had been under the impression Zataki wouldn’t be there. He hoped his presence didn’t indicate an even uglier turn of events.

There were a dozen representatives from various emergency response units, the director of FEMA and a handful of civilians he suspected were from the National Science Counsel. He wasn’t wild about that. In his years in the military he’d hated dealing with scientists. Ask five scientists the same question, you were likely to get five different answers. He remembered during the Gulf War asking his scientific advisors what the most dangerous biological or chemical agent Iraq might use on the Coalition troops.

One had said anthrax.

Another confidently claimed botulin toxin.

Yet another said VX gas.

The fourth asserted smallpox.

Exasperated, Johnston had turned to Derek Stillwater, who, at that time a captain, had not offered an opinion.

“Well, Captain?”

Derek had said, “Whichever one they use, General. The one they use, that’s the most dangerous one to the Coalition troops.”

Johnston had decided on the spot that this Captain was worth keeping around.

In the White House conference room, Johnston glanced at his watch and wondered how things were going for Stillwater. He also wondered why he hadn’t heard from Sam Dalton, his Deputy Director.

After Stillwater’s last contact and the information regarding Richard Coffee, Dalton had made a few calls to the CIA and the Pentagon to try and shake loose a few more hard facts. None had been immediately forthcoming, so Johnston, exasperated, had suggested Dalton head over to the Pentagon or to Langley and do the shaking in person. “Put the full weight of the White House behind it, goddammit.”

He hadn’t heard from Dalton since. Or Stillwater.

The door opened and everyone in the room rose to their feet as the President of the United States entered, followed by the National Security Adviser, the director of the FBI and the director of the CIA. This was, thought Johnston, as top level a meeting as you could get. Except, he added with a frown, the director of the Department of Homeland Security had not been included in this tet-a-tet. His and the President’s meeting had been face-to-face an hour ago and it had been as frank and politics-free as it was possible to get. He hoped the President listened to him. If he did, he thought, it would be a first time. He had told the President that he shouldn’t wait for this bug to get lose, that he should act as if it already was. Don’t worry about a panic, he had counseled. Act as if there’s a possibility that a lethal virus with a twelve-hour incubation period has been let loose on the American public. Then act accordingly.

Johnston did not think President Langston would listen. His appointment to the post of Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security had been a political maneuver to appease members of the Republican Party who feared that Langston’s emphasis on the economy and on downsizing the military made him look weak. They had encouraged Langston to place an experienced military man in the domestic position to give the appearance of a strong stance on thwarting domestic terrorism, yet relegating the outspoken General to a relatively innocuous political posting.

Even though his office was currently in the West Wing, Johnston was acutely aware that he was not in the inner circle. And furthermore, Langston did not like him personally and went out of his way to neutralize whatever clout he might have.

The President, a sandy-haired man in his late-fifties, sat. Everyone followed suit.

“A you know,” President Langston began, “our country has come under attack by a terrorist organization. I’ll let Director Boardman fill you in on the details. Fred, you have the floor.”

FBI director Frederick Boardman was a round-faced, chubby man in his early-sixties. He looked like a guy who ate chocolate chip cookies and milk before bed, doted on his grandchildren and listened to easy-listening stations on the radio. All of which were true. He was also a former attorney general with a cut-throat grasp of beltway politics who had spent much of his career locating and identifying the closeted skeletons of the nation’s elite. He also, Johnston reflected, had only a nodding acquaintance with civil liberties. Under the circumstances that might be a good thing, but only if he could let his ruthlessness win out over his political tendencies.

Johnston remembered something Derek Stillwater had said during a lecture on pandemics. “Politicians don’t understand infectious disease. From the earliest history, politicians were slow to react to epidemics. Whether it was bubonic plague in the 10^th or 16^th centuries, flu in the 1920s or HIV in the 1980s. They always, without exception, wait too long to act.”

Broadman said, “At 11:43 A.M. today, an organized assault by three vehicles containing four men each breeched the security of a Pentagon-funded biological warfare research facility, U.S. Immunological Research. A team of highly trained commandos penetrated the facility, entered a Level 4 Biohazard Containment area and stole approximately a dozen vials containing a genetically engineered virus.” The FBI Director went on with his talk, describing what almost everyone in the room already knew. After ten minutes he paused, took a sip of water and continued.

“Our investigation so far points toward a Russian-based terrorist group known as The Fallen Angels. They are not, as far as we’ve been able to tell, usually more than illegal weapons merchants. They acquire weapons, from small arms to missiles to weapons of mass destruction, and sell them to whoever can afford them.”

“So you don’t think this group’s intention is to immediately use this… this Chimera?” The speaker was Admiral Steven Lancaster, one of the Joint Chiefs.

Director Boardman hesitated. “We’re still developing a profile. We don’t have very much information on this group.”

“Why is that?” asked one of the blue suits Johnston assumed were science advisers.

Richard White, the Director of the CIA, spoke up. His diction was clean and careful, a reflection of his East Coast moneyed background and two years at Oxford on a Rhodes Scholarship. Tall and angular, his thick hair had the unnatural blackness of dye. He tended to tilt his head back and peer along his long aristocratic nose through gold-rimmed glasses perched there. “Because,” he said, “they have not fallen into our sphere of activity. By and large they have been an internal Russian problem, believed to be associated with the Chechen rebels.”

General Johnston stared at Richard White, wondering whether the CIA had ever heard of The Fallen Angels. He hadn’t. He was supposedly privy to all intelligence relating to homeland security, though the CIA, NSA, DIA and the other dozen intelligence-gathering agencies had a tendency to define that in varying ways. It was possible that, because The Fallen Angels were, in fact, an internal Russian problem, the CIA hadn’t seen any reason to provide anything about them to Homeland Security. Or, equally possible, the CIA had once again been caught with their pants down around their ankles, butt firmly planted on the potty while the world’s bad guys came knocking at their door.

White and Boardman batted information back and forth for a while, before President Langston asked Colonel Zataki what USAMRIID was doing about Chimera.

In his soft voice, Zataki said, “There were earlier versions of Chimera, some of them non-lethal, that we’re testing on monkeys to see if they can be used as vaccines. We should know by morning if any of them are effective that way. If they are, we’ve put in place ways to manufacture it in massive quantities for emergency use, should Chimera be let loose on the public.”

“And if they aren’t?” asked President Langston.

Colonel Zataki said, “The CDC has been alerted to be on the lookout for any signs of the illness. They are on a full alert. I also suggest that the national guard and the military be put on full alert. Hospital emergency rooms are already being informed. Any patients coming in with the symptoms of Chimera will need to be placed in isolation immediately and concentric rings of isolation created around the subject. I’m sure that Fred Richards can fill you in more.”

Voices started to babble, raised in a chorus of responses to these emergency actions. President Langston cleared his throat and the hubbub subsided. “Colonel Zataki, thank you. Do you and Dr. Richards feel that this Chimera presents a clear and present danger to the American public? Should we, in fact, treat this as a national healthcare crisis?”

“Mr. President,” Colonel Zataki said. “We should treat this as the start of Armageddon.”

There was a rise in the volume of background conversation, broken by the National Security Advisor, who snapped, “Colonel Zataki, this is not a forum in which melodrama is appreciated.”

Colonel Zataki eyed Taylor James calmly. “Ms. James, no melodrama was intended.”

“I agree with Colonel Zataki,” said Dr. Richards, the Director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

“So do I,” Secretary Johnston said. “You need to take this seriously.”

“Seriously?” said Taylor. “You’re talking Armageddon. How seriously can we take it when you insist on referring to it as if it were a movie? We don’t want overstatement or melodrama. We want scientific fact. We want—”

“We’re talking a bioengineered virus,” Zataki interrupted in his cool voice, “with an apparent one hundred percent fatality rate within twelve hours. It is one hundred percent infectious, as far as we know, can be communicated via air, touch or in food or liquids. Imagine, if you will, that one person is infected with Chimera. If that person has minimal contact with people, he or she will probably infect twenty or thirty people in one day. Also, if the subject coughs or spits or bleeds onto a surface, that surface will become infectious. It’s not known how long Chimera can survive outside its host. We’ll test for it, but we don’t have time. None of us has time to make assumptions, especially conservative assumptions, about the danger of this virus. Meanwhile, those twenty infected individuals, the second ring of infection, are infecting anywhere from twenty to hundreds of people. This isn’t smallpox with an incubation period of two weeks. This germ is fast, Ms. James. It will burn through the population like a wild fire.”

“More drama,” James said. She was a tall, elegant African-American woman with a brain like a razor. As far as Secretary Johnston was concerned, though, she was far too political an animal for this particular crisis. She said, “Mr. President—”

Taylor James broke off speaking, her eyes wide and staring. At the rear of the room, one of the people sitting there snapped his head back against the wall with a bang. A young, clean-cut man in a three-piece suit, possibly a senator’s aide or somebody from HHS, started to convulse, a foam of saliva pouring from his mouth as he arched his back and fell from the chair. Suddenly the people on both sides of the man began to twitch, drooling, convulsing, vomiting.

Secretary Johnston reacted instantly, leaping across the table, grabbing the President’s arm and hauling him from his chair. “Evacuate!” he bellowed, rushing for the door. “Evacuate!”

Colonel Zataki was right behind him, reaching for the Director of the FBI, who had started to convulse. Zataki, a small man, but strong, hefted him over his shoulder and ran through the now-open door.

With horror they saw that the hallway outside the conference room was littered with bodies.

“Outside,” gasped Johnston. “Outside.”

They raced through the hallways heading for any room with a window, an exit, anything. There were dozens of bodies in the hallways, convulsing.

Johnston felt the President lag and snarled, “Keep moving, goddammit!”

Zataki was struggling, his lungs burning, feeling the effects. He panted out, “Atropine injectors! We need—”

Johnston rushed down a flight of steps, dragging the President, and slammed shoulder-first into a fire exit and out onto the south lawn. The President fell to the ground, gasping. Johnston turned, saw Zataki stumble to his knees, dropping the Director of t he FBI. Zataki, struggling for air, pressed his fingers against the man’s neck, shaking his head.

“Dammit! VX gas! Somehow the White House was attacked with VX gas!”

25

Aaron Pilcher passed through security into SIOC, the Strategic Information Operation Center on the fifth floor of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. There was a constant flow of agents and support staff in and out of the wedge-shaped room. There were a dozen huge screens connected to computers on the walls, dozens of agents working computers and telephones. The Bureau, Pilcher thought, was doing what it did best: marshaling information.

Agent Spigotta, his jaw muscles bunched like he had walnuts tucked in his cheeks, was glaring at one of the huge VDTs on the wall. “How many total?” he growled.

