by Terry, Mark
Derek, heart hammering in his chest, turned, caught Maria in his arms, and leapt toward the entryway. They were almost there when an explosion blasted into the crowded anteroom.
A pressure wave moving over 30,000 feet per second slammed into Derek, driving him and Maria through the doorway and back into the kitchen, followed by a rain of debris—shards of steel, brick, wood, lathe—and human flesh.
It took a few moments for Derek to come to his senses. He was lying sprawled on top of Maria, whose eyes were closed. She seemed to be mumbling to herself.
Wincing, Derek rolled off and gently shook her. “Maria, are you okay?”
She opened her eyes. “Am I dead?”
“No. Are you hurt?”
“My ears hurt.”
Derek smiled slightly. “Yeah. Mine too.” He turned to look back toward the doorway. There was nothing there. A pile of rubble, shredded metal and wood. There were no screams or cries or moans. He and Maria had been farthest from the blast on the opposite side of approximately twenty people who had taken the full force of the explosion—saving their lives, but the others losing theirs.
Dimly, he heard the thump of feet and shouts in what he thought was Spanish coming from the opposite end of the kitchen. He quickly scrambled to the dead terrorist and flung open his black jacket. Around his waist was a communication kit, the cords trailing to his ears and a throat microphone. Deftly Derek unbuckled it, snatched up the knife the terrorist had wielded, glanced around, and dragged a steel table beneath the ceiling tile he had crashed through.
Maria was now on her feet, tears streaming down her face. He caught her by the arm and dragged her to the table. “Up you go.”
“Who are you?”
“Derek Stillwater, Department of Homeland Security. You first.”
Slowly she climbed up on the table. He boosted her through the hole, then handed her the MP-5 and the communication kit. Then he reached up, caught hold of the frame, and with a groan, hauled himself through the hole.
Below him he heard a door clang open and two of Coffee’s Fallen Angels rushed into the kitchen. Derek paused, brought the MP-5 up to his shoulder and waited.
As the men appeared before him he squeezed the trigger.
There was a loud, heart-stopping click! In the gloom Derek raised the gun to stare at the translucent magazine. Empty.
The two Fallen Angels below heard the click, stared upward, and raised their weapons. One shouted in Spanish.
Maria whispered in his ear, “’Surrender now.’”
“No damned way,” he said, gripped her arm and dragged her as fast as he could along the catwalk.
Gunfire shrieked beneath them, chewing through the ceiling tiles.
Chapter 37
CIA Director Ballard held his phone in front of him as if it were a writhing rattlesnake, waiting for it to buzz.
FBI Director O’Malley was on his own phone, voice firing like a machine gun, “—we want a lock on that, get the NSA on the number—”
Attorney General Penderton leaned over toward Johnston and said, “He really thinks we need the NSA to pinpoint Coffee’s cell phone location? We all know where the fuck he is. I can tell him precisely where the sonofabitch—”
Vice President Newman stood up and in a loud voice said, “I think we need to invoke the Twenty-fifth.”
The room fell silent. Not a word from anybody. Newman wanted to invoke the Twenty-fifth Amendment of the Constitution, which stated clearly in Section 1: “In case of the removal of the President from office or of his death or resignation, the Vice President shall become President.”
Penderton slowly shifted aside to study Vice President Newman. He cleared his throat, tucking his nicotine gum into one cheek. “Well now, Mr. Vice President, bringing that up certainly makes some sense now, but—”
The door to the PEOC burst open and Lt. General William Akron, deputy director of the National Intelligence Directorate stepped in. He ran a long-fingered hand through his shock of gray hair, expression tense, but under control. He paused, searching the room.
Secretary Johnston said, “Oh hell, Bill. Robert’s there, isn’t he? We should have called you in immediately. Thank God you’re—”
Akron waved him off. “I need to wi-fi my laptop in. Where’s the—” He bustled over to the table, set up his laptop and tapped some keys. In a few seconds one of the wall-mounted plasma screen monitors brought up the desktop of Akron’s computer screen. A few more key taps and he had his e-mail in-box on the screen.
