“Yes sir,” Unrau said, heading out of SIOC with Khournikova’s passport.
Spigotta seemed unusually off-balance, so Pilcher took control. It surprised him that Spigotta and Deputy Director McIlvoy seemed so uncertain. “Mr. Tetchin, Ms. Khournikova, let’s go to a room where we can talk.”
“I want you over at the White House,” Spigotta said.
Pilcher stared at his superior. “I think I need to be here for this, sir. There are plenty of agents at the White House. I’ll go after I get some information here.”
Spigotta again looked surprised, but McIlvoy nodded. “Sure. Good idea.”
They led the Russians out of SIOC and down the hallway to an interrogation room, but unexpectedly, Ivan Tetchin stopped outside the room and turned. “I will be returning to my embassy,” he said slowly.
“We need to talk to you now,” McIlvoy said.
Tetchin cocked his massive shaved head, a stubby fat finger tapping at his cheek for a moment. “I know nothing of this dead impostor you have spoken of and even less about this attack on your President. Any information I may have about The Fallen Angels can be more directly handled by Ms. Khournikova. They are, I believe, her area of speciality.”
Spigotta’s voice was a low rasp. “I don’t give a good goddamn what you say right now. You’ll—“
Tetchin raised a hand. His voice was soft. “Agent Spigotta, Director McIlvoy. I have diplomatic immunity. I am returning to my embassy. What has happened at the White House and how or if it connects to The Fallen Angels and this attack on your research facility may or may not have repercussions for my government. I must brief Ambassador Romanovitch immediately. I will request that he assign somebody to cooperate with you fully in this matter if we are able.”
“If you have information about the attack on President—”
Khournikova’s voice cut Spigotta off. “If the attack on President Langston was made by The Fallen Angels, it is not a Russian matter, it is an American matter. The head of this organization is an American CIA agent named Richard Coffee.”
“And you know an awful lot about him, Ms. Khournikova,” Pilcher said. “Maybe you could enlighten us.”
“Ivan, I will contact you later.”
Tetchin met Irina Khournikova’s gaze. Something passed between the two of them, something strange. Pilcher wasn’t exactly sure what they were saying to each other, but he got the peculiar feeling that Tetchin was not upset to get away from Irina Khournikova.
With reluctance McIlvoy and Spigotta had an agent usher Tetchin out of the building, then Spigotta and Pilcher directed her into a sparsely decorated interrogation room. It was not sweat-stained and didn’t have battered furniture. It just looked like an empty office with a couple chairs. There was no two-way mirror because the Bureau had a tiny camera embedded in the wall that could not be seen. Khournikova and Pilcher sat in two chairs on either side of a small Formica-topped table. Spigotta remained standing, leaning against the far wall.
Spigotta looked at the ceiling for a moment, then gestured for Pilcher to handle the questioning.
“Who are you?” Pilcher asked.
“Who are you?” she countered.
“Special Agent Aaron Pilcher, Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Special Agent Frederick Spigotta.”
“I’m Irina Khournikova. I am a Russian citizen in the employ of the Russian government. I am currently on assignment in Washington, D.C. I assume you are taping all of this.”
“Yes,” Pilcher nodded.
Pilcher thought he heard Spigotta grunt, but nothing followed. He paused for a moment, trying to get his bearings. Spigotta wasn’t giving him much to work with. Spigotta’s preferred persona for interrogations was Raging Bastard or Seriously Bad Cop. But Spigotta was just watching, which wasn’t his style at all. Pilcher knew that the woman had already interacted with him, with both of them, in SIOC. Officious Prick was out and so was Icy Bastard and Surfer Buddy. He was afraid he was going to have to play it straight, his least successful persona, Old Pro.
“Fine, Agent Pilcher,” Khournikova said. “As you have no doubt determined, my area of expertise is Russian counter-terrorism. Your country is not the only country to have to endure terrorist attacks. For several years I have been pursuing a man who for a long time we believed was a Chechen named Surkho Andarbek. We did not know much about this man. He appeared to be a loyal Chechen, a restauranteur, a man with very little background. Then he became part of the separatists, then a leader of the separatists. Then he was reported dead.
“At some point after he died, a group operating on the Russian/Georgian border began smuggling weapons in and out of Russia. What little we could determine about them was that they were multi-national and called themselves The Fallen Angels. They appeared to move in and out of any number of countries with impertinence. Rumors were that they were highly skilled intelligence agents, rogue agents who had fallen out of favor from their countries. They were more like a cult than a group of terrorists in that they seemed to have undying loyalty to their leader, a charismatic man who called himself The Fallen or Fallen. The few members of The Fallen Angels that we… captured, provided no information that was significant. We did, however, acquire a photograph of their leader, this Fallen, and we determined that he was Surkho Andarbek. However, we received some information only recently that Surkho Andarbek was an American, a rogue CIA agent named Richard Coffee.”
“How did you find this information?” Pilcher asked. “What’s your source?”
“It is not important.” She gazed steadily at him, her dark eyes unflinching.
Pilcher paused, glanced at Spigotta, who seemed lost in thought. He turned back to Khournikova. “It might be important.”
She said nothing, but continued to meet his eyes.
He continued. “Where is Richard Coffee now?”
“Here,” she said.
“Here as in the United States?”
“Yes. Here in the Washington area.”
“Where?”
“I do not know.”
“How do you know he’s here?”
She shrugged. “I have contacts.”
“Who?”
“It’s not important.”
“Yes,” Pilcher said, leaning forward. “It is. We need to find out where Coffee and his people are. You can help us.”
Her expression gave nothing away. “I have given you all the information I have. I would like to see this woman you claim is Irina Khournikova. If she is a Russian citizen, as you suspect, we will fully cooperate in identifying her if we can.”
“You can,” Spigotta said from the rear of the room.
Khournikova looked at the senior agent. “It speaks,” she said.
Spigotta moved toward her, his large bulk menacing. “Why do you think Fallen is here, Ms. Khournikova?”
“My sources—”
”Who are?”
“It’s not important.”
Spigotta scowled at her. “I will decide what is and what isn’t important.”
She didn’t respond.
Pilcher was going to open his mouth to speak when Spigotta said, “Agent Pilcher, I want you to continue with your line of investigation at the White House.”
“But—”
”Now!” Spigotta snapped.
Doubtfully, Pilcher got to his feet. “You’re sure?”
Spigotta’s face turned beet red. His voice was low and guttural as he bit off the words. “I am sure, Aaron. Now. And one more thing.” He paused.
Pilcher waited.
Spigotta said, “I want you to go next door, turn off the recorder and destroy the tape of this interrogation.”
Pilcher flinched. This is an act, right? It’s got to be. “Sure,” he said. He glanced at Khournikova, whose face was expressionless. “Yes sir.”