Two agents, one at a computer terminal that controlled the VDT, started counting the figures on the screen.

Pilcher stepped up. Spigotta glanced over and nodded brusquely. “You look like shit, but I’m glad you’re alive.”

“Glad to be alive.” He gestured at the screen. “The parking garage?”

“Three vans, four each,” said the agent doing the counting. She was a willowy redhead with pale blue eyes.

“I want them isolated and start working on IDs,” Spigotta growled.

Pilcher held up the stack of file folders retrieved from the D.C. apartment. “Hang on. I’ve got faces. Let’s see if we can tie them together now.”

Spigotta’s head snapped around. “What’ve you got?”

Pilcher opened the file and held up the clearest photograph of Richard Coffee. “Quite possibly the leader. Ray?”

The agent at the keyboard took a close look at the photograph and started isolating images on the screen. He was a heavyset bald man with a fringe of gray hair and wire-rimmed bifocals. His pudgy fingers flashed on the computer keys.

“There.” The redhead pointed.

“Enhance,” Spigotta barked.

The image dissolved, resolved, closed in, dissolved and resolved again. The four FBI agents stared. “Bingo,” Pilcher said. “Meet The Fallen Angel, formerly known as Richard Coffee, a U.S. citizen, former Special Forces—”

”Domestic?” Spigotta’s face burned red.

“Not really,” Pilcher said. He supplied the sketchy information Derek Stillwater had acquired.

Spigotta raised his hands. “Everybody, listen up. We’ve got a back story. Aaron, you’ve got the floor.”

Taking a deep breath, Pilcher described what they knew so far. When he was done Spigotta pointed at a slight, scholarly-looking man. “Adams, you’re our terrorism guy. Ever heard of The Fallen Angels?”

“No, sir.”

“Get on it.”

“I’d like the photographs you’ve got.”

Spigotta nodded and Pilcher turned them over.

Pilcher said, “Um, John… these could all be bullshit. As far as Coffee goes, I’m a believer. Everything else though… pretty suspect.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

Agent Jonathan Adams took the files and rushed out of the SIOC.

“Unrau.” Spigotta pointed at a heavyset woman with brassy brown hair and thick eyeglasses. “Who at the Russian embassy would know about this group?”

“Yuri Arkady Rostovitch,” she said without hesitation.

“Please arrange an invitation for Mr. Rostovitch to join us here.”

“Yes sir.” She turned to leave.

“Bridgette?”

Agent Unrau turned back.

“If he declines, send out a team of agents to deliver him here ASAP.”

She paused, no doubt thinking of the consequences of kidnaping a Russian embassy official, then shrugged and smiled. “I’m on it, sir.”

Spigotta continued to direct his troops. Pilcher took a moment to slip into a chair. Waves of exhaustion washed over him. He leaned back and glanced up at the VDT displaying the vans. To Ray O’Brien, manning the keyboard, he said, “Is the explosion on there?”

Ray looked over, his face flushed. “Yes. You’re lucky.”

“Yeah. Let’s make sure the media doesn’t get hold of that until we want them to.”

“Yes sir.”

Spigotta was in conference with another agent, a serious-minded female agent that Pilcher recognized as one of the senior domestic terrorism people. He didn’t, right off hand, remember her name. His cell phone buzzed. He clicked it on and identified himself.

“Pilcher, this is Zerbe, in the lab.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I’ve been tearing that phone to pieces you found? I’ve brought up the call history and will be uploading it to the system for you to access in just a minute. I’ve put a team on analyzing the calls. We should have most of that nailed down in less than an hour.”

“Good. See if you can speed them up.”

“Yes, but…”

Zerbe’s voice dropped to a low tone, almost a whisper.

“What is it?” Pilcher said, sitting up straight.

“Sir, one of the last numbers called? It’s Sam Dalton’s private number.”

It took a second for Pilcher to focus on the name. “Sam—”

”The Deputy Director of Homeland Security, sir.”

Pilcher’s brain raced. “Okay,” he said. “No big deal. These Homeland troubleshooters have direct access to the directors during a crisis. Do you have a—”

”The call was about three-thirty this afternoon,” Zerbe said.

Pilcher blinked. He had been thinking that after killing the Russian, Derek Stillwater had used her phone to call his bosses because his own was busted. But in the middle of the afternoon…

“Hey, Zerbe,” he said, voice low. “Keep a lid on this, understand?”

“Does this mean what I think it means?” Zerbe responded.

“I hope not. But we’ll work it. Thanks.” Pilcher clicked off and stared over to where Spigotta was directing agents. Spigotta must have sensed the focus of Pilcher’s gaze, because he turned to look at him. Pilcher waved him over.

“What?” Spigotta said.

“We need privacy for this,” he said, getting to his feet.

Spigotta narrowed his eyes. “You look even more like shit than you did before.”

“Private,” Pilcher said.

Spigotta led him over to a quiet corner, his back to the walls so he could glare-off anyone approaching. “Okay, Aaron. I don’t know how you could possibly have more bad news.”

“This Russian woman phoned Sam Dalton this afternoon, less than two hours after they stole Chimera. It’s in her cellular records.”

Spigotta raised his eyebrows. “Meaning…?”

“I don’t know. But it could mean that Dalton was in on this. Don’t forget, he’s former Military Intelligence. Richard Coffee’s former Military Intelligence. Stillwater claims he’s getting the run-around from Military Intelligence.”

“Fuck,” Spigotta said. He glared around SIOC. “Fuck,” he repeated. “What’re we going to do?”

“We should probably get somebody to talk to Dalton,” Aaron said.

Spigotta looked at him. “Dalton’s where, at the White House?”

“Yes. I think they’re out of the West Wing.”

“You’re up, Aaron. But wash your face first, whaddaya say?”

26

At the same time that Aaron Pilcher was arriving at the J. Edgar Hoover Building and General Johnston was listening to the National Security Advisor in the White House, Derek Stillwater was approaching the location on 17^th Street where he had left the Explorer. He came in circuitously, on the opposite side of the street, circling the block on foot. The chopper crew had informed him that the D.C. cops were probably looking for him for the shooting of Austin Davis. It was also possible, he thought, that the FBI might want to pull him in after they saw the carnage at Irina Khournikova’s apartment.

He didn’t know if the cops had any idea how he had gotten to Walter Reed. The Explorer had been supplied by the Pentagon, so it was possible nobody knew anything about it. Still, for the same reason he hadn’t wanted to be pulled in back at the apartment, he was making every effort to continue the investigation.

It was dark, late and traffic was light. There were only a handful of pedestrians, late-night barflies and people coming and going to social events, though in light of the day’s news, social events were few and far between.

He walked casually past the Explorer. The one good thing to happen so far was he still had the keys.

Without any kind of warning he popped the lock, got into the driver’s side, fired up the engine and pulled into the street. He began a complicated, random route, heading roughly in the direction of the Pentagon.

He found an open spot within shouting distance of the Pentagon and hunted through his GO Packs. There was a spare cellular phone and charged batteries. He sat in the driver’s seat, thinking it over. Should he call in, check with Dalton or Johnston? With a shake of his head he decided to do a little more work.

He rummaged through his wallet and came up with the contact information for Staff Sergeant Stanley O’Reilly, the military officer who had acted as his host at the Pentagon. The phone to O’Reilly’s office rang exactly once before it was picked up by O’Reilly.

“O’Reilly, this is Derek Stillwater.”

“Yes sir. How can I help you, sir?”

Perky little hotel clerk, Stillwater thought. He said, “You’re on duty rather late tonight.”

“Yes sir. We are at a heightened alert, sir.”

“Don’t I know it. Well, I would like contact information for Lieutenant Colonel Tallifer. Could you get hold of him for me.”

“Yes sir. Will you hold?”

“No. Here’s my number. Have him call me.” Derek rattled off his new cell’s number and clicked off. While he waited he rummaged through his GO Packs, looking for the nice little bag of amphetamines he kept there for exactly these types of occasions. He swallowed two hits of the speed with lukewarm bottled water from one of his packs. Cars drove by. In the night sky he saw helicopters, lots of them. He imagined there was a regular shuttle service between the Pentagon, USAMRIID, the White House and points unknown. He wondered if the President was on Air Force One. He hoped so. He hoped everybody was taking this seriously.

His phone rang. It was O’Reilly again. “Sir, Colonel Tallifer isn’t on the premises. His office indicates he is out.”

“What time did he leave?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Can you find out?”

“Yes sir. Will you hold?”

“Yes.”

He held. After a minute of dead air O’Reilly was back. “Shortly after you left, sir.” Something in the man’s voice communicated concern.

“Does that strike you as unusual, O’Reilly?”

Silence.

“O’Reilly?”

“Unexpected, sir. I’m not sure if it’s unusual. Since going to Code Red most of us have stayed on duty. We will be on duty be through the night, possibly longer, until emergency rotations are in place. The attack at U.S. Immunological Research is being taken seriously by the Pentagon, sir.”

“I see,” Derek said, mind racing. “Do you have cellular information or a home telephone number for Tallifer?”

“Yes sir. Here it is, sir.” O’Reilly rattled it off. Derek scrawled it down in a notebook.

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Are you making progress, sir?”

“On?”

“You’re working on that U.S. Immuno thing, aren’t you, sir? You are an expert on biological warfare.”

“Yes, I’m working on it,” Derek conceded.

“Are you making progress?”

“I hope so, Sergeant. I surely hope so.”

Above Stillwater’s Explorer, the Coast Guard helicopter circled. Lieutenant Black, the pilot, said, “Still in sight?”

“You bet,” said Tex. He was using the chopper’s night vision capabilities to track the Ford Explorer. It was easier said than done, but this crew had been together for a number of years, beginning with search and rescue and moving to drug interdiction and then, post-September 11, 2001, into anti-terrorism activities.

They had officially become part of Derek Stillwater’s team, although “official” probably wasn’t the correct word. Since the Coast Guard was now part of the Department of Homeland Security, and Derek needed them, they were now working with — or for — the Homeland Security troubleshooter.

Sid Kerkowski, their third crew mate and gunner, said, “How’re we doing on fuel?”

“Fine for now,” said Black. She looked at Sid, whose youthful face was filled with anticipation.

“We’re rockin-and-rollin’,” he said.

Black rolled her eyes, but had to admit to a surge of adrenaline. She had been philosophical about their taxi services today. Although Stillwater had declined to give specifics, they had been following the news related to the U.S. Immuno attack and had a pretty good idea what the man was up to. When Stillwater finished justifying his commandeering their helicopter, she had said, “Whatever you need, sir, we can give you.”

