The Devil's Pitchfork (11 page)

“No, no.” Her accent intensified. She shook her head. “Not
your
people like that. Others. Probably CIA. Maybe your Military Intelligence. State Department. My guess is CIA.”

Derek said nothing, but thought of FBI agent Aaron Pilcher.
Don’t use the C word.

His creeping feeling of dread had caught up to him. Confusion or fear or paranoia, he couldn’t be sure which, but he was feeling it. The panic rat was back, chewing on his intestines. He struggled to stay calm, to focus on what was happening and not shift into analytical mode. There would hopefully be time for that later. Now he had to find out as much as he could and stay on top of the risk factor. He shoved aside his confusion.

“Who are you with?” he asked.

She shook her head again. “When we get to the safe house. Then I’ll answer your questions. We’re almost there.”

There
turned out to be a five-story apartment building made of dirty gray brick. It wasn’t inviting. To Derek it looked like an upscale tenement, if there was such a thing. He suspected that in Washington, D.C., there were. On the street, people were out and about, but not many and he had the sense that most of them were beginning their evening prowl, looking for trouble. The neighborhood projected that feeling. She found a spot to park the Blazer on the street and told him to follow her.

Evaluate, coordinate, investigate
, he thought.

Derek followed her. A block away somebody shouted in Spanish. Further off he heard music, a heavy bass beat. Even further away, a siren. The sounds of the nation’s capital. There was nobody at the door of the building, just a buzzer console Khournikova ignored, letting herself in with a key. She headed for the stairwell. He followed, keeping his hand near the Colt on his belt, senses highly attuned to the environment. There were the background sounds of TVs and radios and muttered conversations. The stairs were bare concrete, the metal handrail showing peeling white paint. It smelled of dampness and insect repellant.

She stopped at the third floor and led him down a long hallway with poor lighting, every fourth bulb burned out. The carpet was a worn blue, the walls a dingy white. Fading lower-middle-class, he thought. Welcome to the American Dream.

She stopped at apartment 302, jabbed another key into the door and walked in, flicking on a light.

He followed, pulling the Colt as he stepped into the entryway. When she turned he had it aimed directly at her face. She did not seem surprised.

“Who are you?” Derek demanded.

“Lieutenant Irina Khournikova. Directorate T, Russian Federal Security Service.”

“Directorate T?” He did not lower the gun.

“Anti-terrorism. We need to talk about Richard Coffee. If you put the gun away, we can.” Her hazel eyes met his gaze, not flinching.

Yeah, tough, he thought, confirming his initial assessment. He lowered the gun but didn’t put it away.

“Turn around,” he said.

She continued to stare up at him, then slowly turned.

“Take your gun out—two fingers—very slowly and drop it gently on the floor.”

For a second he didn’t think she’d comply. Then she reached gingerly into her jacket and removed the gun, holding it with two fingers. She bent over and dropped it on the floor.

“Kick it back to me.”

She did without comment. He crouched, gun still aimed at her, and picked up her weapon.

“Go on in. Slowly. Hands on head.”

She did. He followed her. It was a two-bedroom apartment, the living room off to the right, the kitchen/dining area to the left. Straight ahead were three doors: the bathroom and two bedrooms. The carpet was the color of a rotten avocado, the walls a single coat of egg shell. There was battered furniture that looked like it came with the apartment: a TV in the living room, two chairs and a threadbare sofa. The kitchen table appeared to be forty or fifty years old, steel tubing and Formica, the chairs a mismatched set of red and blue vinyl and chrome. Derek jammed the gun in her back and pushed her through the apartment. One of the bedrooms had a double bed with two pillows and a gray blanket and thick blue comforter. The second bedroom had a desk and computer on it.

He examined every room, shoving her ahead of him. Finally they were back in the kitchen. “Hands on the table, wide apart. Lean forward.”

She assumed the awkward position without comment. Derek patted her down, retrieved a man’s wallet from her jacket pocket.

“Do you carry a purse?”

“When I need to.”

He flipped through the wallet. She started to stand up, but he said, “Eh, eh, eh. Stay right there until I tell you differently.” The wallet contained unfamiliar ID written in Russian and an ID that appeared to provide her access to the Russian embassy.

