The Serpent's Kiss

by Mark Terry

“He would know we would track the call,” she said. “So he knew it would cause problems. I doubt he could have predicted just how many problems. But we are running around chasing our tails instead of chasing him.”

  “That’s bullshit.” Gray went back to his pacing. “This is a PR nightmare. A mass murderer in the middle of the Bureau. On my watch! I was much happier believing Stillwater was behind this.”

  “He might be,” Roger Kandling said.

  Gray turned to look at him. For the benefit of Agent Toreanno, he kept the look of pleased expectation off his face. “How so?”

  Kandling, as if walking through a mine field, carefully said, “Stillwater had easy access in and out of the tent. The credentials to move among us. He was even in the MCC with you.” Kandling paused. “Sir, if I may suggest...”

  “Go on,” Gray urged.

  Toreanno watched Kandling intently.

  “If Frank McMillan was actually this guy, The Serpent, he would know we were going to triangulate on the cell signal once we got the TV producer’s cell phone.”

  “Which we probably should have confiscated immediately after she let us know about the call,” Toreanno said. She said it carefully as well, not wanting to suggest that Matt Gray had screwed up, though that’s what she thought. Gray hadn’t even demanded her phone. He had said Mary Linzey would never give it to them because of 1st Amendment considerations. At the very least, Toreanno thought, if he hadn’t wanted to battle WXYZ’s lawyers, he should have demanded that an agent stay with her in case The Serpent try to call her again. It was only one of several major oversights that had occurred under Gray’s command. Toreanno felt that Gray was now busy trying to cover his ass and point the blame, rather than figure out what had really happened. And Gray was acting as if this entire deal was over. The Serpent had made a ransom demand, it hadn’t been paid, he’d killed people, and now he was done.

  Agent Toreanno didn’t think The Serpent was done. She had told the lab people herself to keep that cell phone on and wait for the next call. To be prepared to track the incoming call.

  Gray fixed his gaze on Toreanno, shifting to Kandling, then back to her. His eyes narrowed. “You’re saying that Frank wouldn’t have left that phone on if he were The Serpent.”

  “Exactly,” said Kandling.

  “So Stillwater could have put it in McMillan’s duffel bag and left it on, knowing it would be tracked and it would make McMillan and the Bureau look bad.”

  “Exactly,” said Kandling again.

  “Give me a break,” said Toreanno.

  Gray spun on her. “You were just saying that the cell phone wasn’t Frank’s, that he couldn’t possibly be The Serpent. Now you’re changing your mind?”

  “No,” she said. “I buy the scenario, just not that Derek Stillwater is The Serpent.”

  Gray ticked off on his fingers. “One, Derek Stillwater is an expert in chemical warfare and terrorism. He has the expertise to set these sarin gas bombs. Two—”

  ”He was in Baltimore at the time of the first attack at the Boulevard Café,” Toreanno said.

  “It was set off by phone. That cell phone. Which Stillwater could easily have—”

  ”This is bullshit!” Toreanno burst out. “You’ve got some sort of personal vendetta against this guy. It’s clouding your judgement, which hasn’t been...” She trailed off.

  “What?” Gray growled.

  “Nothing, sir. I’m sorry. Derek Stillwater may work outside strict investigative procedures, but that’s his job, sir. He’s supposed to observe outside the chain of command and make suggestions. I agree that the Department of Homeland Security is an unorganized mess, but this notion of placing experts in specific types of terrorist situations to advise and suggest alternative avenues of response is a good one. If you really believe Stillwater set the bomb off from Baltimore using that phone it’s a simple matter to track which Baltimore cell it was called from—right before an entire Bureau team flew in and picked him up.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. Then he said, “Agent Toreanno, I believe we’re through here. I suggest you go back over to the MCC and coordinate with Agent Cortez.”

  She stood up. “Sir, for the record, I don’t believe The Serpent is done. If the schedule continues, he’ll strike again at 4:00. And he may very well contact us with a ransom demand or warning an hour or an hour-and-a-half before then. We should be ready for that possibility.”

  “Thank you, Agent Toreanno. That’s all.”