“Well, thanks. I’m not sure—”

”Sir,” Black had said. “I’m not sure you understand. This helicopter…” She waved around her. “It was originally commissioned for drug interdiction, but its mandate has been broadened for anti-terrorism activity.”

“I see,” Stillwater said, but clearly he didn’t.

“No sir,” she said. “You need to know a little bit about this helicopter.”

Derek had sighed. “I’m not sure I have time for a sales pitch—”

”This is an MK-68 Mako,” she said. “It has a maximum speed of 168 knots and a cruising speed of 137 knots. Its range is 363 nautical miles.”

“That’s nice, but—”

”Shut up!”

Derek raised his eyebrows.

Tex spoke up. “Maybe Sid can explain.”

Stillwater turned to the third crewman. “What?”

Sid grinned. “We’re armed with an M240 machine gun, a Robar .50 caliber sniper rifle—”

”He’s a sharpshooter, too,” Black added.

“Yes sir,” Kerkowski said.

“And,” Black said, “we’re equipped with night vision goggles, FLIR — that’s forward-looking infrared, Light Eye and NightSun searchlight and a GPS moving map.”

“In other words,” Tex said, “we’re one well-armed, well-trained group of motherfuckers.”

Derek glanced around at the three Coast Guard officers. “Then I think we need to make a plan.” He paused, listening to the thunder of the helicopter rotor. “I think we need to set a trap.”

“A trap, sir?” Black asked.

“Yes.”

Tex brushed his mustache. “And what, exactly, are we going to use for bait?”

Derek smiled. “Me.”

Now, above the Explorer, Black’s radio crackled. “TS-One, receiving. This is Black.” The Coast Guard pilot had supplied Stillwater with a handheld radio to communicate with them.

“Any tail?”

“Sid?”

“Negative.”

“Negative,” she relayed to Derek.

“Okay. I’ll be back to you in ten.”

Derek phoned the number for Lieutenant Colonel Tallifer’s cellular phone. It was answered on the second ring with an abrupt, “Yes?”

“Colonel, this is Derek Stillwater, with Homeland Security.”

“Yes, Doctor. What can I do for you?”

“I need to meet ASAP to discuss Richard Coffee further.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything else to discuss, Doctor. You’ve read the file.”

“Yes, I have. And that’s exactly why we need to discuss it further.”

“Just a moment.”

There was silence on the line. Then Tallifer came back on. “I can meet you in about an hour. How about—”

”I’ll meet you at Rock Creek Park,” Derek said, and supplied a detailed description of the parking lot in the huge park where he wanted to rendezvous. “In one hour. I’ll be in the green Explorer.”

Before Tallifer could argue or negotiate, Derek clicked off. Then he radioed the helicopter to tell them the plan.

27

Captain Jaxon approached Liz Vargas with a tray of needles and tubes and pouches of saline and drugs. The faceplate of her spacesuit had fogged up before she could make it to one of the air hoses and she shouted to be heard. “These are the antivirals. We’re going to try a cocktail of Acyclovir, Ritonavir and Pleconavil.” Jaxon set the tray down and reached for an air hose, connecting it to her suit. It immediately puffed up and her faceplate began to clear.

Liz sat up from her bed in The Slammer and turned so her stockinged feet hung off the bed. “Take a break, Sharon,” she said.

“You just lay down and—”

Liz jumped to her feet, a fierce expression on her face. “I’m the only living expert on this virus. I’m not going to roll over and…. I’m fighting. Understand? I’m fighting. And there’s no reason for you to risk a needle stick when I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.”

“You need rest,” Jaxon insisted.

“Stop it! Just stop it!” Liz pulled the I.V. pole close to the bed. “You’re acting like a doctor. This isn’t a doctor-patient relationship. It’s not! I’m a guinea pig.” She hooked the saline bag into the stand and sorted out the clear plastic lines. From the tray she laid out the needle and rubber tourniquet. “I’m a goddamned laboratory animal and you’d better figure that out fast because there’s not a lot of time.”

Perching on the edge of the bed, Liz strapped on the tourniquet, flicked at the bulging vein in the crook of her left elbow, then deftly inserted the needle. With considerably less dexterity she tore off a piece of surgical tape and taped down the needle.

Standing, she hung the bags of the antiviral medicines and manipulated the lines and needles until they were feeding into the I.V. lines. “Dosage?”

Jaxon said, “Set the drip rate… Here. I can do that.” With her clumsy gloved hands she adjusted the drip rate of the I.V.s.” She turned to Liz. “We can get you a phone so you can call your parents.”

“Later,” Liz said. “Here’s what I need. I need a computer with an Internet connection. I’m going to connect to U.S. Immuno’s database. I need full access to all our work on Chimera. I’m one of the few alive with security clearance.”

Jaxon crossed her hands over her chest. It was a comical posture in the blue spacesuit. Her voice was muffled. “We can do that.”

“And I need one more thing,” Liz said. “I need you to get hold of Dr. Lester Hingemann. He’s at Michigan State University, in the Life Sciences Department, Microbiology and Public Health. I want him either on the phone with me ASAP or even better, some sort of video conference call. And do it quick. Track him down.”

“Who is he?” Jaxon asked.

“He’s a bacteriologist and an expert on immune responses to bacteria. He’s the leading expert on Yersinia pestis.”

“Chimera is a virus,” Jaxon countered. “You know that. What good is—”

”Do it! I have an idea. It might be a long shot, but…” Her eyes welled up with tears and she brushed them aside with both hands, the lines to the I.V. jiggling and bouncing. “It’s time to make the longshots.”

Jaxon nodded. “I’ll get right on it.”

28

Derek parked the Explorer in the funnel of illumination cast by an overhead light in one of the many parking lots along the huge Rock Creek Park. The park was over 21, 000 acres and ran for over five miles. Situated in the heart of Washington, D.C., it was a huge, dark wilderness in which to ambush or be ambushed. It was also a popular body dumping site for the D.C. area. Only fools or bad guys ventured there after dark. Derek knew he wasn’t a bad guy…

He sat in silence for a moment, taking in the tall trees and tumbles of boulders. Less than twenty-four hours ago he had been paddling his kayak on the Chesapeake Bay, living aboard his boat, occasionally traveling to other countries to discuss bioterrorism with military experts. Sometimes he taught classes at Georgetown or lectured at one of the military academies. Life had been relatively simple.

Times change. Yet all he craved was to reset his life back a day.

He sighed and tried to concentrate on the problems at hand. Rock Creek Park was not safe at night. Just ask Chandra Levy, the senate intern who disappeared prior to September 11^th. Linked by an affair to Senator Gary Condit, her disappearance had struck a national chord, the investigation covered on the nightly news, on CNN, her picture on the cover of People magazine.

Then nineteen of Osama bin Laden’s martyrs had slammed a couple planes into the World Trade Towers, the Pentagon and a Pennsylvania cornfield. Nobody except Chandra’s friends and family spent much time thinking about her after that until some guy found her body in the park while he was looking for turtles in one of the creeks.

Right around here, Derek thought.

He retrieved his Rigel 3250 NightVision goggles, double-checked his Colt to make sure it was loaded with a full magazine, the safety was off and he had a round in the chamber. Strapping the goggles on his head, gun in hand, he left the Explorer and melted into the woods. This was strictly recon. Derek didn’t think Tollifer or anybody else would have gotten here ahead of him. Still, he crept silently from tree to tree and shrub to shrub, slipping behind rocky outcroppings and over boulders, making sure the perimeter was secure. The world was lit up in a ghostly green glow.

Finally he slung the goggles over his shoulder and moved away from the light, standing just inside the tree line, motionless.

Right on time, a Jeep Cherokee pulled into the lot.

Through a whisper mic clipped to his collar, Derek said, “See anyone?”

“Negative, sir. Not in the immediate area,” Cynthia Black’s voice spoke in his ear.

“Check.”

The Cherokee stopped, motor running. From the trees, Derek inspected the driver. It was Tollifer. Keeping to the cover of the woods Derek moved to a flanking position. Into his mic he said, “Anything?”

“Not nearby. There’s a van at the next lot up, and some traffic on the road. Light tonight.”

Slipping from shadow to shadow, Stillwater approached the Cherokee. Finally, heart thudding in his chest, Stillwater crept around to the driver’s side, gun pointing toward Tollifer.

“I saw you in the rearview,” Tollifer said through the open window.

“I was more interested in your rear seats.”

“I’m alone.”

“Shut it down and get out. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Tollifer followed directions, standing opposite Derek, hands out to his sides. He was no longer in uniform, now wearing khaki Dockers and a dark polo shirt.

“My sidearm’s in the Jeep,” Tollifer said.

“Forgive me for not just taking your word. Assume the position.”

Tollifer leaned against the Jeep, legs spread, arms wide. Quickly, keeping his gun pressed against the back of the Military Intelligence man, Derek frisked him. “Okay,” he said, moving back two steps.

Tollifer stood up and turned to look at him. “Satisfied?”

“Hardly. Let’s walk.”

Tollifer shrugged and fell into step, crossing the parking lot.

“Tell me about Richard Coffee,” Derek said.

“You read the file.”

“The file’s bullshit.”

“Not as far as I know, it isn’t.” Tollifer stopped and turned. “Do you know something different?”

“Keep walking.”

Tollifer stepped away. “As far as we know, Coffee died in Chechnya working for the CIA.”

“Why bug me at the Pentagon?”

Tollifer hesitated.

“Tollifer.” Derek waved the gun to get the man’s attention. “I’m not having a good night. I’m pressed for time. Talk to me.”

Tollifer considered him for a long moment. Then, “Is he alive?”

Derek was perplexed. “You tell me.”

“I think so. Yes. Is he?”

“Yes. I think he’s the head of this group—”

”The Fallen Angels,” Tollifer said.

“You know of them?”

Tollifer nodded slightly. “Yes. They’re… sort of a hobby of mine.”

They moved across the lot, in and out of lights, keeping to the edge of the illumination, savoring the shadows. Derek noted bats flitting among the trees, their agitated flight paths unmistakable.

“Hobby?” Derek said. “Why?”

Tollifer stopped and turned. Derek adjusted the aim of his Colt. Tollifer held his hands out. “Hey, I’m unarmed. I think we can help each other.”

“So talk.” He didn’t lower his gun.

“If Coffee’s alive,” Tollifer said. “I want him.”

“Why?”

They locked eyes. Tollifer finally said, “Anthony Tollifer.”

“A relative?”

“My brother.”

“Okay. I’m listening.”

“This is off the record. Let’s call it a rumor.”

“I’m not a congressional hearing, Tollifer. Talk. Tell me a story. I’m all ears.”

“Tony worked for… a certain government agency in Virginia.”

The CIA, Derek thought.