“I just got this a few minutes ago—”
Director Ballard’s phone buzzed. Everyone froze. Ballard picked it up and said, “Director Ballard, Central Intelligence, here.”
He listened for a moment, nodded. “Now, Mr. Coffee, you have to understand that this is not a winnable situation—”
He looked at the phone. “He hung up. He recited the phone number and then hung up.” Ballard recited the number and everybody jotted it down, wondering exactly what good that was going to do them.
Vice President Newman, still on his feet, said, “Gentlemen, we really need to discuss invoking the Twenty-fifth.”
“Yes, Mr. Vice President,” said Secretary Johnston. “In a moment, with your permission. Bill, what’s up?”
Akron pointed to the computer monitor. “I got an e-mail from Director Mandalevo. He’s inside the ballroom. He’s got his PDA with him and he’s—look.”
They all studied the screen. The message read:
BA—Xspt 12 bogie internal. RC. Adrov&Xman rt hand. Recog 3. Aryeh. Dorf. Christo. C4?on doors/G8. FM remote. Warn SS. DS in/out? Keep posted RM
“Now what the hell does that mean?” snapped Vice President Newman. Still on his feet, he sounded more and more petulant as time went on.
Secretary Johnston, voice low, whispered, “Jesus. He’s got balls.”
“Mr. Vice President,” Akron said, “Secretary Mandalevo is feeding us intel. The BA is me—Bill Akron. Xspot means he’s at the X spot—inside the ballroom. But what’s important—”
“Secretary Mandalevo is inside the ballroom with all the other terrorists?” asked Vice President Newman. Johnston wondered about Newman’s limited grasp of the actual logistics of the crisis. He wasn’t surprised by Newman’s focus on who was in charge, but he wished that Newman would get a quicker grasp of the big picture. If they were to do anything, they needed to organize information fast and get moving. They had to be proactive, not reactive.
“Yes, sir,” said Akron.
General Puskorius said, “What else? What’s after Xspt?”
Akron said, “RC. I think that’s Richard Coffee. The Fallen Angel. Then Androv&Xman rt hand. We have a list of the intelligence agents working the ballroom from other countries. I took a look. The head of the Russian security forces is Mikhail Alexandrov. I think Bob’s telling us that Coffee’s top people—his right-hand men—are Mikhail Alexandrov and this Xman.”
“Does that correspond with anybody?” Johnston asked.
“Not that I can see. I think Xman means Bob doesn’t recognize him.”
Johnston studied the screen. “Recog. Means recognize?”
“Yes, I think so. Recog 3 means he recognizes three of the terrorists. Aryeh, Dorf, and Christo. By comparing to the list, I think they’re Didier Christophe from the DGSE and—”
Vice President Newman asked, “Who?”
“General de la Securite Exterieure,” said Akron impatiently. “French Secret Service. Franz Dorfmann with the Abwehr.” He glanced at Vice President Newman and said, “German Secret Service. And Amnon Aryeh with Mossad.” Again, he glanced at Newman and said, “Israel.”
“Okay,” said General Puskorius. “ ‘C4?ondoors/G8.’ I think I can figure that out. Plastic explosives on the doors and on the leaders of the G8. We knew about the G8, we could see it. That’s useful information. ‘FM remote?’ ”
Akron hesitated. “I can’t be certain, but I think he’s saying that they have the plastic explosiv
e detonators set to go off with radio remote control. And ‘Warn SS’ means warn the Secret Service.”
“ ‘And DS in/out?’ ” said Puskorius. “What’s that mean?”
Again Akron hesitated. “I’m not—”
Johnston growled, “Yes, you damn well are sure. Yes. The answer is yes. I’d stake my life on it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” demanded Director O’Malley. “What does ‘DS in/out?’ mean? Jim? Out with it.”
“I think he’s asking if Derek Stillwater is in or out. If he’s with The Fallen Angels or if he’s on our side.” Secretary Johnston waited, knowing a blowup was coming.
Akron nodded. “Yes, I think that’s what it means.”
“Derek Stillwater?” asked the vice president. “That renegade agent of yours? What, he’s involved—He can’t be, he’s dead.”
