The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller Page 3

  Mandalevo frowned. “With an event of this magnitude, there will always be threats. We have no specific threats, however. Security, as you know, is very high for this event.”

  McCullough glanced at Johnston. “Jim?”

  “There are the usual protestors. They’re set up in Colorado Springs, and we’ve got National Guard, Secret Service, and FBI handling things. They’re being kept a long way from The Cheyenne. Nobody wants a repeat of Seattle.”

  “What about that bit of chatter you picked up, when was it, October? About Coffee? There hasn’t been any follow-up.”

  Johnston frowned at the question. “As you know,” he said, “we’ve been keeping an eye on hate groups and militias. The NSA was monitoring phone and e-mail of The Reverend Lt. Colonel Jeremy Sebastian, who ran a group called the Colorado American Rights Delegation. They’re a militia, but very militant and they’re on our domestic terrorism watch lists. Anyway, NSA picked up part of a phone conservation that we suspect was made to Sebastian by Richard Coffee.”

  President Langston perked up. “When was this?”

  “The call itself was late August, sir.”

  “What happened? Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

  Johnston tried to keep his expression neutral. The president had been briefed on this. President Langston was following the hunt for Richard Coffee closely. Was this his way of jamming him into a corner, shifting control to Mandalevo? Christ, he hated the political games in the White House.

  “It was a snippet, sir. Part of a telephone conversation. The voice we believe to be Coffee said something like, ‘This is your guardian angel. Remember me?’ Sebastian said, ‘Fallen?’ Then starts praising him for almost killing you, sir, but Coffee cuts him off. He says, ‘Don’t say anything else,’ then says ‘they’re coming back.’”

  Langston’s dark eyes nearly glittered with anger. “They being The Fallen Angels?”

  “We believe so, sir. Then Sebastian says, ‘Is this about that Cheyenne Hills thing?’ and Coffee hangs up.”

  “So,” said McCullough, “you believe—” she paused, thinking for a moment. “How sure are you that the caller was Richard Coffee?”

  “The reference to ‘Fallen’ and ‘guardian angels’ suggests it strongly. The bureau voice printed it, and compared it to the sole tape we have of Coffee’s voice, which, as you know, is very poor quality. They did not give a one hundred percent confirmation.”

  Secretary Mandalevo interrupted, his voice smooth. “It is, as a matter of fact, well below fifty percent, isn’t it, James?”

  Johnston slowly nodded. “They estimate it at a twenty-two percent certainty.”

  Everyone thought about that for a moment. Then President Langston said, “What about this Sebastian? Did you pick him up and question him?”

  Johnston hesitated. “Sir, there was a time lag between receiving the recording intercept and analyzing it. The call was made in late August. We didn’t receive the report from NSA until early October. As soon as it was analyzed, we sent agents to pick up Sebastian. However, sir, Jeremy Sebastian was murdered two days after the telephone call.”

  Chief of Staff McCullough was watching the president closely, eyes narrowed, expression troubled. “Sir, we’ve been through this—”

  President Langston leaned forward, elbows on his desk, face flushing with anger. “Why is this the first I’ve heard of this?”

  Johnston glanced at McCullough. She said, “Mr. President, it was in one of your briefings. Everything involving Richard Coffee and The Fallen Angels is automatically put at the top of your security briefing.”

  “I don’t remember this. I damn well would have remembered something this relevant, a real sighting of the bastard who killed my wife and children.” President Langston scowled at McCullough, then glared at Johnston.

  “Sir,” Johnston said, “it didn’t go anywhere. All we have is a very vague, unsubstantiated connection between Richard Coffee and Colorado Springs and the G8 Summit. It’s nothing more than a rumor. We don’t know for a fact that—”

  “I understand. But that madman murdered my family! What are you doing about this?”

  “Sir, the Secret Service is running security for the summit. They have been fully advised of the possibility that Richard Coffee may try to do something there.”

  President Langston turned his glare on Robert Mandalevo. “Robert? What do you have on The Fallen Angels?”