Tollifer went on. “Tony had a certain kind of training. A special skill set that this government agency doesn’t like to admit that it employs.”

An assassin, Derek thought.

“This government agency sent Tony into Russia, Chechnya to be exact, to bring in a rogue agent.”

“Coffee.”

“You bet. Coffee was off the reservation. Way off. He went from intelligence provider to infiltration, to leading a fucking civil war. A war that the Powers That Be decided was no longer prudent policy. Coffee was a loose cannon rolling around the deck and Tony was sent over there to tie him down. But Tony disappeared. At the same time, Coffee disappeared. But there was a new group, independent of the Chechens, called The Fallen Angels. Made up of a bunch of disenfranchised agents from all over the world, committed to making money and causing trouble. I’ve spent years putting this together from sources I have in the DIA, CIA, NSA, all over the world. These Fallen Angels, they’re like ghosts. Phantoms. But they exist and I’m convinced Richard Coffee killed my brother and is now leading this terrorist group. And I want him, Stillwater. I want to put a bullet in his—”

Tollifer’s head exploded, his brains and blood and bits of skull splattering over Derek, the shot ringing out a moment later. Derek dived, rolled, and was on his feet, sprinting into the shadows, heading for the relative safety of the trees. More gunfire exploded into the silence. He returned fire in the general direction of his assailants, emptying his gun. He didn’t have an extra magazine on him. He raced through the trees, unable to stop long enough to pull on the night vision goggles, running blind, branches scratching at his face. He tumbled behind a tall granite outcropping and laid still, silently donning the goggles. The world lit up in a sea of green.

In his ear Cynthia Black said, “Derek?”

He tapped once at the whisper mic, but didn’t speak. There were hunters in the woods. They were well-armed, they probably had night vision goggles as well, and they were hunting him.

In his ear Cynthia said, “We’re picking up four bogeys on IR. One’s about fifteen yards south of you. The other three are moving off to the west.”

He tapped the mic. Slowly, making every effort not to make a sound, he pulled a knife from a hasp on his belt. It had a nine-inch blade and was as sharp as a razor.

“He’s moving in your direction, ten yards.”

Black continued to feed him information. Abruptly she stopped and he knew it was because the bogey was close. He couldn’t hear anything except the sound of his own heartbeat. There was the soft whisper of a footstep and through night vision goggles Derek saw a figure move carefully past the boulder. The approaching bogey probably had night vision goggles. Infrared, too? Would he be tracking his heat signature? That was bad enough; movement would only draw his attention.

The bogey moved in silence, slow and stealthy.

Derek lunged. Crack! He stepped on a branch, which snapped under his weight. The bogey was alerted and spun, raising his weapon as Derek drove in hard. There was the sharp rattle of semi-automatic fire, the dazzle of the muzzle momentarily lighting up the woods. Derek hit him with his shoulder, driving up under the rifle, slamming it away.

The terrorist grunted and swung the butt of the weapon, making contact with Derek’s head. The night vision goggles went flying. Blinded, stunned, Derek fell backward to the leaf-strewn ground, rolling as he fell, kicking out and sweeping the killer’s legs from beneath him.

In his ear: “Three bogeys heading for your position.”

The two men crashed into each other, fingers grappling for throats, trying to gouge at eyes. “Air… support,” Derek gasped.

He stayed in close, fighting to keep the rifle between them. If the terrorist could create space between them, bring up the weapon, he would cut Derek to ribbons.

There was the growing thunder of the helicopter, followed by the pok! pok! pok! of the Coast Guard .50 caliber sniper rifle, and the returning chatter of the bogey’s automatics.

The terrorist got his hands around Derek’s throat, squeezing.

Derek, gagging, didn’t bother to attack the killer’s arms. Tightening his fist, he smashed his knuckles directly onto the protruding snout of his attacker’s night vision goggles.

His attacker groaned and loosened his grip on Derek’s throat.

In his ear: “Two down…”

“I… need… light,” Derek sputtered.

The terrorist leaped back from Derek and was swinging his assault rifle up when the helicopter flooded the woods with the harsh glare of the floodlight.

Derek’s attacker involuntarily raised his hands to his eyes. Night vision goggles magnify existing light. Sudden illumination created a brilliant white flash in the wearer’s vision before the circuit breaker could cut in. Light, magnified by a thousand, exploded in his attacker’s eyes, searing his retinas.

Ducking in low Derek slammed his foot against the man’s knee, grabbed the rifle from his grip and turned it on him.

In his ear: “Fourth bogey closing—”

Derek spun as another camo-garbed assailant raced toward him. There was a loud pok! pok! pok! from above and the man collapsed to the ground.

Derek’s attacker was crumpled on the ground, clutching his leg. The helicopter hovered, then lit up the area again with light.

Raising the weapon, a Colt XM-177 assault rifle, he said, “Goggles off. Slowly.”

The man raised his arms and lifted off the night vision goggles, tossing them to the forest floor.

Derek’s jaw clenched and a tremor of disbelief rocked him. His attacker was Sam Dalton, Deputy Director of the Department of Homeland Security.

29

Aaron Pilcher was taking a quick shower in the locker room when an agent he didn’t know dashed in and stuttered, “You — you’re needed in SIOC immediately.”

Aaron nodded. “Something—”

”Full alert,” the agent said. “It’s the White House.”

Hair still wet, back in his begrimed suit, Pilcher arrived in SIOC to find the Command Center a buzzing swarm of high-tension activity. He noticed the difference immediately upon leaving the locker room anyway. Nobody walked, they ran as they moved down the corridors. Voices were either raised in harsh, rushed dialogue, or urgent, confidential whispers. Eyes were wide, faces drawn tight, the sudden tension palpable.

Someone raised the stakes, he thought. But how?

In SIOC, Spigotta was deep in conversation with someone Pilcher recognized as Terrance McIvoy, the Deputy Director of the Bureau.

Then his attention turned to one of the many TV monitors lining the walls. This one was tuned to CNN and it was a live feed at the White House, which was lit by the red and blue flashing lights of civilian and military emergency vehicles.

Spigotta saw him and waved him over. “We’ve got a situation,” he said. “A gas attack — maybe VX, maybe sarin — on the White House.”

Pilcher felt sucker punched. He wanted to sit down. He wanted to wake up and find this to be a nightmare. A really bad nightmare.

“Is—”

”So far the only known survivors are Colonel Zataki from Detrick, Secretary Johnston from DHS, and the President.”

McIvoy said, “Director Boardman is believed dead. As are the Joint Chiefs, the director of the CIA, FEMA, the CDC, the national security advisor and most of the White House staff.” McIvoy ran a hand through his thick dark hair. “We also believe the First Lady and the two children are dead.”

Pilcher blinked, speechless.

Spigotta said, “The Army and our Hazardous Materials Recovery Unit are going to treat the White House as a crime scene. The liaising agent there is Simon Berra. I want you over there to see if there are any leads.”

“Where’s the President?”

“President Langston, Zataki and Johnston are at Walter Reed. The President’s location from this point on is going to be classified. As is the Vice President’s.”

Pilcher ran a hand through his own thinning blond hair and blew out a lungful of air. “Okay,” he said. “What—”

”You’ll go where you’re needed,” Spigotta said. “So first, go to 1600 and talk to Berra, see what the inside teams are seeing.”

“You want me to go in?”

Spigotta frowned. “Do I? No. But if you think it’s necessary to see with your own eyes, yeah, suit up and go in.”

“Yes sir.”

Spigotta was going to suggest something when Agent Unrau, the agent Spigotta had sent to the Russian Embassy, entered SIOC escorting two people over to where they stood.”

Agent Unrau brushed red hair off her forehead and pushed up her glasses. “Director McIvoy…. Agent Spigotta. This is Ivan Sergeyevitch Tetchin, with the Russian Cmbassy.”

Before Unrau could introduce the woman with them, Tetchin stepped forward and offered a big, meaty hand. In his fifties, he was a large, bulky figure with a shaved scalp and ruddy complexion. “I am the security attaché at the Russian Embassy. We understand you believe there is some sort of Russian connection to today’s terrorist activity.”

McIvoy took the offered hand. “Yes, we have information indicating this group, The Fallen Angels, is responsible for today’s attack. We understand further that they are based in Russia.”

The woman spoke for the first time. “The Fallen Angels are not Russian. They are multi-ethnic, believed to be led by a Chechen named Surkho Andarbek.”

“Yes,” Aaron said, jumping in before Spigotta or McIvoy could speak. “That’s our information, too. Just a moment. May I have a word with you two for a moment,” he said to Spigott and McIvoy. They moved out of earshot of the Russians.

“Surkho Andarbek might be Richard Coffee,” said Pilcher. “At least, if anything Stillwater got from Irina Khournikova is accurate.”

“So it would be best,” McIvoy said with a nod, “if we didn’t let the Russians know the Chechen group was actually being led by an American rogue CIA agent.”

Pilcher nodded.

“Excellent advice. Okay.”

They returned to the Russians. The woman, who was tall with short reddish brown hair worn in an elegant shag cut, focused her brown eyes on Pilcher. “We understand you have the body of a Russian national.”

Spigotta said, “She’s at the morgue in D.C.”

“Who is she?” Tetchin said.

“She was identified to us as Irina Khournikova. She claimed she was with your ‘T’ Directorate, but we believe she was actually working with The Fallen Angels.”

The Russian woman, her English excellent with only a slight accent that could have been mistaken for German or Serbian, said, “She is not who she claimed to be. I wish to see her body.”

“Fine,” McIvoy said. “That can be arranged. But how do you know she isn’t Irina Khournikova?”

“Because,” she said. “I am Irina Khournikova.”

30

Derek marched Sam Dalton at gunpoint, night vision goggles again perched on his own face. Dalton’s hands were on top of his head as he walked and Derek didn’t bother telling him when low-hanging branches were going to smack him in the face. Derek was having enough problems controlling the urge to empty the assault rifle into Dalton’s back.

“He wants you alive,” Dalton said.

“He being…?”

“Fallen.”

“Ah,” Derek said. When Dalton stopped walking, confused by a wall of shrubbery in the darkness, Derek nudged him to his left. “The mysterious Fallon. Or is it Fallen? What’s his real name?”

Dalton laughed. “Your pal and mine, Richard Coffee.”

“The Lazarus of the terrorist set. Okay, I’ll bite. Why does Richard want me alive?”

“Maybe he feels he owes you.” Dalton stumbled on a patch of rough ground, flinging his arms out for balance. Derek adjusted his grip on the rifle, sure Dalton was going to try something, but Dalton regained his footing and placed his hands back on his head.

“Feels he owes me for what?” Derek said.

“For saving his life, man! What do you think?”

