The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller

by Terry, Mark

  If Stillwater was to be trusted, and she suspected he was, he had good reasons to want Richard Coffee either dead or behind bars. Not nearly as good as her own reasons. Her lover, Lt. Col. Sergei Dobrovnik, had been assassinated in Chechnya by Coffee, who had then been known as Surkho Andarbek.

  It had been her job to root out the Chechen assassin, but it had become personal. And when it was discovered that Andarbek was actually a CIA agent— a rogue CIA agent, it was believed— the matter had become ever so much more complicated. She had spent years trying to track the mysterious Andarbek, who had moved in and out of Russia, Chechnya, and Georgia with ease. She had become an expert— as big an expert as anybody on the planet, she supposed— on The Fallen Angels, the name of Andarbek’s group of operators. They headquartered in the Georgian mountains, bought or stole weapons, sold them to whoever needed or wanted them.

  Over time they evolved into something else, a weird cultlike group of apocalyptic terrorists.

  The first of the helicopters— Marine One— that carried the president of the United States and his staff, settled onto the expanse of lawn in front of the Cheyennne Center. A marine honor guard stood at attention, and a small military band played “Hail to the Chief” as President Langston deplaned, waving to a small contingent of the press.

  Irina glanced upward at the roofs of the buildings, mentally checking off the Secret Service sharpshooters she saw at different points of the compass. She shifted her gaze to the Secret Service guards who walked alongside the president in their dark suits, eyes covered with sunglasses, bodies stiff with the focus of their attention.

  President Langston stood listening to “Hail to the Chief,” and when it was finally finished, he saluted and led the U.S. contingent through the entrance of the Cheyenne Center.

  Another helicopter landed, then another, and another.

  Inside the Cheyenne Center, she knew, the president would be preparing for a short speech in the main banquet hall. There would be a few other speeches, then the leaders, their translators, and Sherpas would move to the International Center’s private room for a smaller, intimate series of meetings.

  If she were The Fallen Angel, that is where she would make her move. She didn’t think a man with the tactical experience— even brilliance— of Richard Coffee would try something at the main gathering of the leaders, with seven hundred people in a banquet hall and dozens of security experts. It was too large and unwieldy a group to try and control, unless Coffee had something else in mind, like a bombing.

  Ivan turned and said, “Here is our leader,” and stiffened his posture.

  The fifth helicopter landed and Russian President Pieter Vakhach descended the stairs, waving at the press. Vakhach was a blade-thin hawk of a man, balding, and elegant. The U.S. military band broke into a version of the Hymn of the Russian Federation. It was a slow, but rousing march and Vakhach stood at attention as the band played.

  Ivan said, “Ahhh. The old cold warrior in me gets chills hearing a U.S. military band playing our national anthem.”

  “Maybe you’re coming down with the flu, Ivan.”

  He laughed. “Da. Perhaps. Well, things have begun, have they not? The world’s leaders will talk for hours and accomplish nothing, and money better spent on other things will be wasted on security and endless chatter. Dull, boring, and routine.”

  “Let us hope, Ivan. Let us hope.”

  As they turned to go back inside the International Center, Irina happened to note the expression of Mikhail Alexandrov, the lead FSB agent who would be escorting Vakhach into the Cheyenne Center. She had been discussing things with him when she ran into Stillwater. Alexandrov was an odd one, a throwback to the KGB, a brutal, but efficient, security technocrat. With his cheap suits, bad English, and square head, he had a nickname throughout the FSB— Charlie Brown. Charlie Brown after the cartoon character who was always called a “blockhead.” But nobody in the FSB had the balls to call Charlie Brown a blockhead. To be caught like that might not just end your career, but probably your life, gutted like a deer and floating down the Moscow River past the Vorobievy Hills.

  In all the years she had worked for Mikhail Alexandrov, she had never seen him smile. But he was smiling now, as he led President Pieter Vakhach toward the doors of the Cheyenne Center.