  Mandalevo tapped his long, thin fingers on the arm of his chair for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “As you know, Mr. President, the members of The Fallen Angels who were arrested have been confined to Guantanamo Bay. They were all recruited from the highest levels of the world’s intelligence agencies. They are very professional. And for reasons we don’t completely understand, they have proven to be very resistant to our interrogations. None of them have spoken, sir. None.”

  “What about Coffee? Did you track him?”

  “We found evidence, sir,” said Mondalevo, “that he slipped across the border into Mexico. In fact, he sent a postcard to Dr. Derek Stillwater from Mexico City. From there, we suspect he continued to move south into Central America. It was rumored that he was in Colombia, but it was never corroborated. That’s all we know until that phone intercept.”

  “Where was the phone call from?” demanded McCullough. Johnston thought the president’s erratic behavior was rattling her and she was trying to make up for it by stepping in and taking control of the meeting.

  Mandalevo looked over at Johnston, eyebrow raised.

  “We don’t know,” said Johnston.

  “What do you—”

  “We don’t know,” he repeated. Those three words he felt were often the three most important in intelligence circles. Most politicians didn’t get it; they always felt that an answer was necessary. “It was a cellular call, but the NSA never did track down exactly where it came from.”

  President Langston stood up. “One question, Jim.” His voice held barely contained rage.

  Everybody rose to their feet. Secretary Johnston said, “Yes, sir?”

  “Do you have assets in place to deal with Coffee, should he make an attempt at the summit?”

  “As I said, sir, the Secret Service runs security at National Special Security Events. They have been informed and are doing everything possible.”

  President Langston banged his fist on his desktop. He growled, “No, Jim. That’s not what I asked. Do you have an asset in place to deal with Richard Coffee?”

  Johnston understood the question. “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “Very well. Let’s move on.”

  As Johnston and Mandalevo left the Oval Office, Mandalevo said, “What was that about?”

  Johnston scowled. He glanced back over his shoulder. In a low voice, he said, “You were there when we briefed him on this. We both remember it. He’s getting worse.”

  “I’m aware of that, but that’s not what I’m talking about. What was that all about?”

  “What was what about?”

  Mandalevo stopped and looked at him. “What asset was the president talking about?”

  Johnston shook his head. “We have assets in place all over Cheyenne Hills, Robert. It’s what the Secret Service does. The service’s preparations for the summit are excellent. You’ve been fully informed of the situation.”

  “I’m the National Intelligence Director.” Mandalevo’s eyes narrowed, one of the few signs he gave that he was annoyed or even angry. “I should know what you have up your sleeve. What asset was the president talking about?”

  Johnston said, “Robert, you’ve been fully briefed on security for the summit.” He turned and walked away.

  You don’t need to know, thought Johnston. The only people who know are me, Derek Stillwater, and President Langston. Johnston understood something about Richard Coffee that not everybody appreciated, even Robert Mandalevo. If Coffee couldn’t seduce people to join him, he would bribe, blackmail, or threaten them. He had fingers into gov
ernments and intelligence agencies all over the world. Johnston trusted Mandalevo, but who knew who else might have access to that information? Especially if it was information Coffee really wanted. And one thing Johnston was sure of— Richard Coffee was very interested in knowing if Derek Stillwater was still alive.

  Chapter 10

  Secretary Mandalevo returned to his office in the West Wing and walked past his secretary without a word, slamming his door behind him. He had a window overlooking the south lawn, but otherwise the office was mostly remarkable for how small it was. In the White House, and especially in the West Wing, proximity to the president was the real indicator of status, and he was reasonably close— a short walk down the hall. But windows and size of the office were also indicators of how important you were to the administration, and of your own personal importance to the president, and he knew it.

  He stood in his small office and clenched his fists, thinking, stewing. This little skirmish exemplified everything that was wrong with the National Intelligence Directorate— it had been created to increase communication between the different intelligence agencies in the U.S. government after 9/11. Instead, it had inspired everybody to become even more protective of their own turf. He’d hoped that by keeping his office in the West Wing with easy access to the president that it would become symbolic of his importance. That turned out to be wasted effort, and not a day went by that he didn’t consider moving over to Liberty Crossing, but thought it would be viewed as an even bigger admission of failure.