“A thank you note would have been sufficient. I’m touched. Really. How about you, Sam? Why are you involved in this?”

Dalton stopped and turned. He was taller than Derek with broad shoulders and chiseled features. He still kept his light-colored hair military short and his square jaw belonged on a recruiting poster. Derek knew Dalton was in his early fifties, but didn’t look it. Derek raised the XM-177, ready to shoot if necessary.

“In a word? Money.”

“Let me guess,” Derek said. “The Fallen Angels sell whatever they can beg, borrow or steal to the highest bidder.”

“Bingo.”

“And with your military and government contacts, you can get it or show where it is. For a fee.”

“Right. And don’t forget, Derek, I worked Delta anti-terrorism intelligence for a decade. I have contacts with the buyers. Just like you do.”

Derek grew cold and still. “Do I?” he said

“Sure, man. You’ve consulted with most of the legitimate governments that manufacture CBW, you’ve made contact with some of the people that want them. You’re a gold mine. Between the two of us, we could bring in half a billion a year just hooking up the right people.”

Tiring of the direction of the conversation, Derek ordered Dalton to turn around and keep walking. Their feet crunched softly on the leaves and pine needles, the wind rustling the branches of the trees. Even in the eerie green light of the night scope, he saw Dalton smile. Derek didn’t like that smile. He felt it was a bad omen, the Deputy Director knowing something he didn’t. Dalton was too confident.

As they continued east toward the parking lot, Derek said, “Let’s say I’m interested. How do I get in touch with Coffee?”

“Through me. C’mon, man. Blow off the helicopter and tell them you’re going to take me in. Then we’ll just… disappear, man. I’ll take you to Fallen and we’ll be on our way.”

“Maybe I want to negotiate my own deal with Coffee,” Derek said. “Why should I split with you?”

Dalton laughed. “I knew you were right for the deal. You split with me because I have access to Fallen. Without me, you’re out of luck.”

Derek was starting to get flares in the night scope. The parking lot and its lights were not far away.

“Where’s Coffee?”

“You mean The Fallen. Richard Coffee’s dead. He died in Iraq.”

“Semantics,” Derek said. “You’re playing word games and your own head’s on the block. You’re going in. If you cooperate, tell us where Fallen is, where Coffee is, well, things might go easier on you.”

Dalton laughed. Derek didn’t like the laugh. He liked it even less than Dalton’s secretive smile. It was filled with contempt and irony, as if Dalton knew things that Derek did not. And he was afraid he was right, that Derek was seeing barely the tip of this particularly deadly iceberg.

“You are full of shit,” Dalton said. “Full of shit and uninformed, pal. There isn’t a plea deal in the whole universe for me.”

Above them Derek heard the roar of the incoming Mako helicopter, circling in over the parking lot. The plan was to turn Dalton over to them and rush him to FBI Headquarters. In his ear Cynthia Black said, “Derek, we’ve got something, we’re not sure—”

Breaking out into the open, Derek heard a whooshing sound. Over the radio: “Shit!” Followed by an explosion. The sky lip up as the rocket propelled grenade struck the Coast Guard helicopter. The night vision goggles flared and for a moment Derek was blind. Clawing at the goggles, he was too late. Dalton spun, his fist slamming into Derek’s jaw.

Rolling away, still blind, the Colt rifle was ripped from his grasp. He knocked off the goggles, struggling to his knees.

There was a second explosion as the helicopter crashed to the pavement in a harsh, earth-shattering roar.

Dalton now stood with the rifle aimed at Derek. “So long—”

Derek never heard the bullet that killed Dalton. One moment he was on his knees waiting to die, the next Dalton’s body jerked and fell forward onto the grass, blood soaking his camouflage fatigues. Dalton’s last words were a barely audible, “That bastard—”

Derek lunged for the XM-177, but a bullet whined past him and he turned for the cover of the trees instead. In his ear he heard a familiar voice: Richard Coffee had tapped into his Coast Guard frequency.

“Hello, Derek.”

Derek didn’t reply. He moved deeper into the woods, staying close enough to view the parking lot but stay out of sight.

“Nice SUV,” Coffee said. “Hope you’ve got insurance.”

There was another whoosh, followed by an explosion that Derek was certain was the sound of an RPG hitting a Ford Explorer.

“I could use a man of your talents,” Coffee said. “But you’re going to have to come out with your hands up or we’re coming in after you.”

Derek didn’t wait. He turned and plunged deeper into the woods, racing north. Behind him he heard the rattle of gunfire as Coffee and more of his terrorists came on in pursuit.

31

Agent Spigotta closed his eyes for a moment when the Russian woman announced that she was Irina Khournikova. He craned his neck back, as if to relieve tension, then pressed his fingers against his eyelids. Aaron Pilcher wondered if Spigotta was going to have a stroke right there in SIOC.

Pilcher recovered quickest. He said, “Not that identification seems to matter, but do you have any?”

The woman, Irina Khournikova, removed a wallet from her purse and handed Pilcher her passport. He gazed at it, then passed it to Spigotta who glared at it, then handed it to Agent Unrau, who had escorted the Russians in. “Let’s get this verified.”

“Yes sir,” Unrau said, heading out of SIOC with Khournikova’s passport.

Spigotta seemed unusually off-balance, so Pilcher took control. It surprised him that Spigotta and Deputy Director McIlvoy seemed so uncertain. “Mr. Tetchin, Ms. Khournikova, let’s go to a room where we can talk.”

“I want you over at the White House,” Spigotta said.

Pilcher stared at his superior. “I think I need to be here for this, sir. There are plenty of agents at the White House. I’ll go after I get some information here.”

Spigotta again looked surprised, but McIlvoy nodded. “Sure. Good idea.”

They led the Russians out of SIOC and down the hallway to an interrogation room, but unexpectedly, Ivan Tetchin stopped outside the room and turned. “I will be returning to my embassy,” he said slowly.

“We need to talk to you now,” McIlvoy said.

Tetchin cocked his massive shaved head, a stubby fat finger tapping at his cheek for a moment. “I know nothing of this dead impostor you have spoken of and even less about this attack on your President. Any information I may have about The Fallen Angels can be more directly handled by Ms. Khournikova. They are, I believe, her area of speciality.”

Spigotta’s voice was a low rasp. “I don’t give a good goddamn what you say right now. You’ll—“

Tetchin raised a hand. His voice was soft. “Agent Spigotta, Director McIlvoy. I have diplomatic immunity. I am returning to my embassy. What has happened at the White House and how or if it connects to The Fallen Angels and this attack on your research facility may or may not have repercussions for my government. I must brief Ambassador Romanovitch immediately. I will request that he assign somebody to cooperate with you fully in this matter if we are able.”

“If you have information about the attack on President—”

Khournikova’s voice cut Spigotta off. “If the attack on President Langston was made by The Fallen Angels, it is not a Russian matter, it is an American matter. The head of this organization is an American CIA agent named Richard Coffee.”

“And you know an awful lot about him, Ms. Khournikova,” Pilcher said. “Maybe you could enlighten us.”

“Ivan, I will contact you later.”

Tetchin met Irina Khournikova’s gaze. Something passed between the two of them, something strange. Pilcher wasn’t exactly sure what they were saying to each other, but he got the peculiar feeling that Tetchin was not upset to get away from Irina Khournikova.

With reluctance McIlvoy and Spigotta had an agent usher Tetchin out of the building, then Spigotta and Pilcher directed her into a sparsely decorated interrogation room. It was not sweat-stained and didn’t have battered furniture. It just looked like an empty office with a couple chairs. There was no two-way mirror because the Bureau had a tiny camera embedded in the wall that could not be seen. Khournikova and Pilcher sat in two chairs on either side of a small Formica-topped table. Spigotta remained standing, leaning against the far wall.

Spigotta looked at the ceiling for a moment, then gestured for Pilcher to handle the questioning.

“Who are you?” Pilcher asked.

“Who are you?” she countered.

“Special Agent Aaron Pilcher, Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Special Agent Frederick Spigotta.”

“I’m Irina Khournikova. I am a Russian citizen in the employ of the Russian government. I am currently on assignment in Washington, D.C. I assume you are taping all of this.”

“Yes,” Pilcher nodded.

Pilcher thought he heard Spigotta grunt, but nothing followed. He paused for a moment, trying to get his bearings. Spigotta wasn’t giving him much to work with. Spigotta’s preferred persona for interrogations was Raging Bastard or Seriously Bad Cop. But Spigotta was just watching, which wasn’t his style at all. Pilcher knew that the woman had already interacted with him, with both of them, in SIOC. Officious Prick was out and so was Icy Bastard and Surfer Buddy. He was afraid he was going to have to play it straight, his least successful persona, Old Pro.

“Fine, Agent Pilcher,” Khournikova said. “As you have no doubt determined, my area of expertise is Russian counter-terrorism. Your country is not the only country to have to endure terrorist attacks. For several years I have been pursuing a man who for a long time we believed was a Chechen named Surkho Andarbek. We did not know much about this man. He appeared to be a loyal Chechen, a restauranteur, a man with very little background. Then he became part of the separatists, then a leader of the separatists. Then he was reported dead.

“At some point after he died, a group operating on the Russian/Georgian border began smuggling weapons in and out of Russia. What little we could determine about them was that they were multi-national and called themselves The Fallen Angels. They appeared to move in and out of any number of countries with impertinence. Rumors were that they were highly skilled intelligence agents, rogue agents who had fallen out of favor from their countries. They were more like a cult than a group of terrorists in that they seemed to have undying loyalty to their leader, a charismatic man who called himself The Fallen or Fallen. The few members of The Fallen Angels that we… captured, provided no information that was significant. We did, however, acquire a photograph of their leader, this Fallen, and we determined that he was Surkho Andarbek. However, we received some information only recently that Surkho Andarbek was an American, a rogue CIA agent named Richard Coffee.”

“How did you find this information?” Pilcher asked. “What’s your source?”

“It is not important.” She gazed steadily at him, her dark eyes unflinching.

Pilcher paused, glanced at Spigotta, who seemed lost in thought. He turned back to Khournikova. “It might be important.”

She said nothing, but continued to meet his eyes.

He continued. “Where is Richard Coffee now?”

“Here,” she said.

“Here as in the United States?”

“Yes. Here in the Washington area.”

“Where?”

“I do not know.”

“How do you know he’s here?”

She shrugged. “I have contacts.”

“Who?”

“It’s not important.”

“Yes,” Pilcher said, leaning forward. “It is. We need to find out where Coffee and his people are. You can help us.”

Her expression gave nothing away. “I have given you all the information I have. I would like to see this woman you claim is Irina Khournikova. If she is a Russian citizen, as you suspect, we will fully cooperate in identifying her if we can.”

