The Devil's Pitchfork (4 page)

“And you succeeded?” Spigotta asked, dropping into a chair. He looked as if they had hit him in the forehead with a ball peen hammer.

“Yes. We succeeded.”

“Do you have an antidote for it. Antibiotics?”

Derek spoke up. “We’re back to basic vocabulary again. It’s a virus. It doesn’t respond to antibiotics. Does it respond to protease inhibitors or any of the anti-virals?”

“No,” Halloran said. “As far as we know it doesn’t respond to anything. Bleach can kill it. That’s it. It’s highly infectious, can be transmitted through the air, in water, on food, by touch. It remains alive and active on plain surfaces like a counter top for as long as six days. From infection to first symptoms it’s twelve hours, sometimes less. Around twelve hours the subjects develop internal bleeding, usually bloody noses which rapidly progresses to bleeding from the ears and the rectum. Within another six hours the internal organs are so compromised that soft tissue—eyes, mouth, gums, penis, vagina and bruised skin are bleeding uncontrollably ... eventually even the skin deteriorates, but by that time most hosts are essentially dead.”

“Death occurs within twenty-four hours?” Derek asked.

“As early as eighteen hours, depending on where the infection site is,” Liz Vargas said.

“And this is what a bunch of terrorists stole?” Spigotta’s voice had risen in anger and disbelief. “You invented this ... this Chimera just to prove it could be done, then you kept it?! Why in God’s name didn’t you destroy it?! Whatever possessed you to put it in cold storage!? Why in hell did you
save
it?!”

Still looking out the window, Derek muttered, “The devil’s pitchfork.”

Halloran looked startled. Spigotta snarled, “What did you say?”

Derek turned from the window, his expression grim. “When human beings steal the devil’s pitchfork, they don’t destroy it. They think by stealing it they’ve stopped the devil.” His gaze rested on Frank Halloran. “Instead, you’ve become the devil.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Congratulations.”

4

Frederick Municipal Airport, Maryland

T
HE MAN THEY CALLED
Fallen stepped out of the white van, looked around and took in the surroundings. They had parked the three vans on the second level of the Frederick Municipal Airport parking garage. He spotted the security cameras and turned, acting as if he did not notice; acting as if he were just an average businessman heading out of town. He and the rest of his people had rid themselves of their white Tyvek suits and their biological hazard masks after Lee had transferred the transport container into another double-lined completely sealable container. They now wore nondescript slacks and shirts, their Colt XM-177s stowed in gym bags and suitcases.

A private jet, a Lear, he thought, roared down the runway and leapt into the sky. Once the decibels diminished, he looked to Lee and asked him in Korean if the samples were safe.

Lee, who had gone into the hot zone with him, just nodded.

His men all looked at him, waiting for direction. Fallen had recruited them from various countries, specialists in a wide assortment of military and espionage skills. They were all warriors of one sort or another who had fallen from their government’s graces. Fallen had offered them money first, then he had offered them a sense of belonging. Finally, he had offered them a sense of mission. They were fanatically loyal to him, to his vision.

Fallen’s face split into a wicked grin. “Comrades,” he said. “That went perfectly. On to the next stage of the operation.”

They dispersed, all except one of the men, a short, wiry man with curly hair the color of weak tea cut close to his scalp.

“Dieter?” Fallen said, slipping into German. “
Was machst du da?
” (What are you doing there?)

Dieter stepped out of one of the vans and carefully shut the panel door, then turned to Fallen. He described the presents he had left in the vans.

Fallen was impressed. Dieter had special skills. He had simply told him to sabotage the vans for when the authorities had found them. But Dieter, like so many of his people, had surpassed his expectations.

“
Dieter, du bist ein Klugscheißer
!” (You are a clever shit.)

Dieter crawled into the second van, his thick voice wafting out of the door. “
Ich bin ein tödlich Scheißer
.” (I am a deadly shit.)

“
Gut
,” Fallen said. “
Das ist gut
.”

Once Dieter was done with all three vans, he followed Fallen from the second level to the first where the rest of his people waited. As he walked, Fallen pulled out a cellular telephone and placed a call. It was answered by a woman.

“Nadia,” Fallen said, and spoke in Russian. “
Dushka
, the operation has gone perfectly.”

“You are safe?”

“We all are. Have you been tracking the enemy?”

