The Devil's Pitchfork (31 page)

“Still active?” Vogel asked shrewdly.

“No,” Johnston said. “He runs a company called International Security Provisions, Inc. Better known as ISPI.”

Vogel blinked. “They’re—”

”Mercenaries,” Johnston said. “Let’s get to work.”

48

FBI Headquarters

A
GENTS RUSHED TOWARD THE
sound of gunshots, finding Agent Spigotta kneeling over the still body of Agent O’Hara. Spigotta knelt coatless on the floor next to O’Hara, his suitcoat wadded into a ball and pressed against the chest wounds he had inflicted. He knew it didn’t matter. This guy, whoever he was, was dead. But what the hell had he been doing?

Someone shouted over the braying of the fire alarm, “What in God’s name is going on?”

“Guy came out of nowhere, drew down on me,” Spigotta said. “Anybody know him?”

“O’Hara,” a woman agent said. “Anti-terror. Is that his gun there?”

Spigotta looked to where she was pointing. It had a silencer on the end. “Yes.”

She met his gaze. “He was coming after you?”

“Seemed to be. Didn’t you think the fire alarm was ... fishy?”

She swallowed. An older woman with graying hair and a fine crinkle of age lines around her eyes and mouth, she nodded. “But everything today...”

Acting Director McIlvoy appeared, jaw tense. “What’s going on here? Is there a fire?”

Someone said, “Bathroom one floor down ... we’ve got a dead agent in the john ... wastebasket’s on fire ... burning paper towel in the stairwell...”

McIlvoy stared at O’Hara’s lifeless body. “What Division? Is he one of ours?”

“Anti-terror,” someone said. “He’s one of ours.”

McIlvoy stared, then shifted his gaze to Spigotta. “What were you doing?”

“Interrogating the Russian. I heard the alarm and ran out in the hallway. I saw the smoke, turned to look down the hallway and saw this guy running in my direction. I noticed he was reaching in his coat and I didn’t like the feel of things. I thought the fire alarm was the wrong thing at the wrong time. Too much weird shit’s been happening today and I just got a feeling something wasn’t right. A fire alarm on top of everything? So I was drawing my gun and I turned around and he had his gun up and ready to shoot.”

“You think he was going after you?”

Spigotta frowned. He struggled to his feet, adrenaline still pumping. “Maybe after me. Maybe after the Russian. She knows something about these Fallen Angels. She’s the only person who seems to know anything about them. Pilcher thought there was a connection between her and Dalton. Maybe he wanted to eliminate a witness. Christ, I don’t know.”

“Where is she? Where’s the Russian woman?” asked McIlvoy.

“Still in the interrogation room.”

“She’d better be.”

Spigotta turned and lumbered to the interrogation room, blasting through the door to find the room empty. His heart thudded in his chest and he spun, nearly knocking Director McIlvoy down in his rush out the door. “Search the damned building!” he shouted. “Find her!”

49

The Fallen Angel’s Headquarters

D
EREK LAY ON HIS
back on the cot and stared at the ceiling. He didn’t know how much time had passed. He could have been out for minutes or hours. No one had come in to check on him. He had spent easily forty-five minutes studying his cell and trying to determine if there was a way to escape. The door locked from the other side, so, even if he were capable of picking a lock with an acupuncture needle he couldn’t because he didn’t have access.  The cot was lightweight plastic snapped together with a thin padded mattress on top. He could break it apart and maybe have a splintered chunk of plastic to use as a weapon, but it wouldn’t be strong enough to get him out of the room. The walls appeared to be rubber sealant painted over thick plywood or something similar.

And time was running out. Coffee had told him he had been injected with Chimera and the vaccine. A human guinea pig.

He didn’t know if it was true. His body was a mass of aches and pains—two bullet wounds, bruises, scrapes and dozens of acupuncture needle pricks, none of which actually ached, and a sort of residual body memory of severe pain. Pain was in the mind, so everyone said, but he could remember the feeling of his body on fire.