“You can,” Spigotta said from the rear of the room.

Khournikova looked at the senior agent. “It speaks,” she said.

Spigotta moved toward her, his large bulk menacing. “Why do you think Fallen is here, Ms. Khournikova?”

“My sources—”

”Who are?”

“It’s not important.”

Spigotta scowled at her. “I will decide what is and what isn’t important.”

She didn’t respond.

Pilcher was going to open his mouth to speak when Spigotta said, “Agent Pilcher, I want you to continue with your line of investigation at the White House.”

“But—”

”Now!” Spigotta snapped.

Doubtfully, Pilcher got to his feet. “You’re sure?”

Spigotta’s face turned beet red. His voice was low and guttural as he bit off the words. “I am sure, Aaron. Now. And one more thing.” He paused.

Pilcher waited.

Spigotta said, “I want you to go next door, turn off the recorder and destroy the tape of this interrogation.”

Pilcher flinched. This is an act, right? It’s got to be. “Sure,” he said. He glanced at Khournikova, whose face was expressionless. “Yes sir.”

He left the room. Spigotta came after him, closing the door behind him. “Destroy the tape, Aaron.”

Pilcher cocked his head. It hadn’t been an act. “What’re you going to do?”

“Whatever I have to do. It’s none of your concern. Just do it.”

Pilcher set his jaw. “Rick, if this blows up you could lose your career.”

Spigotta slammed the palm of his hand against Pilcher’s chest, knocking him back against the wall. Up and down the corridor heads turned. Spigotta’s voice was a low rasp filled with anger. “Listen to me, Aaron. We are at war. Most of the heads of our government have been killed in a terrorist attack. The Joint Chiefs are dead. The Director of FEMA, HHS, the FAA, the National Security Advisor, the FBI and the CIA, just to name a few. If these Fallen Angels are behind it, we can’t sit around worrying about anybody’s fucking civil liberties because there’s been less than nine hours between attacks. What’s next? We need to know now. The rest of the government’s going to be running around like herd of frightened sheep trying to figure out who’s in charge, not to mention the inevitable political infighting as the politicians jockey for position. So you do what you have to do and I’ll do what I have to do.”

Pilcher stared at Spigotta and slowly nodded. “Yes sir.”

“Understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Go.”

Pilcher turned his back on Spigotta and went next door to the room containing the taping equipment. On the monitor he watched as Spigotta walked back in the room. Khournikova looked up at him. In her accented voice she said, “So, the Bad Cop is back. Where’s your rubber hose, Agent Spigotta?”

Spigotta reached out and slapped her so hard her head snapped back against the wall. “We’ll get to that if we have to, Ms. Khournikova. We’ll get to it if we have to. It’s up to you.”

Pilcher’s finger hovered over the off button.

32

Derek crashed through the trees, hands held above his face to protect his eyes from the clawing fingers of tree branches. Still, they whipped his face and snagged his hair and tore at his arms. Stumbling through a creek up to his knees in water muck, he staggered away from the sounds of his pursuers.

The night vision goggles were gone. The Colt assault rifle was gone. His phone was gone. He realized, swatting at his hip, that his Colt .45 was gone as well, lost in one of his struggles with Dalton.

He was caught in the trees, unarmed except his wits, his juju beads and four-leaf clover, being hunted by what he thought were four well-armed, highly-trained and utterly ruthless killers. And he didn’t believe that Sam Dalton had been telling the truth. He did not believe that Richard Coffee, a madman from his past, wanted to take him a live. Maybe once. Maybe earlier. But not now.

And even if he was wrong… why risk your life on the desperate bargaining of a traitor?

He heard footfalls off to his right and veered left. Occasionally a sliver moon peeped through the trees, but otherwise the woods were dense and dark, a wild place in the heart of Washington, D.C.

He broke unexpectedly into the open, crossing onto one of the many hiking paths in the park. This one was about six feet wide, a foot path of packed dirt created by the hard rubber soles of a thousand hikers.

Derek froze, considering. As best he could tell, the path ran roughly north and south. His pursuers were to the east. Should he cut back into the woods or should he take the path, striving for a faster pace?

He strained to hear above the thunderous pounding of his own heart. There were the small sounds of scuttling nocturnal animals: raccoons, opossums, squirrels, chipmunks, and their hunters, hawks and owls, maybe fox or feral cats. Small branches creaked and groaned in the light breeze. Further off was the sound of D.C., the rumble of cars, a distant siren… many sirens, he thought, too many.

Behind him a dark figure appeared on the path.

Startled, Derek leapt into the cover of the trees, the decision made for him. There was the sharp rattle of gunfire and something plucked at his leg. He staggered, fell, clambered to his feet, the sting in his leg growing into a hot blade of pain.

He pushed on, tree to tree, boulder to boulder, slowing.

Another rattle of gunfire. Bark splintered near his head. He turned, breath burning in his chest. He fingered the juju beads around his neck, wondering…

Two figures materialized around him, rifles raised.

Slowly, reluctantly, Derek raised his hands in surrender, hoping that Coffee — Fallen — still wanted him alive.

One of the men spoke into a throat mic with a thick Slavic accent. “Omega 3 and 4 have secured subject.”

Derek didn’t hear a response. All he could hear was the rushing of blood in his ears and the hard thud of his heart in his chest, his breath burning in his throat.

“Let’s go,” one of the men said, and shoved Derek toward the trees. Stumbling in the dark, he moved in the direction they told him to go, wondering bitterly just how long he had to live.

33

Aaron Pilcher felt overwhelmed by events. Donning a biohazard protective suit, he was being primed by an FBI agent on the Hazardous Materials Removal Unit. She was an aggressive forty-something with thick glasses, mouse brown hair that looked cut with a kitchen knife, and all the tact of a four-year-old.

“Don’t touch anything. Look and get out. Are you claustrophobic?”

“A little,” Pilcher said, already starting to sweat in the heavy rubber suit lined with activated charcoal. Chem suits didn’t breathe — that was the point.

“Don’t panic. Keep calm. Take deep breaths. If you start to panic, leave, get out of the building. Do not open the suit.” She brandished a finger in his face. “Do not open the suit. If you open the suit, you die. Period. Understand me?”

“Yes. Open the suit. Die. Got it.” His stomach churned, but he ignored it.

“Once you’re outside, either way, whether because you’re panicking or because it’s time to go, wait to be washed down. Can you handle this?”

Pilcher wasn’t sure he could, but he said he was fine. Then he said, “How long will it take to decontaminate The White House?”

Agent Brettano fixed her hazel eye on him. “It’s VX gas,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“You’re looking at the former resident of Presidents, Agent Pilcher. We’ll probably never be able to decontaminate it.”

He blinked, imagining it. What would they have to do? Incinerate it, one piece at a time? Block it off? Burn it to the ground and bury it in concrete, like Chernobyl? Involuntarily he felt a wave of rage wash over him. Dalton, that bastard. They were going to get him for this.

Brettano snapped her fingers in his face. “Are you paying attention?”

He was now. “Yes,” he said.

“Good. Listen closely. Your life isn’t the only one you risk if you panic in there, understand? You put my teams at risk and all the other people in there if you freak out. So I’m going to ask you again. Can you handle this?”

Pilcher looked her in the eye. “Yes. I can handle it.”

“Okay. Suit up.”

The suit was hot and awkward. The air from the tank smelled and tasted stale and metallic. He could smell his own sweat, bitter and acidic, the stench of fear.

The West Wing was well lit… for a graveyard. Pilcher had been told the body count was over one hundred. The VX gas had been released directly into the White House ventilation system through a cold air intake. Brettano had said in an ominous voice pinched with anger, “In DHS Deputy Director Samuel Dalton’s office.” The missing man. Hundreds of agents hunted him now, but so far, nothing.

The VX gas canister had been described to Pilcher as being a Coke can on the outside, but there had been a timed release mechanism on the inside. Dalton had been able to flick a switch on the bottom of the can, screw the brass grate back over the hole in the wall, then leave the White House on business. When the White House had been full of cabinet members, White House staff, the Joint Chiefs and various experts on dealing with biological and chemical emergencies, it had gone off, spraying a fine mist of one of the most dangerous substances on the planet through the ventilation system of the venerable old building.

An armed soldier in a chem suit, M4 carbine at the ready, met Pilcher. Pilcher pointed to the FBI stencil on his own suit. “I want to see Dalton’s office. Ground zero.”

The soldier nodded, waved over another similarly clad soldier, and led Pilcher up a flight of stairs and down a hallway lined with offices. Further on he saw a larger area with glass-walled cubicles. Apparently in this administration the Secretary and Deputy Director of the Department of Homeland Security warranted their own offices close to the Oval Office.

Two corpses remained in the hallway, one a young redheaded woman in a tan pantsuit, a sheaf of scattered paperwork dealt like cards around her body. Further down the hallway was the body of a crew-cut man in a navy blue three-piece suit. In his ear was a piece of molded plastic. His suit coat was crumpled beneath him to reveal a gun and holster. Secret Service, Pilcher thought.

TA half-dozen figures in chem suits and spacesuits moved about. This terrorist attack brought out every hazardous site team in the United States — military, FBI, CIA, CDC.

The soldier stood at a door and gestured for Pilcher to enter. Sweat rolling down his forehead and into his eyes, he blinked, eyes burning. He wanted to wipe the sweat away but couldn’t. Sweat rolled down his back. The urge to scratch his back, to try to get at the itch between his shoulder blades was almost unbearable. For a moment panic dug its sharp claws in and he struggled to control the urge to pull off the mask, to rub his face, to take a deep breath of uncanned air.

Get it together, he thought. He thought of his wife. Of his daughters. He thought of the First Lady and their two children, dead. He took a deep breath, then another. His heart calmed.

He went in.

There were three spacesuited figures in Dalton’s office, and Pilcher’s fourth was at least two too many for the space. He stood at the doorway and took in the office.

There was a large oak desk, dominated by a PC with a large flat-screen monitor. There were filing cabinets. On the wall above the desk was a large cork board with dozens of notes affixed to it. Along one wall were photographs: Dalton shaking hands with the President; Dalton in full-dress uniform; Dalton and a team of soldiers standing on a tank, a desert backdrop behind them. Pilcher squeezed in and took a closer look. He saw that one of the other soldiers, looking much younger, but much the same, was Derek Stillwater. He wondered if one of the two others was Richard Coffee.

A spacesuited agent worked at the desk, his gloved fingers slow and clumsy on the keyboard. The monitor screen was blank except for the words RECOVER ACTIVE, blinking in the top left corner.