  PART II

  ARCHANGEL

  Chapter 25

  President Langston appeared at the podium on the stage at the front of the main banquet hall of the Cheyenne Center. Standing in a row on either side of him were the eight leaders of the Group of Eight, plus the president of the European Union. The banquet hall was filled, nearly seven hundred government leaders and administrators from twenty countries. Seated at the front tables closest to the stage were an additional thirteen leaders and their Sherpas from countries with a vested interest in the summit.

  The crowd was surprisingly supportive of President Langston, in large part because of the loss of his wife and children in a terrorist attack months before. They rose to their feet in a wave of applause.

  Langston nodded, waited a moment for the applause to die down, and raised his hands. “Thank you, my friends. Thank you. Good morning and welcome to the Group of Eight Summit. I hope everybody had comfortable and safe trips here to this beautiful spot in Colorado, my home state. I hope you enjoy your accommodations and will enjoy your stay here. I know I’m looking forward to a good round of golf, and my friend Prime Minister Hollenbeck has promised to help me with my putting.”

  The crowd laughed.

  Langston continued. “As you know, we come together every year in these informal settings to address major issues of concern to the world. This year our top priorities are counterterrorism, world poverty, and the Middle East. I am certain that—”

  Standing behind a long table, El Tiburón looked around the banquet hall, making certain that everything was in place. He had been concerned when The Fallen was late from his trip to the kitchen area. Everything had been precisely on schedule up to that point, but The Fallen had been nearly ten minutes late in returning to the banquet hall, slipping in just as the room was filling, nodding to El Tiburón, and taking up his post next to the storage room door.

  El Tiburón respected The Fallen. He admired him. But unlike the rest of The Fallen Angels, he was not swept up in the man’s charisma. Perhaps that was why he was now the second-in-command. El Tiburón, like most of The Fallen Angels, had a background in the military or intelligence. In his case he had grown up with the Colombian AUC, the Autodefensas Unedas de Colombia or United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia, a paramilitary organization that sprang up in opposition to the two major terrorist groups working Colombia— the National Liberation Army, or ELN, and the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia or FARC— both communist groups that worked hand in hand with the drug traffickers to overthrow the Colombian government.

  Although the Colombian government largely viewed the AUC as another terrorist organization, El Tiburón thought of them as performing the actions the government was too weak to perform itself. But AUC itself was not strong, and it was The Fallen who had inspired El Tiburón with his vision and ambition. It was possible to topple the Colombian government— all governments— and all it would take was a daring enough leader.

  El Tiburón wanted a smoke. He had to have the discipline not to light up. This was not the time or place for it. But they were on the cusp of announcing themselves to the planet and the craving for tobacco was strong.

  He glanced across the room at The Fallen. The Fallen’s eyes were on the president of the United States, but for all his concentration and intensity, El Tiburón thought something was wrong. Whatever had happened in those ten minutes was distracting the man. That worried him. This mission was too complicated to allow for distractions.

  El Tiburón glanced at his watch. Almost time, if everything went as planned.

  President Langston was saying: “— and so I hope that we can put aside our politics—” the president cracked the
crooked grin that had garnered him so many votes. “— well, some of the politics, anyway—”

  The crowd laughed.

  “— and make changes that will improve life not just for the Group of Eight or the twenty countries represented here today, but for the entire planet. So with that out of the way, let’s get to work.”

  The crowded room again rose to its feet and applauded.

  El Tiburón waited for the signal, his right hand in his coat pocket on the transmitter button.

  Chapter 26

  The buses carrying the protestors barreled down the road toward the first National Guard checkpoint. Carlos Santos leaned over toward the driver of the lead bus and said, “Punch it!”

  The driver glanced at Santos in the long, interior rearview mirror at the top of the windshield. “SOP, right?”

  “Do it!”

  The driver grinned. “Fuck yeah!” and stomped on the gas pedal.

  In the front seat, the TV cameraman looked up from where he had been taping the protestors inside the bus. To Santos he said, “Are you crazy?”