“Have a seat,” he said, and poked around in the kitchen, finding it to be reasonably well stocked. Otherwise the apartment looked barely lived in. In fact, the toiletries in the bathroom appeared nondescript, as if from an inexpensive hotel. The whole place appeared to be exactly what the Russian claimed it to be: a safe house, a bolt hole.

Derek sat at the table, dumped the ammunition from Khournikova’s gun and slid the weapon across the table to her, keeping the full magazine. He holstered his Colt.

“Okay,” Derek said. “Talk.”

“Satisfied?” She slipped her gun into her shoulder holster and shot him an irritated look.

“Not hardly, lady. I’m very pressed for time today. You have exactly five minutes to convince me you’re not wasting my time, so start talking.”

“I need your help.”

“If the Russian government wants help from the United States, there are proper channels to use. I’m not one of them.”

She shrugged. “You are looking for a man called Richard Coffee.”

“What makes you think that?”

“My people have ways of knowing certain things. One of those things is when and if someone is checking Richard Coffee’s records on computer.”

“Then I’ll recommend the Pentagon double-check their computer security. Okay. I might be looking for information about Richard. So what?”

“Why are you looking for him?” She sat perfectly still, forearms resting on the table in front of her. She seemed to be working very hard to appear nonthreatening.

“
What? Your people don’t have ways of knowing that?
” He imitated her accent, sarcasm dripping off every word.

“Are my five minutes about up, Doctor Stillwater? Do you wish to play games or do you wish to obtain information?”

Derek closed his eyes. He opened them and glared at her. “Why does Russia’s antiterrorism unit want to keep tabs on a dead U.S. soldier?”

“Richard Coffee is not dead.”

Derek felt his heart thud harder in his chest. Confirmation.

“U.S. military records indicate he is,” he said. “As you know.”

Khournikova smiled a hard, tight smile. “Richard Coffee
died
in Iraq in 1991. He was reborn a short time later as Surkho Andarbek. The name, by the way, is Chechen for
‘strong warrior
.’ This was shortly after Chechnya declared their independence. We did not become aware of his presence for some time.”

Derek thought the timing and the Russian language skills would have been perfect. He said, “The military doesn’t run spies like that.”

She snorted in derision. “Really, Doctor? How interesting. Let us not argue that point. As you said, you are pressed for time. We are convinced that Coffee was working for your Central Intelligence Agency at the time.”

“Okay,” Derek said. “Let’s say I go along with your premise.”

“It is not a
premise.
It is a fact.” Her voice carried a harsh, bitter tone. She leaned forward, fingers stabbing the Formica table top. “Richard Coffee was inside Chechnya for the CIA.”

“Whatever you say. That’s nice. So?” Derek glanced at his watch.

“Richard Coffee’s mission,” she snarled, “was to foment revolution on the part of the Chechen rebels, to filter money and military weapons—U.S. money and weapons—to the Chechens. It was the express policy of the CIA to increase Russia’s internal problems by supporting a known domestic terrorist group on Russian soil.”

Derek thought it over. He could believe it. The U.S. had a long history of doing things very similar. Having an ear inside Chechnya would have been considered a very good thing by U.S. foreign policy makers. Russian leadership insisted the Chechens were terrorists, not a separatist movement caused by Russian heavy-handedness. The U.S. was reluctantly willing to go along with this as long as Russia supported the United States’ War on Terrorism. It put the U.S. in an awkward position, calling the Palestinians terrorists and supporting Israel, while supporting Russia and calling the Chechens an internal problem.

“Okay,” he said. “So what makes you think Richard Coffee—assuming that he didn’t die in Iraq—is now in the United States. And what makes you think...” He paused. “You were following me.”

“I was, yes.”

“For how long?”

“Since you left the Pentagon.”

He looked at her. She brushed her hair away from her face. “And you knew I was at the Pentagon because...”

“I already told you. We were informed that you were showing an interest in Richard Coffee. I was to follow you and see if you could lead me to his whereabouts.”

“That was rather quick. I was only at the Pentagon for about two hours.”