They believed their vaccine worked—if it was the truth. Had they already injected themselves? Was he really a real-world test? A guinea pig?

And could he use that knowledge?

Derek cocked an eyebrow, thinking. A plan?

He thought about Chimera, about what he knew about it. The first symptoms were bleeding—nosebleeds, ears, eyes, gums. And the last symptoms, too, he reflected.

Blood.

Suppose he was their guinea pig? Suppose they had tested their vaccine on lab animals—guinea pigs, mice, rats, maybe monkeys. Maybe it had worked. And now they had him.

He smiled. The problem with a human guinea pig...

He knew the results they would want.

He fingered the acupuncture needle he had secreted into his waistband.

And he knew the results they would fear.

Derek rolled onto his side so his back would be to the two-way mirror. He slipped the needle from where he had hidden it and fingered the flimsy metal. He sighed. So thin it wouldn’t cause bleeding if he poked it into his skin. But...

Taking a deep breath, Derek started scratching along the palm of his left hand, gouging through the skin. A thin line of scarlet appeared. Biting his lip, he dug deeper, ignoring the lance of pain that shot through his hand. Harder.

The scarlet line began to ooze, then drip.

Derek wiped his palm on his face, smearing the blood beneath his nose and on his chin.

The cut continued to bleed. He clenched his fist, clenched again, opened his palm. He wiped it again on his face, a line of blood by his ear.

Clenched his fist again, smearing the blood all over his hand.

Showtime.

He slapped his bloody palm against the mirror, once, twice, leaving bloody hand prints on the glass.

Then he slumped onto the cot, hand palm down, faking semi-consciousness.

And waited.

50

I
N HIS TRAILER,
R
ICHARD
Coffee packed a bag. He looked around the interior of what had been his home for the last year, a place he had shared with Nadia.

Nadia.

His eyes misted momentarily, but he shook his head, pushing the thoughts away. Next to the Samsonite was his passport. It was an American passport made out to William Richard Black. It was flawless.

Next to the passport was a can of Coke. He looked at the soda can, mesmerized by the potential.

Because the Coke can was not really a Coke can. It was an aerosol bomb loaded with Chimera.

He was the point man for the New World Order. Each of his angels had been inoculated against Chimera.

Each of his angels was given a Coke can loaded with Chimera. Today, they would began to spread out around the world. They would fly to various points around the globe: France, Spain, England, Russia, Australia, South Africa, Israel, India, Argentina. On their flights, they would open their aerosol bombs and infect hundreds of people on every continent.

Chimera would spread around the world in days.

When it was done doing his work, he and his Fallen Angels would start over again to create a paradise on earth.

He pulled out his gun, debating whether to bring it with him. It could be a liability at the airport. But he believed he could get rid of it easily before he had to go through security and before that point, he might need the weapon.

Coffee picked up a framed photograph of Nadia and himself. It had been taken by one of his angels when they were in Spain. For a moment his hands shook. He flung the frame against the wall, the glass shattering.

Coffee stared at it, then picked his way through the shards and drew the photograph of his beloved from the frame and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

It was time to say goodbye to his comrades. To his Fallen Angels.

51

Georgetown

S
ECRETARY
J
OHNSTON SETTLED UNCOMFORTABLY
onto one of Ernst Vogel’s early-American style chairs and picked up the phone. He wished he had his Rolodex, but he was sure that everything in his West Wing office was now fodder for a hazardous waste incinerator, along with his cell phone, which had been destroyed with his clothing. First he called information asking for International Security Provisions, Inc., and wrote the number down on a notepad that Vogel kept next to the phone. His gaze wandered around the room, taking in the shelf full of books and the stacks of albums, not CDs. Vogel was a fan of classical music, especially piano music. You might go so far as to say he was a classical pianist junky, collecting autographed concert posters and albums of people like Vladimir Ashkenazy and Peter Serkin and Gary Graff. Johnston himself was more of a rock fan and although he had caught The Rolling Stones six or seven times, it had been years since he bothered with live concerts. Too many crowds, too much money, too little time. Which, he realized, he was wasting now.