  Toreanno blinked, then turned and walked out of Gray’s office.

  Kandling said, “I think she’s right.”

  Gray waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “All the more reason to lock Derek Stillwater up. Have you heard from Jill Church?”

  Kandling hesitated.

  Gray wheeled on him. “Have you?”

  “It seems,” he said slowly, “that Derek Stillwater found Rebecca Harrington murdered in her home in Ferndale. Last I heard, Jill was at the murder scene.”

  Gray looked puzzled. “Who the fuck is Rebecca Harrington?”

  “It’s in the update,” Kandling said, pointing to a file on Gray’s desk. “She’s the ex-wife of Dr. William Harrington.”

  Gray still had a blank expression on his face. “Who is?”

  Kandling took even longer to answer. “There were nine people at the Boulevard Café this morning, sitting right at ‘ground zero,’ right on top of the gas canisters. They were regulars. Every Thursday morning at 8:00. Usually there were ten of them, the tenth being Rebecca Harrington.”

  “There were over fifty people there. What makes them so special?”

  “It’s all in the update,” Kandling said evenly. “But I’ll recap. One of them, John Simmons, was a professor at Wayne State University, the Assistant Director of the Center for Biological and Chemical Terrorism Research.”

  Before he could continue, Gray waved him off. “It sounds like a smokescreen. Why kill fifty people when you want to kill just one.”

  “Or nine,” Kandling said. “Maybe that was just convenient. Why blow up the entire Oklahoma City Federal Building when you just wanted to hurt the FBI?”

  Gray frowned, turned back to pacing in front of the window. After a moment, he said, “I want you to provide a press statement.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “Yes, you,” Gray said, back to Kandling. “It will say that our investigation is ongoing, that Agent Frank McMillan had in his possession the cellular phone that made the original call from The Serpent. We have no reason to suspect Agent McMillan was The Serpent, and that we are leaving the investigation open, including looking at a number of potential suspects, including Derek Stillwater, with the Department of Homeland Security. Got that? Be vague, diffuse some of the—”

  ”The press isn’t going to let me get away with that, sir. And shouldn’t this come from you or Sheridan?”

  “I want it to come from an agent.”

  Kandling said nothing for a long time. So long that it caught Gray’s attention and he turned to look at Kandling. “Do you have a problem with that, Agent Kandling?”

  “Yes sir, I do.”

  “Are you being insubordinate?”

  Kandling shook his head. “I don’t mean to be, sir. But I think you—if I may be candid, sir—I think you need to back off Derek Stillwater and try to figure out who the hell The Serpent really is. I agree with Simona. The Serpent’s not finished yet and we’re running out of time. This lead with William Harrington and Rebecca Harr—”

  ”Fine,” Gray snapped. “In your statement, include that along with Stillwater, we are looking at one or more Wayne State faculty members who may have the motive, means and opportunity to commit these crimes. That way we’ve covered our asses sufficiently. That work for you?”

  “I would be happier if Tabitha Sheridan did it. She’s the media rep.”

  “I want you to do it, Kandling. Understand? You. Consider it an order.”

  Kandling nodded, slowly rising to
his feet. “Yes, sir.”

  41

  2:08 p.m.

  MICHAEL CHURCH STOOD UP straight, his expression shocked. “You knew my father?”

  At the same time, Jill Church exhaled so deeply it sounded like a snake hissing. Derek tilted his head and looked at her, amused, then back to Michael. “If your father was Steve Church.”

  Michael glanced nervously at his mother, then back to Derek. “Yeah. My dad was Steve Church. You really knew him?”

  “Sure,” Derek said, gesturing at the car. “I’ve got to get off my leg. Good man.” He moved toward the back seat, struggled into the small car and sat with his back to the door, his leg propped alongside the seat. When Michael and Jill settled into the front seats, Derek said, “I was working with a CIA team in Dar es Salaam, investigating terrorism activity in Tanzania. I was still loosely attached to the Army, and your dad ran the CIA team.”

  Michael jerked his head. “Dad was in the State Department. He worked in the embassy.”

  Derek raised an eyebrow. He turned to study Jill, who watched her son, a set, grim expression on her face. “Jill?”

