by Mark Terry
“I suppose. Is Beales involved with the—”
”CBCTR. Maybe. It’s not clear. But Simmons definitely is.”
“It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” He sank lower into his seat, knee jiggling the laptop. He hadn’t bothered to turn it on yet.
Jill nodded. “And I think we need to get over to Wayne and track down the offices of the CBCTR, if there is such a thing, and find out a lot more about John Simmons and Brad Beales. But we’re stuck in traffic.”
“You got a bubble?”
“Yes, but I don’t think—”
Derek angled his way out of the car. He stuck his head back in the window. “Put it on.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Get traffic moving.”
He took his Colt out of his holster and held it with his right hand, and had his ID from the Department of Homeland Security in his left. He strode up to the car ahead of them and tapped the gun on the window, holding the badge up. The driver of the GMC Jimmy’s eyes grew as big and round as jawbreakers, and he cracked his window. “What?”
“You need to move over. We need to get past you.”
The driver, a sweating African-American in white dress shirt and dark tie, said, “Where the hell am I supposed to go?”
“Up on the damned sidewalk,” Derek said. “I don’t really care. But you move the fuck over, got me?”
The driver stared, then began to nudge his Jimmy over a bit more, as close as he could safely get to the car parked at the curb. Behind him, Jill had put the siren and bubble on her car and kicked them on.
There wasn’t room.
Derek frowned, then gestured for the driver to get out.
“What?”
“Get out, please.”
Slowly the driver complied.
Derek took his place, backed up the Jimmy as far as it would go, then shifted into gear and floored it. With a huge crunch the Jimmy slammed into the Buick Regal parked at the curb. Downshifting, he kept going until there was space to slip through. He forced the Jimmy up onto the sidewalk, then backed it up. He waved Jill to move her car up onto the sidewalk.
When she had the car up on the sidewalk, he slipped in beside her. “Let’s go,” he said.
“I can’t believe you did that,” she said.
“Hurry up. You think some of these people won’t start driving down the sidewalk now that we’ve given them the idea? Go!”
Thinking that when Matt Gray heard about this she could kiss her government pension and benefits goodbye, she began driving west down the sidewalk of West Grand Boulevard. In her rearview mirror she saw three cars follow her lead. Damn, she thought. He was right.
12
10:50 a.m.
ONCE THEY GOT OFF West Grand Boulevard, traffic thinned enough so Jill could get off the sidewalk and back onto the street. Jill wound around traffic, driving from Second to Palmer to Cass, really picking up speed, then cutting over on Warren past the Wayne State Bookstore and Welcome Center, hooking a right on Woodward to Alexandrine to the Medical Center. The Detroit Medical Center was a complex of about fifteen buildings running about eight blocks long and two or three blocks wide. It made up the V.A. Hospital, Hutzel Hospital, the Kresge Eye Institute, Harper Hospital and the Karmanos Cancer Institute, as well as Detroit Receiving, the major trauma center for the city.
“Where the hell are we going?” Derek said, clutching the chicken-stick handle on the door. Jill roared into a parking garage.
“I know where we’re going. Just follow me.”
They ditched the car in the parking garage and Jill led him down a flight of steps, into a walkway, then into the University Health Center. She moved confidently. “You’ve been here before?” Derek asked, racing to keep up.
“From time to time, yes. One of the weaknesses of the FBI is we don’t always know the cities we work in as well as the local cops. I’ve tried to get to know the area well. I’m not originally from Michigan.”
“Where you from?”
“Around,” she said vaguely, concentrating on their route. Derek wasn’t sure he could have found his way back to the garage, they had taken so many turns since leaving her Honda Accord behind.
“Nice driving back there,” Derek said when they stopped to catch their breath.
“If this is a wild goose chase,” Jill said, “maybe I can take up NASCAR, because I sure as hell won’t be with the Bureau.” There were plenty of professional medical people in white lab coats or scrubs, as well as probable patients standing around waiting. Nobody payed them much attention, except for a burly security guard, who was keeping an eye on them, but giving them distance. “There,” Jill said, pointing to a name on a placard. “Let’s go.”