Johnston leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Derek Stillwater isn’t dead. We faked his death and placed him undercover at the resort because of a fragment of intelligence we picked up suggesting Coffee was back in the U.S. and might be interested in the G8 Summit.”
Attorney General Penderton slammed his fist down on the table. When he shouted, his nicotine gum flew from his mouth and landed in the middle of the table. “Goddammit, Jim! That bastard was under investigation by me and the bureau. Are you crazy? You want to end up in Leavenworth or Guantanamo? He was in cahoots with Coffee and these Fallen Angels.”
“Oh bullshit!”
Vice President Newman shouted, “Hold it, hold it. Why wasn’t I advised of this?”
“Because you didn’t need to know,” Johnston said, voice cold. “It was only known to me, President Langston, and two or three key people—”
“How did Mandalevo find out?” Penderton snapped. “How long has he known?”
“He found out this morning during the intelligence briefing with the president. President Langston let slip that I had an undercover asset in place. Bob confronted me about it, but—”
“He asked for a follow-up records check after that meeting to determine if Stillwater was actually dead,” Akron said. “It didn’t take long to find out he was still alive. You just had to know where to look.”
Penderton said, “I cannot fucking believe this! It’s bad enough we’ve got enemies on the outside, but, Jim, you can’t go running ops like this. It’ll look like a fucking cover-up. DHS faking an agent’s death to avoid investigation by another branch of the government. The media get this you’ll be—”
Johnston glared at the AG. “Oh put a sock in it, Norris. You were feeding the media all sorts of bullshit about Derek to keep your face on the news. You’ve read all the files, classified and not. There’s no hint besides that fake e-mail that Stillwater was involved with Coffee. And now is not the time for politics.”
“Exactly,” said Vice President Newman. “We need to create a plan. We need to start with—”
Akron said, “Excuse me, Mr. Vice President. Should I e-mail Bob back telling him DS is in?”
“Yes,” said Johnston. “But we don’t know where Derek is or if he’s even alive. He has a sat phone, but I haven’t been able to reach him.”
General Puskorius climbed to his feet. “That’s it, then. Let Swenson know what we’ve got. I’m pulling in my D-boys to see if they can plan an op.”
“I’m in charge here,” said Vice President Newman. “I haven’t approved any rescue operation. D-boys? I suppose you mean Delta Force.”
Puskorius stared at him. “Yes, Delta Force. We’ve got to at least get them to within striking distance. As for who’s in charge, Mr. Vice President, that’s a political decision that has to be made by your cabinet. I’ll be back once I get this op going.” He turned to FBI Director O’Malley and CIA Director Lynn Ballard. “I’ll need Lynn and Sean on this. And Jim, it would be helpful if I had some idea of what your boy Stillwater might be capable of.”
“I’ll get you his file ASAP.”
Puskorius nodded. “If I remember correctly, he was Army Special Forces.”
“Yes.”
“And if he’s still alive, he might be somewhere in that building.”
“I hope so.”
“So do I, Jim. I really do. Let’s see if we can give this poor bastard some backup.” And with that, he stepped out of the PEOC.
Chapter 38
El Tiburón paced around the ballroom. He spied somebody trying to make a call on a cell phone. He stepped over and jabbed the barrel of his assault rifle into the man’s ear. Trembling, the man turned to him. His large brown eyes filled with tears, his pointed chin trembling beneath a Van Dyke beard. One of the Spaniards, thought El Tiburón. It would be tempting to kill the man. They had discussed cell phones and PDAs while planning this mission, but had decided that dealing with five hundred or more phones and PDAs would be a waste of time. Threats would be just as effective. He held out his hand.
Timidly, the Spaniard dropped the phone into his palm. “Gracias,” El Tiberón said with a grin.
He turned and held up the phone. In heavily accented English he shouted, “No cell phones. No PDAs. No communication with the outside world. Comprende? I will shoot the next person I see trying to use his phone.” He raised his weapon and aimed it at the Spaniard.
The Spaniard cowered in fear, hiding his head behind his hands.
“Comprende, amigo?” He nudged the Spaniard with the gun.
“Si! Si, comprende!”