  She shook her head.

  “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” Derek said.

  Slowly, she nodded her head.

  “After the bombing, right?”

  Again she nodded her head.

  “Mom?”

  “Your father,” Derek said, “worked out of the U.S. embassy in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, but he wasn’t with the State Department. He was a case officer with the CIA. Do you know what that means?”

  Michael looked bewildered. “A case officer? Mom?”

  Jill Church, voice flat, said, “A case officer is sort of a spy. They run spies, basically. They recruit people to spy for them, to provide them information. That’s what your father did.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Jill turned so she was staring out the windshield.

  “Mom? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “How old are you, Michael?” Derek said.

  He turned. “Sixteen. Why?”

  “If you had been ten and told people your dad was a spy, what would people have thought?”

  Michael opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He seemed to think about it. “They would have thought I was lying.” He turned back to Jill, who sat rigidly in the passenger-side seat. “But why didn’t you tell me? I ... I’m old enough to know this now.”

  “We really have work to do, Michael. Will you please drive us back to my car. We’ll talk about this later.”

  “That’s what you always say.” He turned away, but didn’t put the Honda into drive.

  Derek said, “Michael—”

  ”Was my mom a spy, too?” Michael asked, still facing forward.

  Derek waited to see if Jill would respond to that. When she didn’t, Derek said, “Your mother, if I remember correctly, was an FBI agent then, as well. Doing security things for the embassy, probably.”

  “I was with the Legat.” Jill paused, thinking. “I was the Assistant Legal Attache. That means part of my job was to liaise with the local and governmental law enforcement. I was the communication between Tanzanian law enforcement and the Bureau.” She turned to her son. “And yes, your father, Stephen Church, worked for the CIA, not the State Department. I’m sorry I never told you. But I guess you’re old enough to know. Now, Michael, please put the car in drive and let’s go.”

  Derek provided directions and they quickly found William Harrington’s house. Jill’s car was still parked in front. She got out and transferred Derek’s bags to her car, then leaned down to talk to Michael.

  “Go on back to school,” she said. “I’ll call and explain to them. I doubt if I’ll be home on time tonight. Can you handle things by yourself?”

  Michael shrugged. “Yeah, but are you sure you don’t need my help?”

  Jill smiled. “I’m sure.”

  “Actually,” Derek said, limping over. “Do you have a cell phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’m worried that The Serpent might have booby-trapped this house. Your mother and I need to reconnoiter the perimeter, then go inside very slowly and make sure it’s safe. I would really appreciate it if you stayed here and waited for us to give an all-clear before you left.” Derek paused. “You know, in case the house blows up, it would be kind of nice if you called 911 for us.”

  Michael’s eyes widened. “You think—”

  ”And, uh, you know, if we’re like, um, on fire or something,” Derek said, a smile on his face, “it’d be good if you, you know, put us out.”

  Jill sighed. She patted her son’s arm. “We’ll be fine.”

  “But wait for us,” Derek said.

  “I’ll give you five minutes,” Michael said. “Should we ... synchronize our watches?”

  Derek looked at his watch. “I’ve got 2:18.”

  Michael checked his watch and adjusted it. “Check.”

  “We’ll give you a signal before we go in,” Derek said. “We’re just going to walk around the house and check things out from the outside. But before we go in, we’ll start the clock running. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Michael said.

  “Good man.” Derek reached out his hand. “Nice meeting you, Michael.”

  Michael shook Derek’s hand. “Nice meeting you, too. I’d like to ... I’d like to know more about my father.”

  Derek nodded. “When this is over, I’ll tell you what I know. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “Don’t go anywhere until we give you the signal.”

  Derek returned to Jill’s car and pawed through this GO Packs until he came up with the electric lock pick, a pouch of tools and a flashlight. He paused, then picked up the atropine injector the Birmingham cop had asked him about. He limped back over to Michael and handed it to him.

  “This is in case we get exposed to sarin gas. It’s pretty straightforward. You yank this cap off here and slam it into the thigh or butt. Right through the clothes. Read the directions.” Michael looked frightened. Derek added, “It’s just a precaution, