“Derek,” Zataki said, “isn’t like that.”
“No.” Johnston pulled on his jacket. All the clothing they had been wearing in the White House had been taken by the FBI HMRU to be incinerated. He had called his wife and asked her to bring a suit to the hospital ASAP. He sighed, thinking of her, now back at home, watching the news on TV. Waiting for the next wave of the attack… because Johnston was sure that Dalton and whoever was ahead of all this… and maybe it was Dalton who was at the top… had more planned. He said, “Derek thinks outside the box. That can actually be a problem in the Army, as you know. But I thought it was exactly what Homeland Security needed in a troubleshooter. I wanted creative thinking, not bureaucratic thinking.”
Zataki nodded. “I went into a hot zone with Derek about six years ago. There was an Ebola outbreak in Congo. We were part of a U.N. team sent in to evaluate. On the trip in he was a mess. He was physically ill, throwing up, had the shakes, everything. I thought he’d never make it. Then we set down in Kinshaasa and he was in total control.” He paused, thinking. “I don’t for a minute believe Derek Stillwater would purposefully risk letting this bug loose on the world.”
“I agree with you.”
“Then you’ll need to convince the President of that. You need to leave Stillwater out in the field to do his job.”
Johnston shook his head. “Ben… I’ll be lucky if I can convince them to take him alive.”
President Langston breathed oxygen through a green plastic mask. His skin had a gray, parchment quality to it, and his eyes were red and swollen. He was surrounded by Secret Service and a small cadre of advisors. The few left, Johnston thought.
“Gentlemen,” President Langston said, pulling the oxygen mask away from his face to talk. “I want to thank you both for saving my life.”
“I’m glad I did, sir,” Johnston said.
“I only wish we had saved more,” Zataki added.
“Yes.” Langston seemed to lose focus for a moment, thinking of his dead family and staff, no doubt. Marshaling his strength, he said, “I’ll be leaving the hospital soon, heading to an undisclosed location. Colonel Zataki, a helicopter will take you to Fort Detrick. It is waiting at the hospital helicopter pad, as we speak. Frida will take you there now.”
A female agent with blond hair and freckles separated from the pack and nodded to Zataki. “Colonel…”
Zataki nodded, expressed condolences to the President, and followed the agent out of the hospital room, the door closing behind him. Another agent moved into position in front of it.
“Now, General,” President Langston said, gaze focusing on Johnston. “We have a problem.”
“Yes sir. I think we do, as well.”
Langston said, “Your Deputy Director and one of your troubleshooters is a terrorist.”
“Mr. President,” Johnston said. “I have little doubt that Sam Dalton is behind this. I do not, however, feel that Derek Stillwater is involved. Everything about this, from the misinformation to the booby-trapped vans at the airport, have indicated a sort of… smoke and mirrors approach—”
”General,” President Langston said, harsh voicing cutting off the Secretary’s words. “Evidence points to an astonishing level of betrayal and corruption in your office. Perhaps it was unavoidable. Perhaps Dalton was the perfect chameleon in our midst. Perhaps. But, General, you were in charge. And your failure to see this… this devil amongst us, has cost this country many fine leaders and has personally cost me my family. I am asking for your immediate resignation.”
Johnston nodded, having known that this was coming. He was no longer trusted. He had failed, and failed in a way that would go down in the history books. “Yes sir,” he said.
One of the advisors, a man Johnston did not know, stepped forward with a written document. He read it over. It was a letter of resignation awaiting his signature. He took the proffered pen.
“Mr. President,” he said, pen in hand. “I am devastated by your loss, and by my failure in this matter. But… sir… I do not believe that Derek Stillwater was involved in this. In my heart I’m convinced that he has a better chance of getting to the bottom of this than anyone does.”
“Your convictions are not shared by me,” Langston snapped. “As far as I am concerned, Derek Stillwater is a conspirator in the murder of my family, and the full strength of this country’s law enforcement structure is going to be focused on catching him and Dalton and prosecuting them to the fullest extent of the law. And if they die resisting, well that’s just too damned bad.”
Johnston met the gaze of the President. “With all due respect, Mr. President, I think you’re wrong. I hereby tender my resignation.” He signed the letter and put down the pen.
“You’re dismissed,” Langston said.
Without a word General Johnston turned and left the room.
PART III
Dance With the Devil
37
Spigotta slammed into the interrogation room, towering over Irina. Five minutes earlier he had taken a call from Pilcher. “I just got a phone call from one of my agents saying you received an e-mail from Dalton at eleven today.”
Khournikova frowned. This was not going well. Spigotta had spent the last hour asking the same questions over and over: Where was Richard Coffee? She wished she knew. If they would just cooperate with her, let her track down this impostor using the Russian government’s resources, maybe, just maybe, they would have a chance. She looked up at the angry bear of a man and said, “Agent Spigotta, I am not your enemy here. The enemy here is Surkho Andarbek. You know him as Richard Coffee.”
“Bullshit,” Spigotta growled. “The enemy we have positively identified is Samuel Dalton. The Deputy Director of Homeland Security. He e-mailed you today. Richard Coffee is some phantom a suspected partner of Dalton’s been talking about. In fact, the only people talking about Richard Coffee are you and Stillwater and Dalton. What we know is Dalton e-mailed you and Stillwater before this thing went down today.”
“Perhaps he did,” Khournikova said cooly, “but I have no connection to the man. I remember no e-mail communication with this man. I have no idea who Derek Stillwater is. What did the e-mail say?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
She shrugged. “Agent Spigotta, this is… a diversion. Has it not been a day of… red herrings? Richard Coffee — when he worked for your Central Intelligence Agency — successfully convinced Chechen rebels that he was one of them; and convinced us, as well. He has successfully faked his death twice. Now he has your Bureau chasing ghosts, convinced that I am a terrorist. He has convinced you that this man, Derek Stillwater, is a traitor. I know of no one by this name. I have spent over a decade trying to track down the man we know as Surkho Andarbek. And when I finally do determine that Surkho Andarbek is actually an American spy, the man dies again, only to reappear a year later working on the borders.”
Spigotta chewed on his cigar, staring at her. “You know what, Ms. Khournikova? I think you’re blowing smoke. I think Samuel Dalton, who nearly assassinated the President today, is in cahoots with you and your people.”
“My people?”
“Russia.”
“There is no advantage to Russia for the catastrophe that has occurred today.”
“You are enemies of the United States. Have been—”
Khournikova cut him off. “Agent, the cold war is over. I freely admit that we lost. We wish to trade with the United States. We wish to have a strong economy, to be able to compete on the world marketplace. To have peace and prosperity.”