  Santos flashed him a bright smile. “Welcome to the revolution, man.”

  The National Guard unit had their Humvee off to the side of the road. They had put up a barricade, but it was a pro forma type of structure, a wooden barrier that could be swung aside. The four guardsmen were spread across different points of the road, waiting.

  “CRASH THE BARRIER!” chanted Santos into the bullhorn, inciting the protestors.

  “CRASH THE BARRIER! CRASH THE BARRIER!”

  The cameraman swung his camera toward the windshield, trying to catch it all. Next to him the reporter was talking into her tape recorder, narrating: “In an unexpected turn of events, the protestors are going to crash through the barricade on their way toward the Cheyenne Hills Resort, where the G8 Summit is just beginning.”

  The school bus picked up speed, rocketing and rattling toward the barrier. The guardsmen seemed to realize at the last moment that the bus wasn’t going to stop. They scattered.

  With a crash the bus slammed through the wooden barrier. The three buses behind them followed. They could hear the sound of weapons firing. Santos was certain the guardsmen were firing in the air. Their procedure would be to radio on ahead to the last checkpoint, where a more effective roadblock would be put in place.

  And a minute later, he saw that this was the case. Not only had the guardsmen rolled their Humvee into the road, but they had reinforced the barricade with concrete blocks. They stood on each side of the road, weapons raised and ready. In the distance he heard sirens. The first checkpoint had sicced the cops on them. That was good.

  The driver slowed. “What now?”

  “Get close and stop,” Santos said. He turned to face the protestors. “Are you ready?”

  “YES!” they shouted.

  “When we stop, we rush the barricade! DOWN WITH ECONOMIC TYRANNY!”

  “DOWN WITH ECONOMIC TYRANNY!”

  The bus came to a halt. The driver glanced at Santos, who nodded. With a flick of the handle, the door cranked open.

  “OUT! OUT! OUT!” Santos shouted.

  The first out were the TV people, who set up just off to the side of the road. Santos noted that the reporter was standing with her back to the barricade, so the cameraman got a good shot with her in the foreground.

  Like a panicked herd of cattle, the protestors rushed out of the bus, bottlenecked at the door, then spread out onto the road, their placards raised. They were joined by the protestors from the other three buses, easily a hundred people. The protestors with makeshift drums began to thump out a heartbeat rhythm. Someone began a chant. “G8 NOT! G8 NOT! G8 NOT!”

  Cautiously, standing just inside the bus, leaning out, one hand on the pole so he was higher than the crowd, Santos shouted, “WHO ARE WE?”

  “WE ARE THE PEOPLE!”

  “WHO?”

  “THE PEOPLE!”

  “GOOOOOO!”

  The crowd surged toward the four armed Colorado National Guardsmen. Santos watched as the mob rushed The Fallen Angels who had taken over the guardsmen’s checkpoint. To the driver he murmured, “Might want to take cover.”

  The driver glanced in the mirror. “Uh-oh.” Behind them appeared three Colorado State Police patrol cars, sirens blaring, lights flashing.

  The cameramen swung around to capture the police cars arriving. And then the first shot rang out.

  The four terrorists dressed as guardsmen fired on the crowd. Screams lifted into the thin mountain air. As bodies fell, some of the protestors tried to reach the guardsmen, but were methodically gunned down. Others ran for cover. Behind the bus, the patrol cars skidded to a halt, blocking the road. The state troopers piled out, guns drawn, taking up positions behind their vehicles.

  Santos noted with satisfaction that the troopers were on their radios. And the TV camera was rolling. He hoped they made it back to their satellite truck as soon as possible.

  He pulled out a handheld radio and said, “El Chacal here. Phase two on schedule. Proceed.”

  The voice of The Fallen came over the radio. “Confirmed.”

  Chapter 27

  President Langston was acknowledging the applause when his Sherpa, Tobias Leeman, walked across the stage and leaned toward the president’s ear. From where El Tiburón stood he could not hear, but he had a good idea what was being said.