“
Da
. The FBI, led by a Richard Spigotta. And the Department of Homeland Security, a Dr. Derek Stillwater.”

Fallen’s hand gripped the cellular telephone. “Who?”

“Dr. Derek Stillwater.”

Fallen’s eyes flashed and for a moment he felt a rage that threatened to engulf him. He whispered, a harsh voice, “I was promised.
I was promised!
”

“Fallen...”

“No,” Fallen whispered into the phone. “No. I need you for this. You and only you. You must track this Derek Stillwater. Where is he now?”

“Probably at U.S. Immunological Research.”

“Pick him up there if you can. Then get back with me immediately. Have them pull his records so you can identify him. Follow him.”

“Yes. Be careful.”

“You, too,
Dushka
. You too.”
Dushka.
Darling.

Fallen clicked off the telephone, the anger clear on his face. His men watched him carefully. He took a deep breath, thinking of empty promises and of betrayal. He thought of things that might go wrong, on the uncontrollable elements of any operation.

Einstein had said that God did not play dice with the universe.

Fallen was certain that Einstein had been wrong. God routinely played dice with the universe and took great pleasure in unexpected turns of chance.

Derek Stillwater was an unexpected problem.

He paused, thinking, then climbed into one of the waiting vehicles, a black Mercedes sport utility vehicle.

 Derek Stillwater could be an asset. Or Derek Stillwater could be a major problem.

Thinking of divine powers and plans, Fallen wondered which Derek Stillwater would turn out to be. He wondered
if
he would be forced to kill Derek Stillwater.

He wondered
when
he would be forced to kill Derek Stillwater.

And he imagined dice rolling across the sky and knew that he was the one who was flinging them.

5

U.S. Immunological Research

D
EREK STOOD FRONT-AND-CENTER.
“Okay. I’m going into HL4. Who’s qualified to go in with me?” He let his gaze settle on Halloran and Vargas.

“I will,” Liz said. She swallowed hard, looking ill.

“Now wait a minute,” Halloran said. “Who are you? Nobody goes in the hot zone unless they’re—”

Derek said, “I was trained in the Level 4 facility at USAMRIID. I spent the Gulf War on the front lines as a Bio and Chem Warfare Specialist, then I spent a year or two afterwards defusing biowarheads in Iraq. Then I joined UNSCOM as a weapons inspector until Saddam Hussein kicked us out in ‘98.” He paused. “I’m qualified. I’m going in. And with all due respect, Doctor, you don’t really have all that much say about it right at the moment.”

He turned to Spigotta. “I’ve got an underwater camera in my GO Pack. I’ll get pics so you can see things. Send in the Detrick people when they get here. In the meantime, there are a few things you might consider.”

Stillwater held up a finger. “One, I want to see the local security cameras.”

He added a finger, counting off his points. “Two, I suggest you start a team of as many as you can getting every traffic cam, ATM camera or security tape in a five-mile radius of this facility. See if we can get a look at the people in these vans.”

Another finger. “Three, somebody with an ID badge and somebody who knew or had access to the entrance codes to HL4 is involved. Better find out—”

”We know that,” Spigotta growled. “James Scully. It was his ID. He called in sick today. I’ve sent a couple agents to his house.”

“He’s not involved in this,” Halloran said. “Jim and I came here together from USAMRIID. He’s completely trustworthy.”

“He’s sure as hell involved, Doctor,” Spigotta snarled. “It was his ID badge that gave them access.” Ignoring Halloran further, Spigotta turned to Derek, his face twisted in skepticism. “Anything else, Stillwater?”

Derek turned to Liz Vargas. “The language the two men spoke to each other. Can you repeat any of it?”

Liz sighed. “I ... I don’t know. It sounded Asian.”

Derek sat in the chair next to her. “Close your eyes. Think back. Listen.”

Liz did as he said. A flurry of emotions flitted across her heart-shaped face. Then ... recognition. “‘Polly ... kind of ... Pah-Lee,’” she said. “And the other said something like ‘Yee ruin ... something, something ... see duh rule...’ Or something like that.”

Derek looked up at Spigotta. The FBI agent shrugged. Halloran shrugged too. Derek, thinking for a moment, said, “How about: ‘
Pa-Li
’ and, hmmm...’
Yi-Ru-Han Kyoung-Wu-E-Neun Seo-Du-Reul Su-Ga Up-Seum-Ni-Da
?’ How’s that?”

