They returned to the Russians. The woman, who was tall with short reddish brown hair worn in an elegant shag cut, focused her brown eyes on Pilcher. “We understand you have the body of a Russian national.”
Spigotta said, “She’s at the morgue in D.C.”
“Who is she?” Tetchin said.
“She was identified to us as Irina Khournikova. She claimed she was with your ‘T’ Directorate, but we believe she was actually working with The Fallen Angels.”
The Russian woman, her English excellent with only a slight accent that could have been mistaken for German or Serbian, said, “She is not who she claimed to be. I wish to see her body.”
“Fine,” McIvoy said. “That can be arranged. But how do you know she isn’t Irina Khournikova?”
“Because,” she said. “I am Irina Khournikova.”
30
Derek marched Sam Dalton at gunpoint, night vision goggles again perched on his own face. Dalton’s hands were on top of his head as he walked and Derek didn’t bother telling him when low-hanging branches were going to smack him in the face. Derek was having enough problems controlling the urge to empty the assault rifle into Dalton’s back.
“He wants you alive,” Dalton said.
“He being…?”
“Fallen.”
“Ah,” Derek said. When Dalton stopped walking, confused by a wall of shrubbery in the darkness, Derek nudged him to his left. “The mysterious Fallon. Or is it Fallen? What’s his real name?”
Dalton laughed. “Your pal and mine, Richard Coffee.”
“The Lazarus of the terrorist set. Okay, I’ll bite. Why does Richard want me alive?”
“Maybe he feels he owes you.” Dalton stumbled on a patch of rough ground, flinging his arms out for balance. Derek adjusted his grip on the rifle, sure Dalton was going to try something, but Dalton regained his footing and placed his hands back on his head.
“Feels he owes me for what?” Derek said.
“For saving his life, man! What do you think?”
“A thank you note would have been sufficient. I’m touched. Really. How about you, Sam? Why are you involved in this?”
Dalton stopped and turned. He was taller than Derek with broad shoulders and chiseled features. He still kept his light-colored hair military short and his square jaw belonged on a recruiting poster. Derek knew Dalton was in his early fifties, but didn’t look it. Derek raised the XM-177, ready to shoot if necessary.
“In a word? Money.”
“Let me guess,” Derek said. “The Fallen Angels sell whatever they can beg, borrow or steal to the highest bidder.”
“Bingo.”
“And with your military and government contacts, you can get it or show where it is. For a fee.”
“Right. And don’t forget, Derek, I worked Delta anti-terrorism intelligence for a decade. I have contacts with the buyers. Just like you do.”
Derek grew cold and still. “Do I?” he said
“Sure, man. You’ve consulted with most of the legitimate governments that manufacture CBW, you’ve made contact with some of the people that want them. You’re a gold mine. Between the two of us, we could bring in half a billion a year just hooking up the right people.”
Tiring of the direction of the conversation, Derek ordered Dalton to turn around and keep walking. Their feet crunched softly on the leaves and pine needles, the wind rustling the branches of the trees. Even in the eerie green light of the night scope, he saw Dalton smile. Derek didn’t like that smile. He felt it was a bad omen, the Deputy Director knowing something he didn’t. Dalton was too confident.
As they continued east toward the parking lot, Derek said, “Let’s say I’m interested. How do I get in touch with Coffee?”
“Through me. C’mon, man. Blow off the helicopter and tell them you’re going to take me in. Then we’ll just… disappear, man. I’ll take you to Fallen and we’ll be on our way.”
“Maybe I want to negotiate my own deal with Coffee,” Derek said. “Why should I split with you?”
Dalton laughed. “I knew you were right for the deal. You split with me because I have access to Fallen. Without me, you’re out of luck.”
Derek was starting to get flares in the night scope. The parking lot and its lights were not far away.
“Where’s Coffee?”
“You mean The Fallen. Richard Coffee’s dead. He died in Iraq.”
“Semantics,” Derek said. “You’re playing word games and your own head’s on the block. You’re going in. If you cooperate, tell us where Fallen is, where Coffee is, well, things might go easier on you.”
Dalton laughed. Derek didn’t like the laugh. He liked it even less than Dalton’s secretive smile. It was filled with contempt and irony, as if Dalton knew things that Derek did not. And he was afraid he was right, that Derek was seeing barely the tip of this particularly deadly iceberg.
“You are full of shit,” Dalton said. “Full of shit and uninformed, pal. There isn’t a plea deal in the whole universe for me.”
Above them Derek heard the roar of the incoming Mako helicopter, circling in over the parking lot. The plan was to turn Dalton over to them and rush him to FBI Headquarters. In his ear Cynthia Black said, “Derek, we’ve got something, we’re not sure—”
Breaking out into the open, Derek heard a whooshing sound. Over the radio: “Shit!” Followed by an explosion. The sky lip up as the rocket propelled grenade struck the Coast Guard helicopter. The night vision goggles flared and for a moment Derek was blind. Clawing at the goggles, he was too late. Dalton spun, his fist slamming into Derek’s jaw.
Rolling away, still blind, the Colt rifle was ripped from his grasp. He knocked off the goggles, struggling to his knees.
There was a second explosion as the helicopter crashed to the pavement in a harsh, earth-shattering roar.
Dalton now stood with the rifle aimed at Derek. “So long—”
Derek never heard the bullet that killed Dalton. One moment he was on his knees waiting to die, the next Dalton’s body jerked and fell forward onto the grass, blood soaking his camouflage fatigues. Dalton’s last words were a barely audible, “That bastard—”
Derek lunged for the XM-177, but a bullet whined past him and he turned for the cover of the trees instead. In his ear he heard a familiar voice: Richard Coffee had tapped into his Coast Guard frequency.
“Hello, Derek.”
Derek didn’t reply. He moved deeper into the woods, staying close enough to view the parking lot but stay out of sight.
“Nice SUV,” Coffee said. “Hope you’ve got insurance.”
There was another whoosh, followed by an explosion that Derek was certain was the sound of an RPG hitting a Ford Explorer.
“I could use a man of your talents,” Coffee said. “But you’re going to have to come out with your hands up or we’re coming in after you.”
Derek didn’t wait. He turned and plunged deeper into the woods, racing north. Behind him he heard the rattle of gunfire as Coffee and more of his terrorists came on in pursuit.
31
Agent Spigotta closed his eyes for a moment when the Russian woman announced that she was Irina Khournikova. He craned his neck back, as if to relieve tension, then pressed his fingers against his eyelids. Aaron Pilcher wondered if Spigotta was going to have a stroke right there in SIOC.
Pilcher recovered quickest. He said, “Not that identification seems to matter, but do you have any?”
The woman, Irina Khournikova, removed a wallet from her purse and handed Pilcher her passport. He gazed at it, then passed it to Spigotta who glared at it, then handed it to Agent Unrau, who had escorted the Russians in. “Let’s get this verified.”