Johnston thought of the deft attack on U.S. Immuno, on the biosafety suits the terrorists had worn, of the speculative Korean exchange that Derek Stillwater had offered: “Hurry up.” “You can’t hurry this kind of thing.” The Fallen Angels were many things, but sloppy was not one of them. “No,” Johnston said. “They wouldn’t stop short at Level III.”
“Well, then, the things that stand out for me are the biological level safety suits. Are there many manufacturers?”
“No, I don’t think so. In the United States it’s Chemturion. I actually know something about them. They’re manufactured exclusively by ILC Dover, Inc in Delaware. Same company that makes spacesuits for NASA. I’m pretty sure there are others in other parts of the world, though.”
“Yes,” Vogel said. “Yes, I think so. I’ll find them.”
“What else comes to mind?” Johnston said, leaning forward to peer at the screen.
Vogel tapped the computer screen showing an article about a Level IV facility in San Antonio, Texas, the Southwest Foundation for Biomedical Research, that used them for SARS research. “The type of safety hoods they use. They recirculate the air from inside the facility. Unusual, apparently.”
“Okay. Can you—”
Vogel held up a finger. “I will need time, but I can track these down, see who has ordered these in the last, hmmm…”
“Eighteen months,” he said.
“You’re assuming they’re here? Local?”
“If they’re out of the country there’s no hope for us.”
Vogel nodded. “Give me time… and privacy, please.”
“Can I use your telephone?”
“Certainly. Who are you going to call?”
General Johnston got to his feet and adjusted his suit. “An old friend of mine. General Stuart English.”
“Still active?” Vogel asked shrewdly.
“No,” Johnston said. “He runs a company called International Security Provisions, Inc. Better known as ISPI.”
Vogel blinked. “They’re—”
”Mercenaries,” Johnston said. “Let’s get to work.”
48
Agents rushed toward the sound of gunshots, finding Agent Spigotta kneeling over the still body of Agent O’Hara. Spigotta knelt coatless on the floor next to O’Hara, his suitcoat wadded into a ball and pressed against the chest wounds he had inflicted. He knew it didn’t matter. This guy, whoever he was, was dead. But what the hell had he been doing?
Someone shouted over the braying of the fire alarm, “What in God’s name is going on?”
“Guy came out of nowhere, drew down on me,” Spigotta said. “Anybody know him?”
“O’Hara,” a woman agent said. “Anti-terror. Is that his gun there?”
Spigotta looked to where she was pointing. It had a silencer on the end. “Yes.”
She met his gaze. “He was coming after you?”
“Seemed to be. Didn’t you think the fire alarm was… fishy?”
She swallowed. An older woman with graying hair and a fine crinkle of age lines around her eyes and mouth, she nodded. “But everything today…”
Acting Director McIlvoy appeared, jaw tense. “What’s going on here? Is there a fire?”
Someone said, “Bathroom one floor down… we’ve got a dead agent in the john… wastebasket’s on fire… burning paper towel in the stairwell…”
McIlvoy stared at O’Hara’s lifeless body. “What Division? Is he one of ours?”
“Anti-terror,” someone said. “He’s one of ours.”
McIlvoy stared, then shifted his gaze to Spigotta. “What were you doing?”
“Interrogating the Russian. I heard the alarm and ran out in the hallway. I saw the smoke, turned to look down the hallway and saw this guy running in my direction. I noticed he was reaching in his coat and I didn’t like the feel of things. I thought the fire alarm was the wrong thing at the wrong time. Too much weird shit’s been happening today and I just got a feeling something wasn’t right. A fire alarm on top of everything? So I was drawing my gun and I turned around and he had his gun up and ready to shoot.”
“You think he was going after you?”
Spigotta frowned. He struggled to his feet, adrenaline still pumping. “Maybe after me. Maybe after the Russian. She knows something about these Fallen Angels. She’s the only person who seems to know anything about them. Pilcher thought there was a connection between her and Dalton. Maybe he wanted to eliminate a witness. Christ, I don’t know.”
“Where is she? Where’s the Russian woman?” asked McIlvoy.
“Still in the interrogation room.”
“She’d better be.”
Spigotta turned and lumbered to the interrogation room, blasting through the door to find the room empty. His heart thudded in his chest and he spun, nearly knocking Director McIlvoy down in his rush out the door. “Search the damned building!” he shouted. “Find her!”
49
Derek lay on his back on the cot and stared at the ceiling. He didn’t know how much time had passed. He could have been out for minutes or hours. No one had come in to check on him. He had spent easily forty-five minutes studying his cell and trying to determine if there was a way to escape. The door locked from the other side, so, even if he were capable of picking a lock with an acupuncture needle he couldn’t because he didn’t have access. The cot was lightweight plastic snapped together with a thin padded mattress on top. He could break it apart and maybe have a splintered chunk of plastic to use as a weapon, but it wouldn’t be strong enough to get him out of the room. The walls appeared to be rubber sealant painted over thick plywood or something similar.
And time was running out. Coffee had told him he had been injected with Chimera and the vaccine. A human guinea pig.
He didn’t know if it was true. His body was a mass of aches and pains — two bullet wounds, bruises, scrapes and dozens of acupuncture needle pricks, none of which actually ached, and a sort of residual body memory of severe pain. Pain was in the mind, so everyone said, but he could remember the feeling of his body on fire.
They believed their vaccine worked — if it was the truth. Had they already injected themselves? Was he really a real-world test? A guinea pig?
And could he use that knowledge?
Derek cocked an eyebrow, thinking. A plan?
He thought about Chimera, about what he knew about it. The first symptoms were bleeding — nosebleeds, ears, eyes, gums. And the last symptoms, too, he reflected.
Blood.
Suppose he was their guinea pig? Suppose they had tested their vaccine on lab animals — guinea pigs, mice, rats, maybe monkeys. Maybe it had worked. And now they had him.
He smiled. The problem with a human guinea pig…
He knew the results they would want.
He fingered the acupuncture needle he had secreted into his waistband.
And he knew the results they would fear.
Derek rolled onto his side so his back would be to the two-way mirror. He slipped the needle from where he had hidden it and fingered the flimsy metal. He sighed. So thin it wouldn’t cause bleeding if he poked it into his skin. But…
Taking a deep breath, Derek started scratching along the palm of his left hand, gouging through the skin. A thin line of scarlet appeared. Biting his lip, he dug deeper, ignoring the lance of pain that shot through his hand. Harder.
The scarlet line began to ooze, then drip.
Derek wiped his palm on his face, smearing the blood beneath his nose and on his chin.
The cut continued to bleed. He clenched his fist, clenched again, opened his palm. He wiped it again on his face, a line of blood by his ear.