With a deep breath, Johnston dialed information and asked for the home number of Stuart English in Manassass and directed the operator to place the call.

It only rang twice before the smooth voice of retired General Stuart English answered with, “English here.”

“Stuart, it’s Jim Johnston.”

“Jim, I’m glad to hear your voice. Hell, I’m glad you’re alive. Is this official?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you back.”

“You need my—”

”No. Give me a couple minutes.”

Johnston nodded as the line went dead. English was undoubtedly moving to a secure line in a secure room of his house. Apparently Caller ID or something more sophisticated was part of his home phone package.

He waited, thinking, trying to anticipate the problems this conversation was going to create and how he could address them. It was only about two minutes when the phone rang. He picked up. “Johnston.”

“Jim, Stuart. What can I do for you?” Right to the point. That was the Stuart English Johnston had served with.

“I may need about twenty men in a very short period of time.”

“Tell me.”

Johnston hesitated. “You understand my position.”

“CNN claims you resigned over your connection to Dalton. I assume you were asked to resign.”

“Correct.”

“And?” English said.

“And that means that I am no longer in the employ of the United States government.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I’m working to track the group that broke into U.S. Immuno today.”

“What makes you think you’re going to have more luck than the FBI?”

“I’ve got Ernst Vogel.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, that might help. Okay. And if you do locate them...”

“I want twenty very experienced people to lead a raid on their facility.”

“Why not just call the FBI and turn it over to them.”

“So far they seem to be running around with their heads up their collective asses. And if what my troubleshooter told me about Chimera and this group is accurate, we really can’t wait for the Bureau to get their act together.”

“I see. Will twenty be enough?”

“I hope so.”

“But you have no idea of The Fallen Angels’ numbers.”

“No. Of course, I don’t have any idea of their location, either. I’m making preparations.”

“Yes, of course,” English said. There was silence on the line. “Yes,” he said. “Twenty local men with the kind of experience you need. Should be possible. As you are no longer the Director of DHS, how will you pay for them?”

“There is an off-shore account that I should still have access to,” he said. The account was, in fact, very secret and would be known to only a few high-level people in the government. The President might know about it—the National Security Advisor did, or had, since she was now dead. In fact, the majority of the people familiar with this particular account were now dead.

“I see,” English said. “Yes. That should do. Will there be repercussions later?”

Johnston could envision congressional hearings for the next thirty years if anybody in congress was alive to hold them.

“Hard to say. This is a matter of national security, Stuart.”

“They attacked the White House yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“The press don’t think the two incidents are related. Or so says the Bureau.”

“I think they are.”

Stuart was silent a moment. Then he quoted an amount of money and the numbered account in a Bahamian bank. It was a very large sum of money, but Johnston said, “That sounds a little low.”

“As you know, I am a patriot. I still have to pay these men and they are expensive ... you’re getting a discount.”

“Thanks, Stuart. Get them together and I’ll set up a staging area.”

“Here’s my cell,” English said and recited a number. “I’ll be on the move. Call me as soon as you can. And Jim...”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

Ernst Vogel was working at three separate computers simultaneously. Johnston had seen him do this before, but it always amazed him to watch the man shift from keyboard to keyboard, from screen to screen, entering data from one into another, entering databases and corporate and governmental archives and computer systems. The data was like a symphony and Vogel was like a concert master, directing it.

“I have not limited my search to Chemturion biosuits,” the man said, bringing up a window that showed the records from the company’s sales. “There are a number of companies and governments that produce similar items, but I think we will be dealing with Chemturion. They sold a number of biosuits this year, and not all of them make sense. There is an order of ten to a biotech company called Biosynthetica, Inc. in Maryland.”

“Biosynthetica,” Johnston said.

“
Ja
. However, although they are registered, they do not seem to exist.”

Johnston raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“
Ja
. Very suspicious. There is an address, but it is a suite in Essex. This—” He tapped at another keyboard and brought up a search engine and reverse phone directory. “—is actually a UPS Store, formerly a Mailboxes, Etc.”