Slowly Liz nodded. “Yes. Yeah, I think so.” She tried out the words. ”Yes, that sounds about right. I guess.”

“Okay, Stillwater. Spill it.” Spigotta looked, if possible, even crankier than before.

“Korean,” Derek said. “The first guy said, ‘Hurry,” and the other guy said, ‘You can’t hurry this.’”

“You speak Korean,” Spigotta said, not really a question, more a statement of disbelief. Or suspicion.

“Not much. But I spent some time in Korean along the DMZ when I was in Special Forces. I’m good with languages and picked up a few words and phrases.”Derek cocked an eyebrow at Spigotta. “Korean.”

Liz Vargas, Frank Halloran and Agent Spigotta led Derek Stillwater to the second floor staging area to HL4. An armed soldier stood guard at the locker room door. Derek thought: barn door—locked; horse—gone; Halloran’s career—over.

Halloran said, “I still think this is a bad idea. What do you expect to find in there?”

Derek shrugged. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have to go in.”

Spigotta said, “Take pictures. Don’t mess around.”

Derek frowned. “Is the HMRU on their way?” HMRU was the FBI’s Hazardous Materials Recovery Unit.

“Yes.”

“Good. They can deal with this crime scene. USAMRIID can deal with this crime scene. But aside from that ... I’m the only one here who can deal with this crime scene. You’ll have to live with it.”

“Don’t fuck it up.”

“I’ll go in,” Derek said, “look around, take pictures. When the USAMRIID and HMRU people get here they’ll be able to use my pics to make a plan for clearing the evidence and retrieving Michael Ballard’s body. That’s going to present quite a logistical problem all in itself.” He looked pointedly at Halloran. “You might want to start thinking about that.”

Liz let herself into the locker room first. The guard remained stoic, but Spigotta whipped out his cell phone and started punching keys, demanding updates from whoever he talked to. Within five minutes Liz knocked on the door and Halloran used his badge to let Derek in. Derek was glad to leave Halloran’s numb shock and Spigotta’s frenzied organizing behind. Liz’s face, however, was the same color as chalk dust. She bit her lip. “You and Jim Scully are about the same size. You can use his suit. Ever wear a Chemturion?”

“Yes,” Derek said. “I also have a field suit in my duffel, but it’d be better if I didn’t have to use it. By the way ... why aren’t you dead?”

Liz sighed. “Are you familiar with the latest model Chemturion?”

“Not really. They make a new model?” Derek crossed over to a bench and dropped his gear. “Scrubs?”

She found him a pair and turned her back, giving him a modicum of privacy.

“No peeking now,” he said, and began to change into the green scrubs.

Not responding to the lightness of his tone, she said, “The new Chemturion was designed to be multi-purpose—air hoses
or
a portable air supply. So they reinforced the back and shoulders with Kevlar to prevent the air tank or straps from cutting the suit.”

“You’re lucky.” Derek walked over to her so he was right behind her. “I want to see your back.”

“
What?!
”

“Your back,” he repeated. “Please raise your shirt so I can—”

She spun to glare at him. “Are you nuts?”

Derek shook his head. “Does your back hurt?”

“Yes, of course!”

“Getting shot at, even with Kevlar, leaves a hell of a bruise. I want to document it.”

She stared at him, her barely controlled composure beginning to crumble. “You don’t believe me?”

He gripped her shoulder. “Dr. Vargas, I wouldn’t be going into a hot zone with you if I didn’t believe you. But when Spigotta gets his priorities straightened out he’s going to wonder whether you were an insider on this assault. He’ll want some sort of proof that they actually shot at you and that you just got lucky. Let’s give him the proof before he comes looking for it.”

Tears slowly rolled down her cheeks. Reluctantly she turned away from him and raised her scrub shirt. Derek whistled at the black and blue and orange and yellow and purple discoloration that ran from about mid-back up to the nape of her neck. “You’ve got a lovely back, but that’s got to hurt like hell.”

She laughed ruefully. “It does. Believe me.”

“You should get into a hot tub as soon as you can or you won’t be able to move tomorrow. You got a Jacuzzi at home? Hold still, I’m going to shoot a couple pictures.”

She stood still. “No, no Jacuzzi. You?”

“No. I live on a boat. No bath, just a shower.”