What would I do if I were M.I. and somebody official came around trying to dig up something they’d buried a long time ago?
He came around the desk and took a look at the other chair in the room.
He found it attached to the right metal leg with a magnet. What appeared to be a bug — of the electronic kind.
Holding the tiny transmitter between his two fingers, Derek dropped the listening device into his second half-finished can of Mountain Dew. He rattled the can good and hard. “Half-full or half-empty, Colonel Tallifer? What do you say?”
Derek called O’Reilly with a simple request: the current location and phone number of Captain Simona Ebbotts and a lift to a rental car facility.
“What is that noise, sir?”
Derek had been shaking the Mountain Dew can during their brief telephone conversation. “Sorry. Nervous habit.”
“Yes sir. We can supply a vehicle. Secretary Johnston has expressed his desire for full cooperation.”
“I’m sure he has. Thank you. That will be fine. The phone number, though?”
“I’ll get it for you, sir.”
“Good. And Sergeant? This request is confidential.”
“Yes sir.”
The military vehicle O’Reilly came up with was a forest green Ford Explorer. Derek loaded his gear into the back, took the slip of paper with Simona Ebbots’ contact information on it, thanked O’Reilly and sped away. He didn’t want to use his cellular phone for this. It took a mile of driving before he found a pay phone in front of a 7-Eleven.
The number was in San Antonio, Texas. Glancing at his watch, he decided to try the work number first. It was late, but it was an hour earlier in Texas.
Using a phone card, he dialed the number. After four rings, a female voice said: “Brooke Community Army Hospital, Medical Surgical Floor.”
“Dr. Simona Ebbotts, please.”
“Hhmmm. I think she’s with a patient.”
“Please tell her it’s Derek Stillwater and that it’s an emergency.”
“Well…”
“Tell her,” he said, voice short.
“Just a moment please.”
He waited. And waited. He glanced at his watch again. He wondered how the investigation was going. What was Pilcher up to now? Spigotta? More important, what was… what was Richard Coffee and his band of merry men doing?
Because, whether true or not, he had begun to think of the terrorists as being linked to Richard Coffee.
He thought about the woman he was trying to get hold of. His ex-wife. A military marriage that lasted two years until their separate careers had forced them apart more than they were together.
“Derek, what do you want?”
“Hi Simona. Look—”
”No, Derek. We’re very busy here. I’m doing follow-ups on surgical patients. And we’ve gone to Code Red, but nobody knows why. What do you want?”
“I know why you’ve gone Code Red,” he said.
There was silence on the line. “I thought you were retired.”
“I’m with Homeland. A troubleshooter.”
More silence. “This news in Baltimore…”
“Yes.”
“What is it?” She knew. She was so smart, he thought. She knew.
“Bioengineered. Nothing like it. Pretend it’s smallpox without a vaccine.”
“Dear God. What do you need from me?”
“I need the names of some nurses and doctors who worked at the 807th M.A.S.H. in February and March of 1991. Iraq. People with good memories.”
“I can do that,” she said. “Honey. I can get you a list of names in ten minutes.”
Derek’s mind locked on ‘Honey.’ He remembered Simona with long dark hair she usually wore in a braid. Remembered braiding that hair for her a time or two, both of them naked, fresh out of the shower, pink and clean, her fine straight back in front of him, her long silky hair in his fingers. So long ago.
“E-mail it to me,” he said, and gave her his address. “Thanks, Simona.”
“Derek…” Her voice broke. “Take care of yourself.”
He smiled. “What a concept. Bye, love. And thanks.”
He sat in the Explorer in the 7-Eleven parking lot, watching what looked like three gang members shoulder through the front door. Baggy jeans hanging off their asses, Baltimore Ravens jerseys, red doo-rags on their heads. He hoped they weren’t knocking the place off. He didn’t have time for crap like that. He made his next call on his cell phone.
“Pilcher here.”
Derek ID’ed himself.
“Where the hell are you?” The FBI agent demanded. “Find what you wanted at the Pentagon?”
“Maybe. I’ve got to talk to one more person. Let’s just say I’ve found a set of extremely suspicious circumstances.”
“Give me a name, Stillwater.”
“It’s too early.”
Pilcher’s exasperated sigh burst through a clutter of static. “I don’t have to remind you the clock is ticking here.”
“No, you don’t. I understand what’s at stake. What’s going on at your end?”
“Spigotta’s moved to SIOC. Everybody’s on high alert. You tell me, how long would it take to make Chimera usable?”
“Depends on their plan. You only need to infect a couple people to get it going, if that’s their intention. Hell, infect a handful of your own people and send them out on the subway or take in an Oriole’s game. Sneeze on a salad bar somewhere. If that’s the plan, they could already be on the move.”
Pilcher was silent a moment. Then, “But if they need to grow more?”
“Anywhere from a few hours to a couple days. Not long.”
“That’s what I thought. Okay, Stillwater. End of briefing unless you share what you’re working on. I want the name.”
Derek grimaced. “I don’t want to send you on a wild goose chase.”
“It’s what we do,” Pilcher snapped. “Name a name or we’re through. And I’ve got info you want.”
Derek sighed. “Richard Coffee,” he said. “U.S. Special Forces.” He told Pilcher what he knew so far.
“Huh,” Pilcher said. “Bears some follow-up.”
“If I can do it fast. I should have a list of names of medical personnel in a couple minutes. Now… what’s going on?”
“We recovered the vans.”
Derek sat straighter. “Where?”
“The Frederick Municipal Airport, second level of a parking garage. We got the license plates and makes from U.S. Immuno’s security cams and put out a BOLO. Local cops regularly cruise parking garages. Looks like they flew out of here. ERTs are going over the vans and we’ve got people checking over the airport manifests and questioning everybody we can find.”
“And the security tapes?”
“Spigotta informed me they’ve got about a hundred. He’s put as many people on them as they can find. Still, it’s going to take time. Plus he’s got a team doing background on all the personnel at U.S. Immuno. Somebody spilled details besides Scully.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“No,” Pilcher said. “How about you?”
“Nothing. Just M.I.’s odd behavior.”
“Let’s not use the C word, okay?”
“The C word?” Derek asked..
“Yeah. Conspiracy. I hate those.”
“I won’t if you won’t,” Derek said.
“Good, then don’t. Keep in touch.” He clicked off.
Derek pulled out his cell phone and checked his e-mail. Simona had sent him eight names, all scattered around the world. Except one, Dr. Austin Davis, an E.R. doc at Walter Reed. Right here in town.
Derek dialed Davis’s number. The man answered on the second ring. Derek told him he was an agent for Homeland Security and needed to talk to him about a patient he might have had in Iraq. Davis, his voice sounding very Kentucky or maybe Tennessee, said, “Iraq. Iraq now or Iraq back in ‘91?”