“Yes,” she said. “Richard Coffee is something of a priority to my government.”

“Because?”

“Because, Doctor Stillwater, he is, as you might say, Public Enemy Number One. He stopped working for your government five years ago.” She waited for his inevitable question.

“What happened five years ago?”

“He died.”

Derek broke into a grin and slapped the table. “Well hell, Irina! Then I guess he’s nobody’s problem. The man’s dead. Twice over.” His grin faded and he said, “Just tell me.”

It was believed that Richard Coffee died during a major Russian offensive into Chechnya. A man Chechen captives called Surkho Andarbek had been caught by a mortar. They wrote it off as good news, and later the FSB picked up some signal intelligence indicating that the CIA had lost contact with their man in Chechnya. With the shifting tides of U.S./Russian relations, Coffee’s active role in inciting Chechnyan separatism and covert U.S. financial support to the rebels was a major embarrassment to the U.S. and a major bargaining chip to the Russians.

Then there started to be rumors of some other group working on the Russian/Georgia border. A group of multi-national terrorists who could supply any kind of military weapon you could ask for. They were led by a man who called himself The Fallen.

“The Fallen,” Derek said.

“Yes. That’s what the group called themselves. The Fallen, or The Fallen Angels.”

They were believed to have belonged to various military, espionage and anti-terror agencies around the world. Disaffected by their own countries, they pledged their allegiance to their leader, known as Fallen, or The Fallen. He was considered to be charismatic, a great warrior and a master of many languages. His mission was to bring about chaos to the world through terrorist acts. Only by destroying the current world government infrastructure could a better world be reborn from the ashes.

“Proof,” Derek said. “I need more than your word.”

“In the office. I have files.”

“Get them.”

It was a thick file filled with documents, all written in Russian, unfortunately, and a series of photographs. Derek stared at the first photograph. It was among what seemed to be a destroyed city, burned out buildings bombed to charred ruins. A half-dozen men were firing rifles over a brick wall. The man nearest to the camera wore camouflage fatigues and a black watch cap. He had a heavy beard and was sighting down an AK-47. It could have been Richard Coffee, but the angle was wrong and the beard made it difficult to see his face.

Derek flipped to the next photograph.

The man had turned and snarled at the photographer. The photograph caught the man head on, mouth open, eyes blazing from an inner fire.

Derek couldn’t take his eyes off the photograph. It was Richard Coffee. Definitely, without a doubt, the Richard Coffee he had worked with in Panama, Korea and Iraq. He shuffled through the photographs. Many were taken in Chechnya, all during battles and what appeared to be guerilla actions. Long-range photographs.

Then there were a series of what appeared to be surveillance photographs. An older Richard Coffee, now minus the beard, wearing boots and jeans and sweaters, or in business suits, meeting with various men of various nationalities in what appeared to be cities in different countries around the world. Derek stared at one. Coffee was in a restaurant that appeared Asian. He wore an off-white linen suit. He was talking to a man who appeared to be Korean.

Khournikova said, “North Korea.”

He looked up at her.

“We had the other man under surveillance. Kim Pak Lee. One of Korea’s top biowarfare specialists.”

Derek looked back at the photograph.

Khournikova said, “Lee disappeared shortly after that meeting.”

“Disappeared.”

“Yes. Or perhaps a more appropriate thing to say is, he fell.”

“Fell.”

“Yes. Kim Pak Lee joined The Fallen Angels, Doctor Stillwater.”

14

Frederick Municipal Airport

T
HE FIRST EXPLOSION KNOCKED
Pilcher flat on his ass. He had fast reflexes and scrambled to his feet and was sprinting toward the explosion site when the second and third vans exploded. This time the blasts slammed him against the side of a red Jeep Cherokee, stunning him. As he tried to fill his lungs, a pressure wave of hot air like dragon’s breath engulfed him. He dropped to the pavement and rolled under the Cherokee as flaming debris fell around him. His chest felt like it was on fire and he squeezed his eyes shut to protect them from the heat.

Beneath the Jeep, Pilcher thought the fallout lasted forever as sizzling cloth, plastic and metal clattered to the concrete, but it was probably only seconds.