The Devil's Pitchfork (7 page)

“‘
Secure,
’” Kelly said. “‘
Fallon ... Hey, Fallon. The kids are secure
.’ That’s it.” She turned the tape off. “Sounded like he had an accent. German?”

Derek nodded, his mind spinning. Fallon? He blinked, not processing his surroundings, trying to remember. Fallon?

Without warning Derek turned and strode out of the room, heading for the front door. Outside, leaning against the Taurus, he punched out a number on the cell phone. It was picked up on the first ring.

“Sam Dalton.” Dalton was the second-in-command of the Department of Homeland Security.

“Sam, it’s Derek Stillwater. I’m not on a secure phone.”

“Get to one. We need an update ASAP.”

Derek told him where he was. “I need a ride to the Pentagon. I can get on a secure phone there and fill you in, but I need to get to the Pentagon. The HMRU’s at the facility, they’ve got Hueys—”

”They’re already on their way to Detrick. Can you drive?”

“During rush hour? Clock’s ticking. What about the Coast Guard?” Derek glanced at his watch. He clenched his jaws and tried to ignore the panic rat.

“Okay,” Dalton said. “They’re on the way.”

Pilcher appeared a few minutes later. He held his own cellular in his hand and stared curiously at Stillwater. Derek had retrieved a portable CD player from his pack and was sitting on the hood of the Taurus sipping from a bottle of water.

“What’re you listening to?” Pilcher asked.

“‘Chant II.’”

Pilcher stared in disbelief. “
What?
”

“Benedictine monks singing Gregorian chants. They were really popular in the 90s. Put out a bunch of CDs, but the public sort of lost interest after the first two or three.”

Pilcher squinted his eyes. “Jesus Christ!”

“That’s the idea.”

“Who the hell
are
you? Didn’t you see what happened in there?” He moved toward Derek, head bobbing like a fighting cock.

From the south came the approaching beat of helicopter rotors. Derek stood up and said, “I’m going to head out back. That should be my ride.”

He grabbed up the backpack and the duffel and started to walk around Pilcher. Pilcher grabbed his arm and spun him around. “What the hell are you—”

Derek caught Pilcher’s wrist in one hand and twisted it at a sharp angle and torqued the arm behind the agent’s back, applying pressure and using the man’s weight against him. For just a moment Derek applied more  pressure, then suddenly let go.

“You’ve got things under control,” he said. “I’ve got to get over to the Pentagon, make a report on a secure phone.”

“Who’s Fallon?” Pilcher said. He followed after Derek, snapping at his heels like a cocker spaniel. “The look on your face. You know something. This isn’t the time to withhold information, Stillwater. What do you know? Who’s Fallon?”

The helicopter arced toward them, flying in fast.

Derek turned. “I don’t know anybody named Fallon. I thought I recognized the voice. But you tell me, Pilcher? Am I crazy? Am I losing it? Is the stress too much for me? I thought I recognized the voice, but the guy it belongs to has been dead for over a decade. Still want to know his name? It isn’t Fallon. But you tell me. Does the FBI want to waste time chasing after a phantom that could be a figment of my imagination?”

Pilcher stepped back. “You’re bullshitting me.”

“No, I’m not.”

The two men locked eyes. Pilcher finally said, “What else? What does Fallon mean to you?”

Derek shook his head. “I wonder if we misunderstood. The guy who said that had what sounded like a German accent. Or Russian. Czech. Something Slavik, at least as much as we can tell with the shitty sound reproduction. Maybe the FBI lab can clear it up. They’re good at that sort of thing.”

The red, blue and white helicopter, an Agusta MH-68A, nicknamed the Mako, was settling down in the Scully’s backyard fifty yards from where they stood.

Shouting to be heard over the roar of the chopper, Pilcher said, “Who’s Fallon?”

Derek leaned closer. “I thought he said Fallen.”

Pilcher looked puzzled.

“You know,” Derek shouted. “Like Fallen Angel.”

Pilcher’s expression changed to that of a man who had taken a step off a tall cliff.

He thinks I’m crazy for sure now, Derek thought.

“Fallen Angel?” Pilcher said. “You’re insane!”

“Fallen Angel,” Derek repeated. “You know. Weren’t you ever in Sunday School? Lucifer. The Devil.”

It was the same Coast Guard crew who had picked him up on the Chesapeake Bay. The Texan grabbed the backpack and helped Derek in. Derek settled into one of the seats.