Another figure methodically emptied files from Dalton’s filing cabinets. He laid them a page at a time on a credenza and the other agent took a photograph of the page using a digital camera. Then the first agent placed the page into a plastic biohazard bag and sealed them with duct tape. The world’s slowest, most dangerous crime scene, Pilcher thought.

His voice muffled in the suit, Pilcher ID’ed himself and asked what the computer tech was doing.

“Bastard wiped his hard drive on his way out the door,” the agent said, voice equally muffled, but not enough to hide the nasal twang of New Jersey. “I’m doing a quick forensic recovery with some special software, then I’m going to dump the whole thing to my system so we won’t have to mess with transporting this thing out of here. Okay, baby, lookin’ good.”

The screen was coming to life.

The computer agent muttered, “You’re not as smart as you thought you were, motherfucker.”

Inside his suit Pilcher raised an eyebrow. Dalton had damn near decapitated the U.S. government. He had no desire to underestimate this psychopath.

“Let’s check his e-mail before I upload this…. huh.”

“What?”

“His last e-mail.” The agent pointed with a rubber-gloved hand.

Pilcher shuffled forward and peered over the agent’s shoulder. The message said:

THE ASCENT HAS BEGUN.

But his gaze locked in on who he had sent the messages to. The e-mail addresses were to stillwater.derek@dhscom.gov and irenek@hotmail.com. Derek Stillwater and Irina Khournikova!

“When were those sent?” he demanded.

The agent checked. “Looks like eleven this morning.”

Before the assault on U.S. Immuno, Pilcher thought. Dear God, they’re in on it!

34

Sharon Jaxon, in her spacesuit, wheeled a cart carrying a laptop computer and mounted digital camera into The Slammer. Liz Vargas lay propped against two foam pillows on the bed, writing notes on a yellow legal pad.

“We’ve got Dr. Hingemann waiting for a hookup,” Jaxon said. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” Liz said, though in truth she was exhausted. A headache was starting to pound behind her eyes. There could be perfectly good reasons besides Chimera for her to be tired and to be developing a headache. Stress was right at the top of the list. She didn’t think it was stress.

“We’re wireless, so let’s get booted up, then I’m going to check your vitals.”

Liz nodded. Much of her energy — her will to fight — of only a short while ago had waned. She knew this disease. She could try to ignore that she would probably die — and soon — but it was hard. In some ways she wanted Sharon to give her a strong shot of Valium and just go to sleep and…

No! She had to fight. For future victims, if not for herself.

She sat upright and watched as Sharon plugged in the computer and pulled it close to her bed. As Sharon took her temperature, Liz turned on the computer and made the connections Sharon directed her to. After a few minutes, the image of her old college advisor — her mentor — appeared on the screen. He was older and bald, his beard as scruffy and unkempt as she remembered, more salt now than pepper. He peered through miles of cyberspace and said, “Liz! They’ve only told me a little bit about this, but I understand it has to do with this terrorist attack we’re hearing so much about.”

Her eyes filled with tears and fought them back. “Les,” she said. “Oh God! What did they tell you?”

“That you’re working on a vaccine for this Chimera.”

She sighed. “Yes. We hope so. I’m going to send you our records. This is vitally important.”

Les nodded gravely. “Of course. I’ll get right to reading…”

Sharon, not visible to the computer screen, said, “Tell him.”

Liz turned away from the camera to study Jaxon. “I—”

”Tell him.”

“What, Liz?” Dr. Hingemann asked. “What’s going on?”

“Are you familiar with USAMRIID, Lester?”

“I’ve heard of it, of course. Yes.”

“I’m there. Lester… I was accidently infected with Chimera M13.”

Hingemann looked startled, but only for a minute. “You need to tell me as much as you can. How long do you have?”

“Anywhere from six hours to twelve hours.”

Hingemann paled. “That’s so fast. Dear God. What is this thing?”

She told him, her voice clipped and urgent, cramming a tremendous amount of information into a very small timeframe.

“It’s a virus? Liz, I’m not a virologist. You know that. My work was on immunological reactions to Bubonic plague.”

“Yes! That’s why I thought of you. We incorporated part of Yersinia’s DNA into the virus! It helped with immunosuppression.”

Hingemann’s bushy eyebrows raised. “What part did you incorporate into the DNA? Is it possible you incorporated… are some of Yersinia’s antigens incorporated into the viral capsule?”

“Maybe,” Liz said. “Maybe.” She felt a tickle behind her nose and said, “Excuse me,” the sneeze building up quickly. She quickly plucked a Kleenex from the night table and sneezed into it. She took the tissue away to see it was filled with spatters of blood and mucous. She felt liquid begin to run from her note and pressed the Kleenex to her face. It was soaked with blood.

“Liz!” Hingemann said, voice alarmed. “Liz, are you all right?”

Liz felt the world spinning around her, eyes filling with tears. The subject monkeys’ first clear symptom of infection had been bloody noses.

“Liz! Talk to me! Are you all right? What’s going on?”

Liz didn’t hear him. She was thinking, It’s starting too fast. I should have had two to four more hours before the internal bleeding began. Oh God, oh god, ohgodohgod…

35

After what seemed like an endless march through the dark, Derek stumbled out of the trees and onto a grassy berm leading down to a road. He was nowhere near the parking lot with its burning helicopter and cars and dead bodies. He wasn’t sure where he was. He suspected that he had been marched east, away from the parking lot, but he had become totally disoriented in the darkness, his body aching, his wounded leg screaming with every step, staggering over tree roots and rocks and uneven patches of ground.

Two vans were parked by the side of the road. The passenger side door of the front van opened and a tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped out wearing camouflage fatigues. Derek nodded to himself. Richard Coffee. Older, bearded, his face more lined, his hair more gray. Coffee strode toward him until he was arm’s length away.

“Derek! Good to see you!”

Pure hatred exploded in Derek’s chest. Without warning he launched himself at Coffee. Coffee easily knocked him aside. Staggering, one of his guardians slammed the butt of his rifle into the back of Derek’s skull. Derek fell to the ground, fireworks exploding in his head. He tried to pull air into his lungs, but couldn’t.

“Well, enough of that,” Coffee said. “Bind his hands. Damn, Derek. Why can’t you just play nice?”

“Fuck you.”

A booted foot lifted him off the ground. Derek curled into a protective ball, wretching and gasping for breath. Coffee said, “Enough, already. I need to talk to him later. Don’t I, Derek?”

Coffee crouched down so he was on Derek’s level. Derek looked up at him, feeling ill, wanting to kill the man who had once been his friend. Coffee said, “Or maybe we can talk right now? I really only have one question for you. Where’s Irina Khournikova?”

Oh shit, Derek thought through his fog of pain. From bad to worse. “Who?” he croaked out.

Coffee backhanded him. Derek collapsed into a pile on the grass.

“Wrong answer. Get him into the van.”

The two minders pulled Derek’s arms tightly behind him and what felt like plastic flexi-cuffs snapped around his wrists. They bodily lifted him off the ground and dragged him to the front van. He fell unceremoniously onto the hard floor of the vehicle and the two men climbed in after, bracketing him. Coffee held a canvas bag in his hands. In a soft, menacing voice, he said, “Irina is very important to me, Derek. I want to know where she is. When we get you to headquarters, you’re going to tell me where she is.”

“I don’t—”

Coffee yanked the bag over Derek’s head, cutting him off.

Lying on the floor of the van, feeling the vehicle move and turn, Derek thought about Irina Khournikova. He needed to buy time. When they got to wherever headquarters was, Coffee was going to insist he tell him where she was. Were they lovers? Irina is very important to me, Derek.

He tried to focus on a story. He could not tell Coffee she was dead. He could especially not tell her he had killed her while interrogating her. Not if he wanted to live very long afterwards. Derek focused his mind and tried to think. He thought as if his life depended upon it — because it did.

It was only a short time before the van came to a stop. Derek guessed they were either still in D.C., or in one of the nearby suburbs.

Coffee said, “Get him out. Take him over to Trailer C.”

Derek was lifted roughly by his arms. Once was on his feet, the bag was ripped off his face. Blinking in the sudden illumination, Derek studied his surroundings. He stood in a large warehouse. Behind him were a series of metal doors, one of which the vans had driven through. A few dozen vehicles were parked near the doors: white vans, sport utility vehicles, a couple motorcycles, Army Humvees. It was a huge space, large enough to accommodate a dozen motor homes and trailers. A group of people moving around, loading luggage into vehicles, attending to tasks that to Derek looked like early preparation for departure. Everyone he saw was armed with handguns and assault rifles.

Something odd caught his attention. It was a large trailer in one corner. It appeared to be a double-wide. It was painted a flat putty color and there were no windows, everything having been boarded up, painted with the putty and further sealed with what looked like plastic sheeting and duct tape. From the roof of the far end of the double-wide were a number of metal tubes that extended upward and back to the rear wall of the warehouse. The tubes also appeared to be covered with putty and plastic sheeting.

A generator and fan roared next to the trailer. Next to the generator were stacked barrels of gasoline. It was the only trailer in the warehouse that had its own power supply and circulatory system.

He puzzled over what he was seeing, but only for a moment because the two guards shoved him in the back with their guns and headed him toward a different trailer. Coffee said, “I’ll be around in a few minutes.”

The two guards marched Derek across an open expanse of concrete to a motor home. One of the guards opened the door and went in, the other shoved Derek after. “Trailer C?” he asked, but was rewarded with a jab of pain in his left kidney. He climbed the two metal steps into the motor home and found himself in what must the be The Fallen Angels’ infirmary.

No thank you, he thought. It’s not time for my yearly medical checkup. Besides, I don’t think you accept my insurance.

“Sit,” one of his minders said, a muscular, steroid-juicer with a shock of white-blond hair. Derek dubbed him Sven. Sven pointed to an examining table.

Derek sat, though getting up there with his hands behind his back wasn’t the easiest thing he’d done all day.

Once on the examining table, he didn’t have long to wait. An Asian man dressed in what looked like either black scrubs or pajamas entered the motor home, Richard Coffee behind him. Derek couldn’t pinpoint the nationality. Probably not Japanese. Possibly Chinese or Philippino. Not, he didn’t think, Korean, though it was hard to tell. Something about his features suggested Chinese. Not Malaysian, Indonesian…

“Dr. Ling is going to take a look at you,” Coffee said.

“No thanks. I’m fine,” Derek said.

“You’re limping and favoring your side.”

“Yeah, it’s been a rough day, but…”

Ling was tall and thin, long black hair swept off a narrow forehead. Derek looked into his eyes and saw nothing. Black orbs with no life in them. The man’s lack of emotion chilled him and he flinched away from Ling’s long fingers as the doctor touched his cheek and moved his head back and forth slowly, examining him. Derek jerked away. “Leave me alone,” he snarled.

