much.”
Pilcher shrugged, a gesture whose affect was lost on the telephone. “What do you want to do?”
“We’ll process the name. I need you here by eight o’clock. The Director needs a full brief before he heads to the White House. Full staff meeting at the White House at nine, everybody’s going to be there to update the President.”
“Yes sir.” Pilcher swallowed and turned to watch the flatbed trucks maneuver into position. The drivers were on their backs hooking chains to the first van’s frame. “I’ve got agents going over parking lot surveillance tapes here to see if we can get a look at these guys. And see if they’re still around.”
“Good. Keep me informed.” Spigotta clicked off.
Tucking his cell phone into his pocket, Pilcher headed toward the vans and the ERTs. He could hear the motor of the winch kick into action and begin to pull the first of the three vans onto the flatbed. Rodriguez was standing by the vehicle, supervising.
At the precise instant the van hit 33 degrees off level there was a massive ker-whump! and it exploded into a flaming ball of flying metal, fabric and plastic.
Seconds later the other two vans erupted into flame.
13/b>
Washington, D.C.
T HE WOMAN RACED THE Blazer through the D.C. streets, taking seemingly random turns whenever she could, glancing in the rearview mirrors often to check for someone following. In the passenger seat, Derek clutched the chain around his neck and tried not to think about bullets pinning him down, about the petals of blood exploding on Dr. Davis’s chest. Trying to keep his voice even, he said, “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe.”
He didn’t comment. His mind was spinning. It was like flying through a hurricane, looking for the eye. And then he found it, a center of calm surrounded by a whirlwind. He looked at her, taking in the shoulder-length dark hair, strong features made up of sharp nose, high cheekbones and square jaw. Her blunt fingers gripped the steering wheel. She seemed tough, maybe the set of that square jaw or the way her attention was focused on the road. In leather hiking boots, black jeans and a white button-down shirt under a leather bomber jacket, she projected an image of someone who could handle almost anything.
He reached over and tugged at the leather jacket. Her right hand shot out and brushed his hand aside, but not before he saw the grip of a matte-black semiautomatic in a shoulder rig.
“Who are you?” Derek repeated.
“Irina Khournikova.”
He thought she had a trace of an accent. The name and the accent pointed toward Russian.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m—”
”Doctor Derek Stillwater. Or do you prefer Professor?”
Derek lapsed into silence. His brain spun. The Blazer was still racing through the streets, never stopping or slowing. Irina Khournikova, or whoever she was, had perfected the rolling stop, never slowing more than twenty miles per hour, even at stop signs. “Let me out here,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
“It is not safe.”
“Who are you?”
She brushed hair impatiently away from her face. Derek noticed a small C-shaped scar, very faint, on her right cheek. “You need to be briefed,” she said. “I didn’t imagine they’d go after you.”
“They?”
The Blazer zigged and zagged through city streets. Not comfortable in D.C. on a good day, Derek had lost all sense of direction except for the reddish glow of the setting sun to the west. The only comfort he felt was that his Colt was still on his hip under his jacket. It was his ace in the hole and he didn’t want to misplay his hand.
“Your own people,” Khournikova said. “The shooter back there.”
Derek settled his gaze on her. “You’re saying somebody from Homeland Security shot Dr. Davis?”
“No, no.” Her accent intensified. She shook her head. “Not your people like that. Others. Probably CIA. Maybe your Military Intelligence. State Department. My guess is CIA.”
Derek said
Pilcher shrugged, a gesture whose affect was lost on the telephone. “What do you want to do?”
“We’ll process the name. I need you here by eight o’clock. The Director needs a full brief before he heads to the White House. Full staff meeting at the White House at nine, everybody’s going to be there to update the President.”
“Yes sir.” Pilcher swallowed and turned to watch the flatbed trucks maneuver into position. The drivers were on their backs hooking chains to the first van’s frame. “I’ve got agents going over parking lot surveillance tapes here to see if we can get a look at these guys. And see if they’re still around.”
“Good. Keep me informed.” Spigotta clicked off.
Tucking his cell phone into his pocket, Pilcher headed toward the vans and the ERTs. He could hear the motor of the winch kick into action and begin to pull the first of the three vans onto the flatbed. Rodriguez was standing by the vehicle, supervising.
At the precise instant the van hit 33 degrees off level there was a massive ker-whump! and it exploded into a flaming ball of flying metal, fabric and plastic.
Seconds later the other two vans erupted into flame.
13/b>
Washington, D.C.
T HE WOMAN RACED THE Blazer through the D.C. streets, taking seemingly random turns whenever she could, glancing in the rearview mirrors often to check for someone following. In the passenger seat, Derek clutched the chain around his neck and tried not to think about bullets pinning him down, about the petals of blood exploding on Dr. Davis’s chest. Trying to keep his voice even, he said, “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe.”
He didn’t comment. His mind was spinning. It was like flying through a hurricane, looking for the eye. And then he found it, a center of calm surrounded by a whirlwind. He looked at her, taking in the shoulder-length dark hair, strong features made up of sharp nose, high cheekbones and square jaw. Her blunt fingers gripped the steering wheel. She seemed tough, maybe the set of that square jaw or the way her attention was focused on the road. In leather hiking boots, black jeans and a white button-down shirt under a leather bomber jacket, she projected an image of someone who could handle almost anything.
He reached over and tugged at the leather jacket. Her right hand shot out and brushed his hand aside, but not before he saw the grip of a matte-black semiautomatic in a shoulder rig.
“Who are you?” Derek repeated.
“Irina Khournikova.”
He thought she had a trace of an accent. The name and the accent pointed toward Russian.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m—”
”Doctor Derek Stillwater. Or do you prefer Professor?”
Derek lapsed into silence. His brain spun. The Blazer was still racing through the streets, never stopping or slowing. Irina Khournikova, or whoever she was, had perfected the rolling stop, never slowing more than twenty miles per hour, even at stop signs. “Let me out here,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
“It is not safe.”
“Who are you?”
She brushed hair impatiently away from her face. Derek noticed a small C-shaped scar, very faint, on her right cheek. “You need to be briefed,” she said. “I didn’t imagine they’d go after you.”
“They?”
The Blazer zigged and zagged through city streets. Not comfortable in D.C. on a good day, Derek had lost all sense of direction except for the reddish glow of the setting sun to the west. The only comfort he felt was that his Colt was still on his hip under his jacket. It was his ace in the hole and he didn’t want to misplay his hand.
“Your own people,” Khournikova said. “The shooter back there.”
Derek settled his gaze on her. “You’re saying somebody from Homeland Security shot Dr. Davis?”
“No, no.” Her accent intensified. She shook her head. “Not your people like that. Others. Probably CIA. Maybe your Military Intelligence. State Department. My guess is CIA.”
Derek said
Similar Books