“Or—bang! ”
The Spaniard gave out a high-pitched shriek when El Tiburón made the shooting noise. El Tiburón laughed and moved on, in better spirits than he had been while listening to The Fallen’s initial ransom demands. Thinking about that now he strode toward the front of the stage.
President Jack Langston, as well as the other leaders, watched him closely. President Langston called out, “Who are you? Hello, you there. Who are you?”
Coffee raised his rifle and pointed it at Langston. “You will speak when spoken to.”
Langston scowled. “Or what? You’ll kill me? Isn’t that what you plan to do, Coffee? Let me ask you something, Mr. Coffee. Didn’t you sign an oath to—”
Coffee fired off a burst of gunfire just over the president’s head. President Langston barely flinched, although other leaders cried out or tried to cower in their seats. Coffee turned away from the leaders to meet El Tiburón’s gaze. El Tiburón saw that the confident The Fallen was back, that the hesitant man of only moments ago was gone. Still, things were not right.
The Fallen raised his hand in a stop gesture, and lifted his phone to his ear. “CIA Director Ballard?” He read off his cell phone number and clicked off. “Si?”
El Tiburón stood close. Voice low, he said, “You varied the plan. Who is this Nadia Kosov?”
Coffee’s jaw grew taut. “It is not your concern. Things are going as planned.”
“No,”El Tiburón insisted. “No. Already you made a change. First request, release your compadres. Si, I understand. But you put an extra stipulation on it. Who is Nadia Kosov?”
“As I said.” Coffee’s voice was soft, but it carried real menace. “It is none of your—”
Muffled gunfire broke out from somewhere outside the ballroom. Coffee turned toward the sound, an expression of interest on his face. Into his throat mic he said, “Perimeter three report in by the numbers. I repeat, perimeter three, report in by the numbers.”
There was long silence. Finally, “Numero dos, numero uno is not responding. I will check.
“Tres, status clear.”
“Quattro, status clear. Request—”
More gunfire vibrated in the air. Coffee met El Tiburón’s gaze.
Many of the people in the ballroom were rising to their feet. The noise level increased as they began to babble among themselves.
“Report in,” Coffee said. “Dos, report.”
Radio silence. El Tiburón murmured, “Pastinaca and Serpiente.”
Coffee nodded. “Tr
es and Quattr o. Check on Pastinaca and Serpiente. Check them.”
El Tiburón said, “This would be early for a counteroffensive.”
“And not large enough. We’ll know a counteroffensive when it happens. I wonder—”
An explosion shook the building. Screams filled the air as the ballroom trembled. Coffee unhooked a PDA from his belt, clicked it on, and studied the readout. “The loading dock. Somebody set off the explosives.”
Into his microphone, he rattled off numbers in Spanish. “Status?”
After a moment of static-filled radio silence, their voices came on. “On our way. Repeat, we are okay and on our way. There appears to be a large explosion at the loading dock entrance.”
“Check for survivors,” said Coffee. “And look in the kitchen area to see what you see. Report in. Over.”
He turned to El Tiburón. His face was untroubled. “El Tigre and El Oso are on top of things.”
El Tiburón’s eyes glittered. “That won’t help Pastinaca and Serpiente, will it?”
The Fallen met his gaze, unflinching. “We all have our roles to play, El Tiburón. We all have our duty to perform. Both you and I. Go back to your post.”
El Tiburón stopped himself from a harsh retort, but instead spun on his heels and stalked back toward the television cameras. A man in a gray suit, one of the German delegates, said, “What is going on? What was the explosion?”
Without hesitation El Tiburón backhanded the man, who staggered away, hands to his face, blood spurting from his broken nose. El Tiburón followed after the German. He stepped in and slammed the butt of his MP-5 into the man’s face once, twice, knocking him to the ground. He brought the MP-5 around so the barrel was aimed at the man cowering on the floor. “No questions!” he screamed. “No questions! Comprende? Do not talk to me! You are expendable. You are like ants on the ground beneath my boot. No questions!”
He kicked the German twice in the ribs before returning to the television cameras, people shifting nervously away from him as he walked by, eyes down, not meeting his gaze, not daring to draw his attention or rage. “My duty,” he raged. “My duty is to my people! I know my duty!”