  Also, every time he considered moving to the national intelligence headquarters, he knew what kind of message that would send to the press— Mandalevo’s cutting his losses, throwing up his hands with his frustration with this administration, and hiding out at Liberty Crossing.

  Plus, he didn’t like the way President Langston was behaving these days. The Fallen Angels were a clear and present danger to the United States, but so was al-Qaeda and a number of rogue countries around the world. You couldn’t put all your focus on one enemy or a different enemy would sneak up behind you while you were occupied. He felt his continuing presence in the West Wing and his easy access to the president would only strengthen his point about America’s enemies and the need for constant vigilance.

  He glanced for a moment at the most important thing in the room— the photograph of his family that rested on a corner of his oversized maple desk. His wife, Laura, who died three years earlier of ovarian cancer. His twin daughters, Megan and Midge, short for Margaret, now grown. Megan lived in Los Angeles, an agent with the Gersch Agency in Beverly Hills. Midge, following her father’s footsteps, worked for the State Department in the U.S. embassy in Greece. He was proud of his daughters. He missed them. He missed all three of them.

  He turned and stuck his head out the door and said, “Get Bill on the phone,” and ducked back inside his office.

  A moment later his phone buzzed and Marcia said, “Lieutenant General William Akron for you.”

  Akron was the deputy director of the National Intelligence Directorate, and worked out of their newly built headquarters at Liberty Crossing in northern Virginia. The former director of the National Security Agency, Akron ran the day-to-day operations of the NID. “Robert, shouldn’t you be heading over to Andrews?”

  “In a couple minutes. I need you to get some files and e-mail them directly to me on Air Force One ASAP.”

  “No problem.”

  “I want everything we know about Richard Coffee and The Fallen Angels. In particular, I want everything we have on an NSA intercept in August between Richard Coffee and the Reverend Lieutenant Colonel Jeremy Sebastian in Colorado.”

  “Do I need to know what this is about?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Okay, Robert. Understood. Anything else?”

  Mandalevo thought for a moment. “Get me the file on Derek Still-water. In fact, here’s what I really want to know about Derek Stillwater, Bill. Find out if he’s really dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Check social security, check Homeland Security payroll and benefits records. Anything else that might be relevant. I have a suspicion—”

  “Robert? What’s going on?”

  “Stillwater was always Johnston’s go-to guy. Johnston’s got somebody undercover at Cheyenne. I wonder if Johnston pulled a switch.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him. I’ll get the information for you. Anything else?”

  “No, not for now.”

  “Yes sir. Have a good trip, sir.”

  Chapter 11

  Derek Stillwater pushed his work cart in front of him through the tunnel connecting Cheyenne Hall to Colorado Springs Hall. The three buildings— Cheyenne Hall, the International Center, and the Colorado Springs Hall— were laid out in a rough triangle, making a combined 185,000 square feet of meeting space. Each building was connected by an underground tunnel and the basement areas of each building were a maze of narrow corridors, public meeting rooms, offices, and power plant and technical areas.

  His boss, Steven Planchette, had been pleased to see him and promptly sent him over to Colorado Springs Hall to replace burned-out lights in two of the conference rooms, and fix a backed-up toilet in the women’s restroom on the main floor. Ah, the glamorous life of the undercover agent, he thought. Yet, in a way, he had enjoyed his eight months here. The jobs were straightforward, short-term, and you could see the results immediately— and generally speaking, nobody tried to kill him in the process.

  His work cart was about the size of a garden cart and contained all the tools and parts he might need for these sorts of jobs— screwdrivers, wrenches, hammers, wire cutters, an electric drill, and bits. It was painted a deep maroon. It had his name on the side: Michael Gabriel. The label was twofold: one, so people wouldn’t— in theory— presumably poach tools off it, and two, so if he pissed off a guest they’d know who to report. He had added a bumper sticker to personalize it further. It read: What if the “Hokey Pokey” Really IS What It’s All About?