“Lead on. I’m on your turf.” Derek fell into step beside her.
The Wayne State Center for Biological & Chemical Terrorism Research was in the Department of Public Health, and really didn’t exist as a physical entity. What Jill was looking for was somebody—preferably a secretary—who worked for John Simmons. John Simmons, she knew, worked in the Department of Public Health, which she found listed on the placard. When they arrived at the DPH, the secretary was an older black woman with graying hair pulled into a bun, and gray-plastic-framed bifocals perched on a long thin nose. She wore a very professional-looking navy blue suit and skirt with a gray and black striped blouse with a fluttery collar at her throat. A diamond and ruby pendant decorated her lapel. When Jill started to speak the woman held up her hand and pointed to a radio on her desk.
“They’re saying something about that terrorist attack. Just a second.” She leaned over and turned up the volume.
“The attacker has apparently made contact with the media,” a deep male voice was saying. “The terrorist, identifying himself as The Serpent, contacted Mary Linzey, a producer with WXYZ, the local ABC affiliate, Channel 7. He provided details about the device used in the attack for proof of his legitimacy, and made an official statement. We’re waiting for a tape of his statement to be ... yes, here, it’s being played on TV. Here...”
There was a lot of fumbling, then a computer-modified voice said:
“I am The Serpent. I am responsible for the Sarin gas attack at the Boulevard Café at eight o’clock this morning. If I don’t receive three million dollars from Wayne State University by 11:45 A.M. today, transferred into the account number 84-532-68873-23 at the Bank of Bermuda Limited, I will set off another Sarin gas attack and more people will die. This is not an empty threat. I repeat. The money must be in account 84-532-68873-23 by 11:45 A.M. or many more will die.”
The deep voice on the radio station came on to repeat what The Serpent had said, but added nothing new. The secretary, hand trembling, turned the radio down. She distractedly focused her attention on Jill and Derek. “Isn’t that awful? I’m so sorry. What a tragedy. Some people! May I help you?”
Jill offered her FBI identification and introduced herself. “We’re here to speak to somebody about John Simmons.”
“Dr. Simmons isn’t ... “ She broke off. “Oh dear Lord. The Boulevard Café! That’s ... oh dear God! Is he okay? Was he there? That’s where they usually go on Wednesday morning, I think.”
“How many of them?” Derek asked. “How many usually go?”
“How many? I’m not ... ten, I think. That’s been going on for a while.”
“Anybody else from this department?” Jill asked. “Do you know the names of the people he went with?”
“What’s this about? I’m sorry, do you need a warrant?”
“This is about the sarin gas attack, ma’am,” Derek said. “And trying to stop the next one.”
“Oh. Oh Lord!” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m so ... let me think. He and Dr. Beales. Dr. Beales isn’t from this department, not exactly. Dr. Beales and Dr. Simmons work together a bit with the CBCTR. That’s—“
”Yes, we know,” Derek said. “Okay. All right. Dr. Beales and Dr. Simmons. Anybody else you know?”
“Well
... well, Dr. Harrington, but, well, William Harrington, but he hasn’t gone in quite some time.”
“May we speak with him?”
She seemed startled. “Dr. Harrington called in this morning. He said he was feeling ill. He’s...”
Derek took a look at the fifteen names. A woman walked by, saying, “Cassandra, have you heard? Oh! Sorry!”
Derek and Jill studied the woman. She stood slightly over six-feet, a big-boned, solid woman who nonetheless looked feminine in a gray tweed pantsuit and black pumps. Her hair, expertly frosted, curled back to shoulder length. Diamond earrings pierced both ear lobes and her makeup was subtle. Somewhere between fifty and sixty, Derek estimated.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Oh,” Cassandra said. “Dr. Taplin. Perhaps you can help them. This is Agent Jill Church with the FBI, and this is...” She faltered, her hand gesturing at Derek.