Cynthia Black, the pilot, said, “How’s the end of the world coming?”

Derek gave her a thumb’s-up. “Let’s go.”

The chopper rose quickly into the air. The Texan said, “Your kayak’s back on your boat. Sweet, both
The Salacious Sally
and the kayak.”

“Glad you like it.” He ignored them, put the earphones back over his ears.

“Doctor.”

He looked at the Texan. “Yeah?”

“Can you tell us what’s going on? This is ... pretty irregular.”

He shook his head. “I wish I could. But...” He shrugged, considering the three. “It’s bad. Really bad.”

Derek settled back in the seat, buckled up, and closed his eyes. A career in the military had taught him how to catch a nap when the opportunity appeared, and he decided to take it. With Gregorian chants in his ears, he quickly dozed off for the short flight from Baltimore to Washington, D.C. He woke up as they were coming in toward the Pentagon. He noted that the roads were clogged with cars. He glanced around, as he almost always did when flying into D.C., looking for the Washington Monument and the Capitol, the usual suspects.

The chopper descended toward the Pentagon helicopter pad.

Derek was met by a young and efficient Army officer in dress whites. He grabbed the duffel bag and led Derek at a crouching run toward the Pentagon entrance. “Staff Sergeant Stanley O’Reilly, sir. I’m to get you to a secure communication room and then provide you with everything you need.”

“Good. I could use a bite to eat, Mountain Dew and the complete file of a Special Forces officer I served with in the Gulf War. Captain Richard Coffee.”

“Serial number, sir?”

“I don’t know. But the time frame should narrow it down.”

“Yes sir. This way, sir.”

They confiscated his sidearm and went through his bags, but he was quickly led to a secure communications room, a small bland office probably wrapped in copper to eliminate the possibility of radio eavesdropping. It contained a desk on which was an STU, or secure telephone unit. Everybody who used them called them stew phones. O’Reilly said, “I’ll be back soon. Any food preference, sir?”

“Some sort of sandwich, turkey preferably, on rye with lettuce, no tomato. And an apple. Yeah. An apple. Thanks.”

“Yes sir. And Mountain Dew.”

“Yeah, better make it two. I’m going to need the caffeine.”

O’Reilly supplied a key for the phone’s encryption lock and left, closing the door behind him.

The stew phone looked like any other phone except for the lock and an LCD panel. Derek unlocked the phone and called Dalton. When Dalton answered, Derek told him he was ready to go. He pushed a button and the LCD screen read: GOING SECURE.

Silence for maybe thirty seconds. Then the LCD read: US GOVERNMENT SECRET and Dalton said, “O-kay—Der-ek—Fill—us—in.”

The scrambler on the stew phones, even the newer models, distorted voices, especially if the callers talked too fast. Dalton and Derek were old hands at stew phones and knew from experience to talk slowly and deliberately.

Derek filled in his boss, knowing that J.J., the Secretary, was also listening in.

“Your recommendation?” Dalton said.

“The FBI’s already on it in a major way, Pilcher and Spigotta. They’ve got different styles, but they both seem sharp, especially Pilcher. HMRU’s already on the facility, and the Rid’s involved. Get with them, they’ll know what to do. Bring in the CDC if you can get it through their heads that this is a possible major incident in BW, not a public health emergency. They can be a little slow about that, though maybe they’ve learned something from the anthrax attacks and SARS.”

“Good. Stay on top of things. Continue to coordinate.”

Derek hesitated. “Sir. I’m going to pursue what is possibly a tangent.” He explained about recognizing the voice on the tape recording.

There was a long silence on the stew phone. Dalton said, “Are you feeling all right, Derek?”

“I’m standing on the edge of Armageddon here, Sam. How the fuck am I supposed to be feeling?”

Suddenly the voice on the phone was that of General James Johnston, the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security. “Do you think the FBI and USAMRIID can handle both the routine investigation and any containment procedures?”

“Yes sir. They know their job and I believe, especially now that Rid’s involved, are aware of the potential problems.”

“Fine then. You investigate this hunch you have, but keep in touch with the Bureau and The Institute. I’ve been at war with you, son, and I trust your instincts.”

