The Devil's Pitchfork by Mark Terry Page B

ago.
    “E-mail it to me,” he said, and gave her his address. “Thanks, Simona.”
    “Derek...” Her voice broke. “Take care of yourself.”
    He smiled. “What a concept. Bye, love. And thanks.”
    He sat in the Explorer in the 7-Eleven parking lot, watching what looked like three gang members shoulder through the front door. Baggy jeans hanging off their asses, Baltimore Ravens jerseys, red doo-rags on their heads. He hoped they weren’t knocking the place off. He didn’t have time for crap like that. He made his next call on his cell phone.
    “Pilcher here.”
    Derek ID’ed himself.
    “Where the hell are you?” The FBI agent demanded. “Find what you wanted at the Pentagon?”
    “Maybe. I’ve got to talk to one more person. Let’s just say I’ve found a set of extremely suspicious circumstances.”
    “Give me a name, Stillwater.”
    “It’s too early.”
    Pilcher’s exasperated sigh burst through a clutter of static. “I don’t have to remind you the clock is ticking here.”
    “No, you don’t. I understand what’s at stake. What’s going on at your end?”
    “Spigotta’s moved to SIOC. Everybody’s on high alert. You tell me, how long would it take to make Chimera usable?”
    “Depends on their plan. You only need to infect a couple people to get it going, if that’s their intention. Hell, infect a handful of your own people and send them out on the subway or take in an Oriole’s game. Sneeze on a salad bar somewhere. If that’s the plan, they could already be on the move.”
    Pilcher was silent a moment. Then, “But if they need to grow more?”
    “Anywhere from a few hours to a couple days. Not long.”
    “That’s what I thought. Okay, Stillwater. End of briefing unless you share what you’re working on. I want the name.”
    Derek grimaced. “I don’t want to send you on a wild goose chase.”
    “It’s what we do,” Pilcher snapped. “Name a name or we’re through. And I’ve got info you want.”
    Derek sighed. “Richard Coffee,” he said. “U.S. Special Forces.” He told Pilcher what he knew so far.
    “Huh,” Pilcher said. “Bears some follow-up.”
    “If I can do it fast. I should have a list of names of medical personnel in a couple minutes. Now ... what’s going on?”
    “We recovered the vans.”
    Derek sat straighter. “Where?”
    “The Frederick Municipal Airport, second level of a parking garage. We got the license plates and makes from U.S. Immuno’s security cams and put out a BOLO. Local cops regularly cruise parking garages. Looks like they flew out of here. ERTs are going over the vans and we’ve got people checking over the airport manifests and questioning everybody we can find.”
    “And the security tapes?”
    “Spigotta informed me they’ve got about a hundred. He’s put as many people on them as they can find. Still, it’s going to take time. Plus he’s got a team doing background on all the personnel at U.S. Immuno. Somebody spilled details besides Scully.”
    “Okay. Anything else?”
    “No,” Pilcher said. “How about you?”
    “Nothing. Just M.I.’s odd behavior.”
    “Let’s not use the C word, okay?”
    “The C word?” Derek asked..
    “Yeah. Conspiracy. I hate those.”
    “I won’t if you won’t,” Derek said.
    “Good, then don’t. Keep in touch.” He clicked off.
    Derek pulled out his cell phone and checked his e-mail. Simona had sent him eight names, all scattered around the world. Except one, Dr. Austin Davis, an E.R. doc at Walter Reed. Right here in town.
    Derek dialed Davis’s number. The man answered on the second ring. Derek told him he was an agent for Homeland Security and needed to talk to him about a patient he might have had in Iraq. Davis, his voice sounding very Kentucky or maybe Tennessee, said, “Iraq. Iraq now or Iraq back in ‘91?”
    “‘91.”
    “Sure. I’m wrapping up here, can’t talk. But I can meet you at Jimmy’s on 19th in half an hour. I’ll be the tall good-looking blond at