  So far he had encountered no guests, but the Secret Service and DSS people were omnipresent. A pair of agents, two men in dark suits, stopped him. One’s head was triangular shaped, his chin tapered so he looked like a fox or a ferret. He said, “ID and paperwork,” snapping his fingers. Derek shrugged and produced the documentation. The other agent looked bored. Ferret Face looked over the paperwork and gestured for Derek to open the cart. Derek did. The agent poked around and shrugged. “Lot of potential weapons in there.”

  Derek shrugged back. He pointed to the bulge of the gun under the agent’s coat. “Real weapon right there.”

  “Damn straight,” the agent said. “Well, you check out. Move on.”

  Derek did. He was stopped twice more on his way to his repair jobs. Other agents passed him on without checking his identification. It was unpredictable, which was probably the intention.

  Derek moved through the steel doors separating the tunnel from Colorado Springs Hall, took a right, and pushed his cart toward the freight elevator. As he waited for it, a trio of people in dark suits approached. They walked with purpose, deep in conversation. When the elevator door opened, the lead agent, a slim white-blond man in a dark suit, said, “Well, since it’s here. Hold up.”

  Derek obediently pushed the Door Open button and waited for them to enter. The second agent to enter had a head like a cement block, with gray hair cut short and ears that protruded like handles from the side of his head. His suit was black and had an odd cheap cut that didn’t fit him all that well. He scowled at Derek, scanned the cart, then seemed to dismiss him.

  The third person was a woman. She had long reddish-brown hair, high cheekbones, green eyes, and an oval face. She squeezed into the elevator. It was tight with the four of them and the cart. Her gaze slid over Derek for a moment before she turned her back to him and stared at the elevator door as they rose to the first floor.

  Derek’s heart hammered in his chest. He knew the woman. She was with the
FSB, the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, or Russian Federal Security Service. Her name was Irina Khournikova. And she knew him, too.

  The guy with the head like a cinder block, his voice heavily accented, said, “Everything seems to be running clockwise.”

  The blond guy seemed puzzled. “Er—”

  “Like clockwork,” Khournikova said. “Everything seems to be running like clockwork.” Her English was nearly perfect with only a slight Russian accent.

  “Da. What did I say?”

  “Clockwise. In circles,” said Khournikova.

  The Russian man frowned. “No, no. Like clockwork. Da? Going as planned. On schedule?”

  “It’s looking good,” the blond said cautiously. His hair was so blond it looked almost white, his complexion pale and chalky. Derek wondered if he was an albino.

  The elevator doors opened, and the three agents moved away. Khournikova didn’t look back at him. Derek pushed the cart out of the elevator and headed in the direction of the women’s bathroom. He passed by two more security stations and answered their questions and showed them his paperwork and let them look at his cart. When he finally made it to the women’s bathroom, he knocked on the door to make sure no one was inside, then propped it open with a yellow plastic sign indicating the restroom was closed for repairs. He grabbed his toolbox and went to see what the problem was with the toilet.

  It looked like somebody had tried to flush a tampon, he thought, and went about unclogging the thing. He heard steps behind him and said, “This restroom’s closed temporarily. There’s one—”

  Irina Khournikova stood just inside the doorway, a gun in both hands, aimed directly at him. Her voice was soft. “Hello, Derek. Been a while.”

  Chapter 12

  Derek, on his knees in the toilet stall with a plunger in his hand, glanced over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows. He tried to appear nonchalant. “So you’re a bad guy now?”

  Irina narrowed her eyes and stepped farther into the restroom. The restroom was slightly larger than a double-wide trailer, broken into two duplicate sections joined by a foyer. It screamed money and elegance, and Derek thought it was rather silly— wine-colored marble, gold-plated fixtures, frosted-glass light sconces. He tried to act casual, but he kept his eyes on the gun.