Ling didn’t say anything, but cocked his head. In lightly accented English, he said, “Lay down, please.”

“No.”

Ling nodded to the two guards, who roughly shoved him down on the examining table. Ling opened a cabinet to reveal a tray of sterilized surgical instruments. “Cut off the cuffs and secure his arms and legs to the table, please. I need to take a closer look at his wounds.”

“I’m—”

Ling gave a quiet, “Ssshhhhh, Dr. Stillwater. Please cooperate.”

Derek didn’t have much choice. The two men, Sven and his partner, a stringy, wiry guy with Slavic features that he had started thinking of as Ivan, cut off his cuffs and forced him back on the table. He knew he could take them if they got careless. The two guys were dangerous, but he could kill them. But then he would have to get past Ling and Coffee and out of this place with a dozen armed men all too willing to gun him down. And escaping wasn’t why he was here. Although he had absolutely zero idea how to do it and the rock-solid knowledge that his odds of accomplishing it were probably less than zero, his mission was to locate Chimera M13. His mission was to retrieve or destroy it, and at the very least determine what Coffee and his Fallen Angels intended to do with it.

Derek’s wrists and ankles were placed in padded cuffs and secured. Their presence didn’t bode well, Derek thought. This was not exactly a medical clinic if they were prepared to restrain their patients. They could act like he was a patient, but he knew better. Dread crept up on him like a rising tide, but he forced it away, concentrating on the cover story he had created on the trip here. Ling walked over to him, a pair of scissors in his hands. He stood over Derek a moment, the shiny metal scissors held in front of Derek’s face, as if the man was debating on exactly what to do with them. To trim his hair, to cut his nails, to plunge the sharp shiny points into his eye socket. Derek stared past them into Ling’s face, into his lifeless eyes, looking for signs of humanity and not finding it.

Carefully Ling began to cut off Derek’s clothing. The only sound was the snip and snick of the scissors and the soft plop of his tattered clothing falling to the floor of the trailer.

The scissors were cold against his flesh and Derek found he had to control himself from trembling. He knew, rationally, that there was more than medicine going on here. He knew that forcing a prisoner to be naked gave the captors both a physical and psychological advantage.

Knowing did not necessarily help in dealing with the vulnerability.

After a few minutes he was totally naked on the table, arms and legs immobile. “Gee, you could have asked me to disrobe,” he said, oddly grateful they had left his beads and four-leaf clover.

Carefully Ling peeled away the dressing the Coast Guardsman had placed over the gouge in his ribs caused by the D.C. cop’s gunshot. Ling pulled over a lamp on a tensile steel arm and shined the harsh light on the wound. “You are showing some early signs of infection. But it is not deep. It needs to be cleaned again.”

Ling pulled on Latex rubber gloves and retrieved a bottle of saline. Carefully, skillfully, he began to wash out the wound, blotting it gently with sterile gauze. Derek was not calmed by this. Instead, he was worried. Ling had skills. Ling… knew things.

Ling nodded his head and said, “It will require a few stitches and antibiotics. This wound in your leg, however, is another matter. It is deeper than the wound in your ribs. Hmmm…” He nodded thoughtfully to himself, picked up a metal probe and looked over at Richard Coffee who had been watching silently from next to the doorway. Ling nodded.

Coffee walked over to the examining table and looked down at Derek. “Where’s Irina Khournikova?”

Derek said, “When I was with her I got a phone call from my FBI contact. He had found out that Halloran, the head guy at U.S. Immuno, had been having an affair with a Russian national named Irina Khournikova. Her cover was blown. I overpowered her and turned her over to the FBI. She should be at FBI Headquarters now, under interrogation.”

Coffee said, “Interesting,” and nodded to Ling.

Ling took his stainless steel probe and deliberately, almost delicately, forced it into the wound in Derek’s ribs. It felt as if a lance had ripped right through him. His body screamed as if every nerve had been dipped in acid. Lights exploded in his head and he shrieked, the sound seeming to come from outside him, from someone else.

Ling withdrew the probe, a slight smile crossing his lean face. “Yes, that worked rather well, didn’t it? Nerve induction. It is a science. And you conveniently left me two openings in your body to probe the nerve directly. Saved me the time and trouble of doing so myself. Now, I believe The Fallen had a question. Where is the woman you know as Irina Khournikova?”

Derek stared at the man, sweat beading off his forehead, burning into his eyes. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He could feel his heart thundering in his ears, taste blood in his mouth. “I… told…”

Ling inserted the probe once again and this time the pain exploded along his body like an electric charge and Derek let himself chase the exploding lights behind his eyes into darkness.

36

General Johnston was shrugging back into street clothing when Colonel Zataki appeared at the door of the examining room. Zataki now wore Army fatigues, his face pale, expression worried.

“He wants to see us,” Zataki said.

Johnston cocked his head as he buttoned his shirt. “Have you talked to him?”

“No. I just got in contact with my people at the Institute. I’ve got to get back there.”

“Anything new?”

Zataki scowled. “Halloran committed suicide; Scully’s dead; Vargas, the only remaining expert on Chimera, accidentally infected herself with it and is starting to show early signs of the infection. For all I know that’s the good news. God only know what the bad news is going to be. How about you?”

“Well, my hand-picked second-in-command managed to assassinate most of the heads of the U.S. government and the FBI thinks my hand-picked troubleshooter is involved with it as well.”

Zataki’s face grew even paler, if that was possible. Slowly he said, “The Bureau thinks Stillwater’s involved in this?”

Johnston buttoned the top button of his shirt and began working on his tie. “Dalton e-mailed Stillwater around eleven today with some cryptic message: ‘The Ascent has begun.’ The bureau thinks it’s a reference to the operation at U.S. Immuno.”

“Huh.” Zataki looked at his hands a moment. “This thing has all the feel of a full-blown act of war, Jim. We’re fighting on multiple fronts, all of then unconventional. Biological, chemical, psychological. It’s terrorism, but organized.”

“Yeah, like three fucking jets into skyscrapers. I know.”

Zataki shook his head. “I’ve known Derek Stillwater a long time. I can’t see him involved in this.”

“Well, I’ve known Sam Dalton for a long time, too, and he wouldn’t have been my first candidate to decapitate the U.S. government with VX gas.”

“But Derek…”

“I know.” Johnston pulled his tie tight as if trying to strangle himself. “Over the years I’ve worked with Dalton he was always a by-the-book guy. Always did what was needed, followed orders, followed the chain-of-command.”

“Derek,” Zataki said, “isn’t like that.”

“No.” Johnston pulled on his jacket. All the clothing they had been wearing in the White House had been taken by the FBI HMRU to be incinerated. He had called his wife and asked her to bring a suit to the hospital ASAP. He sighed, thinking of her, now back at home, watching the news on TV. Waiting for the next wave of the attack… because Johnston was sure that Dalton and whoever was ahead of all this… and maybe it was Dalton who was at the top… had more planned. He said, “Derek thinks outside the box. That can actually be a problem in the Army, as you know. But I thought it was exactly what Homeland Security needed in a troubleshooter. I wanted creative thinking, not bureaucratic thinking.”

Zataki nodded. “I went into a hot zone with Derek about six years ago. There was an Ebola outbreak in Congo. We were part of a U.N. team sent in to evaluate. On the trip in he was a mess. He was physically ill, throwing up, had the shakes, everything. I thought he’d never make it. Then we set down in Kinshaasa and he was in total control.” He paused, thinking. “I don’t for a minute believe Derek Stillwater would purposefully risk letting this bug loose on the world.”

“I agree with you.”

“Then you’ll need to convince the President of that. You need to leave Stillwater out in the field to do his job.”

Johnston shook his head. “Ben… I’ll be lucky if I can convince them to take him alive.”

President Langston breathed oxygen through a green plastic mask. His skin had a gray, parchment quality to it, and his eyes were red and swollen. He was surrounded by Secret Service and a small cadre of advisors. The few left, Johnston thought.

“Gentlemen,” President Langston said, pulling the oxygen mask away from his face to talk. “I want to thank you both for saving my life.”

“I’m glad I did, sir,” Johnston said.

“I only wish we had saved more,” Zataki added.

“Yes.” Langston seemed to lose focus for a moment, thinking of his dead family and staff, no doubt. Marshaling his strength, he said, “I’ll be leaving the hospital soon, heading to an undisclosed location. Colonel Zataki, a helicopter will take you to Fort Detrick. It is waiting at the hospital helicopter pad, as we speak. Frida will take you there now.”

A female agent with blond hair and freckles separated from the pack and nodded to Zataki. “Colonel…”

Zataki nodded, expressed condolences to the President, and followed the agent out of the hospital room, the door closing behind him. Another agent moved into position in front of it.

“Now, General,” President Langston said, gaze focusing on Johnston. “We have a problem.”

“Yes sir. I think we do, as well.”

Langston said, “Your Deputy Director and one of your troubleshooters is a terrorist.”

“Mr. President,” Johnston said. “I have little doubt that Sam Dalton is behind this. I do not, however, feel that Derek Stillwater is involved. Everything about this, from the misinformation to the booby-trapped vans at the airport, have indicated a sort of… smoke and mirrors approach—”

”General,” President Langston said, harsh voicing cutting off the Secretary’s words. “Evidence points to an astonishing level of betrayal and corruption in your office. Perhaps it was unavoidable. Perhaps Dalton was the perfect chameleon in our midst. Perhaps. But, General, you were in charge. And your failure to see this… this devil amongst us, has cost this country many fine leaders and has personally cost me my family. I am asking for your immediate resignation.”

Johnston nodded, having known that this was coming. He was no longer trusted. He had failed, and failed in a way that would go down in the history books. “Yes sir,” he said.

One of the advisors, a man Johnston did not know, stepped forward with a written document. He read it over. It was a letter of resignation awaiting his signature. He took the proffered pen.

“Mr. President,” he said, pen in hand. “I am devastated by your loss, and by my failure in this matter. But… sir… I do not believe that Derek Stillwater was involved in this. In my heart I’m convinced that he has a better chance of getting to the bottom of this than anyone does.”

“Your convictions are not shared by me,” Langston snapped. “As far as I am concerned, Derek Stillwater is a conspirator in the murder of my family, and the full strength of this country’s law enforcement structure is going to be focused on catching him and Dalton and prosecuting them to the fullest extent of the law. And if they die resisting, well that’s just too damned bad.”

Johnston met the gaze of the President. “With all due respect, Mr. President, I think you’re wrong. I hereby tender my resignation.” He signed the letter and put down the pen.

“You’re dismissed,” Langston said.

Without a word General Johnston turned and left the room.