There was a knock at the door and Derek opened it to reveal Sergeant O’Reilly standing there with a plastic tray bearing a turkey sandwich, an apple and two cans of Mountain Dew. “If you’re done with your phone call, sir, we’ve got an empty office for you to use. Someone will be bringing you the file in a few minutes.”

“Great.” Derek took the tray and followed O’Reilly through what seemed to be a mile of corridors. He had spent a year at the Pentagon writing position papers on biological warfare. He hadn’t cared for the environment, although he’d enjoyed the almost academic nature of brainstorming biowarfare scenarios and creating war game simulations for the military to test out. But in all his time there he had never gotten the hang of the Pentagon floor plan.

O’Reilly led him into another bare office, this one without a secure phone. It smelled of fresh paint and contained only a desk, two chairs, a regular telephone and a bank of filing cabinets he assumed were empty.

“Enjoy your food, sir, and if you need anything, please contact me.” He handed Derek a card with his pager, telephone, fax and e-mail address on it before leaving. Derek put his earphones back on and ate his dinner, glancing at his watch repeatedly, wondering when the file on Richard Coffee was going to arrive. He was halfway through his apple when there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he called.

Into the room strode a tall, thin man in his fifties with a gray crew cut and elegant, slim features. He wore gold wire-rimmed glasses and the insignia on his uniform and his ID badge indicated he was Lieutenant Colonel Jerome Tallifer. Tallifer carried a briefcase secured with two combination locks.

“Dr. Derek Stillwater?”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m Lt. Col. Jerome Tallifer, Military Intelligence. May I see some ID please.”

Derek provided it. Tallifer, his voice hinting at a childhood in the hills of Kentucky or maybe Mississippi, said, “Retired Army, I understand.”

“Yes sir. Colonel, Special Forces. Retired, sir.”

“But a professor.”

“Yes.”

“I believe I’ve read your papers. Might even have caught a talk or two you gave.”

“Possibly, sir.” Derek remained in his seat despite the temptation to stand at attention. Though the years of service and conditioning had been deeply ingrained and the inclination to salute never went away, he had found that his ability to ignore the response had grown stronger every day he was out of the military.

“Yes, well, we would like to know why you’re interested in a dead soldier, Doctor.”

Derek leaned back in his chair and studied the standing Lieutenant Colonel. He gestured to the other chair. “Have a seat. I’ll make it quick because, quite frankly, the clock’s ticking.”

To his surprise, Colonel Tallifer sat.

Derek laid it out for him. The stolen infectious agent, the murder of the family, the tape and his recognition of a voice that he thought was that of Captain Richard Coffee. Tallifer considered him for a few minutes. “If I may say so myself, Doctor, that doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. Captain Coffee died in Iraq.”

“I’m aware of that. I was there.”

“But you want to read his file.”

“Yes sir.”

“And you suspect what, exactly?”

Derek said, “I suspect that I have precious little to go on and the FBI has the manpower to pursue a more conventional route of investigation, but my mandate as a Homeland Troubleshooter is to evaluate, coordinate and investigate. It is my determination that all conventional avenues are currently being covered. However, I am pursuing a long shot, what some might call a WAG, or wild-assed guess. I am pursuing it because everyone else is busy. And I’m pursuing it because I think it needs to be pursued, especially since some terrorist lunatics have stolen a BW organism that could wipe out most of the population of the planet in less then a month. Now,” he said, an edge to his voice, “are you going to let me see the file, or shall I have the request put to the Joint Chief by Secretary Johnston, who I just spoke to on the telephone less than twenty minutes ago?”

Tallifer shrugged. He picked up the briefcase and let it rest on his lap. He turned the dials on the combination lock, opened the lid, pulled out a file and dropped it on the desk. He closed the briefcase and spun the dials. “Good luck, Doctor.” Tallifer stood up and headed for the door. Turning, he said, “Good luck with your wild-assed guess.”

“Colonel,” Derek said. He hadn’t touched the file.

“Yes, Doctor?”

“How many files were there in your briefcase?”

Colonel Tallifer’s cool blue gaze lingered on Derek for a moment, then without a word he left the office.

Derek nodded, thinking that a Lieutenant Colonel from Military Intelligence was a rather unusual delivery boy. He picked up the file and began to read.

9

The White House

I
N THE
W
HITE
H
OUSE
secure communications center, Sam Dalton hung up the stew phone and whirled to look at General James Johnston, the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security. Johnston raised an eyebrow. “You have a problem?”