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
The 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.
Far off, muffled, he heard sirens. Good.
He crawled out from under the Jeep and surveyed the garage. The lights had been blown out by the explosions, but the scene was lit by the flaming vehicles and dozens of smaller fires caused by the incendiary debris. Squinting through the acrid, billowing smoke, he picked his way toward the vans.
He stepped on something, nearly twisting his ankle as he caught his balance. Glancing down he saw with horror that he had stepped on the severed torso of one of the ERTs. Vomit rose up in his throat, but he clamped down on his emotions. This was not the time to lose his cool.
He knelt next to the remains and peered at it. Not enough light. Fishing in his pocket, he came up with his key chain and a small flashlight attached to the ring. Pushing his thumb down on the switch, a narrow beam of yellow light cascaded over the body. The tag on the tattered coveralls said RODRIGUEZ, T. Oh God. Pilcher hung his head, eyes stinging from emotion and smoke. Oh Tres, he thought. How am I going to face your family? Oh dear God!