When he came to he was once again lying on a cot, but this time he wasn’t strapped down. He got to his feet and glared around. It was small, the walls and floors bare. There was a thick glass mirror on one wall, which he imagined was two-way. Next to it was a mesh speaker with a button. He could be observed from the other side.
Coffee’s voice came over the speaker. “Well, Derek. I just want to thank you. You will turn out to be very helpful in our enterprise after all. Dr. Lee injected you with our vaccine, then just a few minutes ago injected you with Chimera. We should know in a few hours whether the vaccine works. In the meantime, I’ve got a lot of preparations to make. It was nice seeing you, buddy. If you’re lucky, this stuff will work.”
“If it works,” Derek snarled, “I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth, you bastard.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Look, something to keep in mind, friend. You break out of here somehow, you’re infected. You don’t want to be the cause of the end of the world, do you? Why don’t you just lay down and take it easy. Make peace with yourself in case Lee’s potion doesn’t work.”
Derek slammed his fist against the glass, but it did not break. “It’s not over,” he screamed. “It’s not over, Coffee! I’m coming after you! I’ll stop you!”
“Goodbye, Derek. See you later.”
“I’ll see you in hell, Richard! In hell!” And with a moan Derek collapsed to the cot and buried his head in his hands.
44
The FBI mole, Jude O’Hara, took in a deep breath. Standing in the men’s room staring at himself in the mirror, he steeled himself. This was it, he thought. He had to trust Fallen, this freak, this nutcase, that if he did what this guy wanted he wouldn’t turn his escape plan over to the authorities, wouldn’t make his escape impossible.
What choice did he have?
He took his Sig Saur 9mm out of its holster, double-checked that the magazine was full, that there was a round in the chamber, that the safety was off. From his coat pocket he took an excellent and highly illegal silencer and screwed it onto the barrel.
In his mind’s eye, he rehearsed it. What he would have to do, the steps he would have to take. What he would have to do once it was over to make his escape.
He put the gun back in its holster, then filled the wastepaper basket with toilet paper and paper towels. He took paper towels and crumpled them into tight balls and stuffed them into his jacket pockets.
Now?
He thought it through. He knew he would require some luck. Maybe more than a little luck.
What choice did he have?
He could run. He could walk out the door, get into his car and drive home, grab his stash and his passports and drive. He could be in New York, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Atlanta in a very short period of time. Catch a flight out using fake ID. Disappear.
No wait.
He could transfer the money first. That way he’d be out of it, one step ahead of Fallen.
Sweat broke out on his forehead and his stomach churned.
He could feel the weight of time pressing down on him.
The door opened and Bill Stallings walked through, one of the older agents, a guy who had been working anti-terror for twenty-some odd years. Stallings had spent half his career in Peru talking to Shining Path psychos, advising the government. His pink scalp peeked through straggling strands of gray hair and he had a scruffy gray beard. He looked a little like Santa Claus after a few too many drinks.
“Hey,” Stallings muttered. “Fuckin’ nightmare tonight, eh?”
“Yeah.”
Stalling shoved into one of the stalls. There was the zwick of a zipper followed by the thud of gun and handcuffs hitting the floor with his pants, followed by a moan of relief.
O’Hara stared at the shoes beneath the stall, brain frozen. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Could he wait for Stallings to finish up?
“You heard?” Stallings said from the stall.
“What?”
“Big fuckin’ mess out at Rock Creek Park. Coast Guard helicopter went down, couple trucks on fire. Pilcher, Spigotta’s golden boy, called in to say the chopper pilot survived, it looks like that Homeland troubleshooter was out there, there was some sort of motherfuckin’ firefight. And get this… they found the body of Sam Dalton out there.”
O’Hara’s blood went cold. “Dalton’s… dead?”
“Yeah. Shot to pieces. Good riddance. The question is, was he working with these Fallen Angels or what? Or is this a coincidence? Taking advantage of another terror attack. MacNeil pulled me off, has me going back over every single file we’ve got, looking for any kind of reference to The Fallen Angels we can find. I’m talking to the Russians, that Stasi prick, Eberhardt, remember him? Back when East Germany was East Germany? He said he’d get back to me. And get this, you know what he said to me?”
“Uh-uh,” O’Hara said, stomach cramping.
“Goddammed kraut goes, ‘Ah, Ze Falling Angels. Ja. I haf heard of zhem, natürlich. But we never wanted to discuss zhem wit’ you because we always suspected zhey had a mole in your CIA or your FBI. Zhey sold a lot of American ordinance.’ Can you fuckin’ believe it?”
“Maybe he meant Dalton,” O’Hara said, head feeling light.
“Maybe. But MacNeil’s putting together a task force to make sure there isn’t somebody else.”
Taking a deep breath, O’Hara walked over, kicked the door in and shot the FBI agent twice in the head.
“You and Elvis, dead on the toilet.”
He closed the door, took out a lighter and set the waste basket on fire.
Now. Move it, move it, move it.
He walked from the men’s room. Every time he saw an empty office, if the door was unlocked he stepped in, lit up one of the crumpled balls of paper towel and dropped it in a waste basket or recycling bin.
The hall was empty… for now. He sprinted to the stairwell and dropped ball after ball of flaming paper towel as he climbed the steps to the fourth floor. Soon the smoke alarm would go off. Sprinkler systems would kick in. And he’d better not be standing in the hallway lighting up paper towel when it—
The klaxon sounded, shrill, harsh and insistent. Headquarters was more active than usual at five in the morning, but most agents were still out in the field; most support personnel were home in bed, preparing for the commute into work, perking coffee. He emptied his pockets and lit up the remaining paper, standing at the doorway, watching the stairwell fill with smoke.
He shoved through the doorway and raced toward the interrogation room where Irina Khournikova was being questioned. Half a dozen people were in the hallway, heading for the exit. O’Hara shouted, “This one’s filled with smoke! Go the other way!”
They hesitated, then ran toward the opposite hallway. He saw Spigotta, big and burly, an ugly old bear on the first morning of spring, waking from hibernation. “Where’s the fire?” he growled as O’Hara rushed toward him.
“Stairwell. Third floor,” he gasped out. “Evacuate.”
Spigotta glanced over his shoulder and O’Hara had his hand in his coat, reaching for the Sig, was pulling it out and up when Spigotta turned, his own gun in his hand, already on the move. Damn, O’Hara thought. How did he know? O’Hara tried to get a bead on the older agent, tried to keep in motion, but Spigotta had his own gun aimed directly at him, his finger squeezing… and O’Hara felt the pain in his chest a fraction of a second before he heard the sound, thought, That wasn’t too bad, and kept moving, bringing his gun around on Spigotta, squeezed—
And missed. Spigotta fired again, calmly, no expression on his face, the report loud over the sound of the fire alarm. People heading for the exits turned… everything seemed to slow…