“Dr. Derek Stillwater, Department of Homeland Security,” he said.
“Oh,” Cassandra said. “Yes. I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t catch your name. Anyway, this is Dr. Taplin-Smithson. She works with Dr. John Simmons on several research projects. Perhaps she can help you.”
Taplin-Smithson frowned. “What’s this about?”
“May we go to your office?” Jill asked.
When Taplin-Smithson hesitated, glancing at her watch, Derek said, “It’s a matter of national security, Doctor. Please. It’s urgent.”
Taplin-Smithson nodded. “Follow me.” She spun on her heels and strode down the hallway.
13
11:09 a.m.
LAUREN TAPLIN-SMITHSON'S OFFICE LOOKED like a bomb had hit it. It was a square room with a window looking east, the blinds drawn. The sole lighting came from an old lamp that looked like it had been picked up at a flea market. The office was dominated by a large, shabby wood desk that appeared to have been painted a few dozen times over the years. It had sharp corners and although the major surface color was maroon, it was worn in patches to reveal bits of baby blue, and beneath the blue were bits of banana yellow. The desk itself, probably chosen because of its size, supported a large wide-screen laptop attached to an even larger flat-screen monitor that was currently displaying what looked to be a graphical representation of a fireworks star burst. Each bit of star burst was labeled with a three letter designation.
A boom box sitting on the window sill played the local NPR station, WDET, and they were covering the terrorist events in the New Center Area. All the wall space was dominated by bookshelves—cheap ones, made out of cinder blocks and one-by-twelves painted green. The books and manuals on the shelves were stacked every which way, some upright, some piled on their sides, some leaning at angles. Papers and printouts in manila folders were piled on every horizontal surface. Post-It notes were everywhere.
“May I see your ID?” Taplin-Smithson asked, pointing to the two chairs in front of her desk. They were old overstuffed armchairs, faded afghans thrown over them to hide what appeared to be rips billowing wayward stuffing.
Jill and Derek provided identification. Taplin-Smithson focused on Derek. “It says PhD. What’s your degree in?”
“Microbiology and biochemistry.”
“Dual?”
“Biological and chemical warfare were the actual topics I researched,” Derek said.
“That would explain your presence. How can I help you?”
“John Simmons,” Jill said. “What can you tell us about him?”
Taplin-Smithson shrugged. “Smart. Good guy. He’s a physician with an interest in public health, and government and public responses to large-scale health emergencies—pandemics, epidemics, natural disasters. He’s involved with the Terrorism Research Center.”
“Are you?” Derek asked.
“No. I’m a biostatistician and an epidemiologist. That’s where I’ve worked with John. Is ... was John at that—” She waved her hand at the radio.
“Yes,” Derek said. “I’m sorry.”
Taplin-Smithson sighed and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “Damn. Who else?”
“Fifty-one other people,” Derek said.
“I know, I know. But...”
“John Simmons usually had breakfast there with a regular group of people?” Jill asked.
“Oh sure. The Breakfast Club. Kind of a joke. Like that ‘80s movie about the kids who got detention? Anyway, they’ve been going for a few years. Are they...” She stopped, swallowed. “Are they all dead?”
“We’re trying to determine exactly who was in the usual group,” Jill said.
“Well, there were typically ten of them. Were there ten? Do you have the names?”
Jill didn’t answer. Instead she asked, “Can you give us the names of some of the people he usually went with?”
The professor leaned back in her chair, a battered cloth rocker that looked very comfortable. She tapped her fingers. “Well, Brad Beales, for sure. He’s a linguist here at Wayne and associated with the terrorist center. Melanie Tolliver. She’s over at Ford Hospital. So is Jorge Gomez. Hmmm, well, Bill Harrington used to go, but that’s over now. He doesn’t go. I bet Rebecca still does, though. Well, I’m pretty sure of it. I guess I don’t know the others, though if you give me some names I’m sure I could confirm them.”
Jill scanned the list of names. “Sally LeVidic?”