  Langston cocked his head, then glanced out at the audience and raised his hand to wave. Leaning away from the microphone, he exchanged words with Leeman, nodded, and turned back to the microphone.

  President Langston raised his hands for silence. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m afraid we’ve got a problem. We will be going into a temporary security lockdown. It appears there has been an altercation between the National Guard troops and some protestors at one of the security checkpoints outside the resort. This may require a change of schedule. For the time being, everybody will remain in the ballroom here, and we’ll get you updated as soon as we have more information. Now then, our next scheduled speaker is Prime Minister James Hollenbeck.” He turned to gesture toward the British leader.

  “It is my great honor and privilege to introduce everybody to Prime Minister Hollenbeck. As you know, he and I go back a long ways. James, due to the security lockdown, you now have all the time in the world—”

  All around Cheyenne Hall, emergency security lockdown was taking place. The doors to the banquet hall locked with magnetic clicks. The exterior doors to the building also closed and could not be opened until overridden from the security center. Steel security gates rolled shut over the main doors, running from floor to ceiling. In the basement levels, steel security gates dropped into place, locking down with a clank.

  Not only was Cheyenne Hall secured from outside access, nobody inside would be able to get out.

  Through his earpiece, El Tiburón heard The Fallen whisper, “Begin.”

  El Tiburón, heart racing, clicked the button of the remote control.

  Chapter 28

  Secret Service Agent Lee Padillo scowled at the monitors in the International Center’s security office. He had sent Sarah Macklin and two of her agents off to track down Derek Stillwater and nothing had been heard from her. He tried radioing her and got nothing. Where the hell had they gone?

  And now all hell had broken loose out at Checkpoint Delta. That should not have happened.

  Punching channels on the console, he was able to pick up radio chatter from throughout the entire National Security Event, listening in on his own agents, the Bureau of State Security, the National Guard, and some of the media. It wasn’t good. The press, all three thousand of them from around the world, were confined to the Phil Long Expo Center, where they could watch the summit via the six cameras set up in every room, allowing a 360-degree view of significant events. Confined there, that is, until news broke about the shooting. Then they all loaded up in their vehicles and headed this way, clogging the roads to the resort, threatening the sta
te troopers and the National Guard, who were trying to get ambulances in to sort out the mess.

  And now the Cheyenne Center was under security lockdown.

  “This is a fucking hairball,” said a voice behind him. Padillo turned to see Agent Vincent Silvedo stroll into the security center.

  “What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the Cheyenne Center. We’re in lockdown.”

  “Yeah, and I was outside when you went into lockdown.”

  Padillo rubbed his forehead and glanced over at the other three agents monitoring the radios and video screens. “Jesus! Silvedo, you weren’t— what were you doing outside?”

  “What do you think? Having a smoke. Then all of a sudden the doors come down and the entire building gets locked up tight.”

  “Get your ass back there.”

  Silvedo shrugged, then walked back toward the door. “Oh, Padillo, one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  Padillo’s eyes widened in shock as Silvedo tossed a flash grenade at him. The concussion knocked him flat. His eyes sizzled crimson. Padillo realized he was on his hands and knees, blind, dazed, confused, uncertain how much time had passed. Only seconds? What the—

  He heard footsteps as if from a thousand miles away. Struggling to gain his footing, Padillo heard a gunshot, then another. And another. He was scrabbling for his own gun when everything went dead in a brilliant flash of pain.

  Chapter 29

  In his earpiece, El Tiburón heard Vincent Silvedo say, “The Fallen, this is Chameleon. I have taken over security. You are a go. I repeat, you are a go.” El Tiburón tapped the button on the remote in his pocket. It sent out a signal to the 240 specially prepared bottles of champagne scattered around the banquet hall. At the bottom of each bottle was a tiny radio-controlled detonator that provided just enough pop to explode the bottles.