“Yeah. She’s at Ford. Hypertension research.”
“Wei Ling-Wei.”
“Sure. Same lab.”
“Ron Yaught.”
“Hmmm. Don’t know him. Just a second.” She tapped at her computer keyboard, the graphic disappearing. The Wayne State University online directory came up and she typed in Ronald Yaught. A listing of him in the languages department popped up. “Huh. Somebody Brad must have brought in. Don’t know him, though. Anybody else?”
“Stefan Carabaccio.”
“Biostatistics. At Ford,” she said, tone leaden. “I know him. God, he died, too? Dammit.” Her voice broke with emotion.
“Who’s Rebecca?” Jill asked.
“Rebecca Harrington.” Taplin-Smithson’s face turned even glummer. “Did she die there, too?”
“No,” Derek said. “She didn’t.” Jill shot him an annoyed look, but he ignored her.
“Huh,” Taplin-Smithson said. “John was there but Rebecca wasn’t. That’s a little strange.” She seemed almost to be talking to herself.
“Why is that?” Jill asked.
Taplin-Smithson sighed and leaned back in her creaking chair again. “Well ... that’s why Bill Harrington wasn’t there. He used to go. It was a pretty tight group. Then John Simmons and Rebecca Harrington had an affair. Bill and Rebecca got a divorce about a year ago. John and Rebecca have been together ever since.”
Jill and Derek thought that over for a moment. Jill broke the silence. “What did Rebecca do?”
“She’s an administrator here, over at Karmanos.”
“Did she and Simmons live together?”
“N-n-noooo, I don’t think so. Not that I heard anyway.”
“How,” Derek said, “did Bill Harrington and John Simmons get along? Especially with Simmons working under him?”
“Oh, Bill’s only over him in the terrorism center. Bill Harrington’s lab’s in the biochemistry department, but his office is here. The Terrorism Center is one of those ... well, you know how institutions and think tanks and universities sometimes work. There’s no physical entity. It’s just a group of people who have meetings together and sort of cooperate with each other from their various specialties.”
Jill and Derek shot each other significant looks. Jill said, “Where does Bill Harrington live?”
“Birmingham.”
“What about Rebecca Harrington?”
“Ferndale. Why?”
Jill got to her feet. “Do you have addresses for both of them?”
“No. Cassandra might—”
Jill held out her hand. “Thank you for your time.”
Derek and Jill wer
e heading out the door before the professor could say anything else.
14
11:19 a.m.
JILL HAD HER CELL phone in her hand and was punching numbers in as they left Taplin-Smithson’s office. She frowned. “Dammit! The call won’t go through. I can’t tell if it’s this building or there’s too much caller traffic.”
“Probably both. Try a land line,” Derek said.
Jill stopped at the receptionist’s desk and asked to borrow her phone. Derek frowned, thinking, then turned and walked away. His gaze took in the names on each door. Finally he found the one belonging to William Harrington, Ph.D. He glanced at his watch. It was now 11:22 A.M. If The Serpent didn’t get his money in 23 minutes, another group of people were going to get killed in 38 minutes. He had absolutely no reason to doubt this guy’s intentions or willingness to go through with his plans.
And he was pretty certain the university wouldn’t be able to get the money moving that fast, even if they were willing to. It would have been time to negotiate under other circumstances. The FBI would contact The Serpent and tell him that there wasn’t enough time to do this, but if he could just give them an extra hour, maybe two, they could get this done. They would try to negotiate the money, try to get him to decrease it. And all the while they would have people tracking the calls. But this guy knew that, didn’t he? He was smart. He made the call through the media, gave his demands, his time table, and hung up.
Derek was sure of it. Matt Gray would be scrambling. They’d be back-tracing that phone call just as fast as they could—if the media didn’t stonewall him.
Was it traceable? Had The Serpent called from a cellular phone? Was it a cloned phone? A disposable phone? Had he called from a phone booth? From an office? A house?
And who was the next target?
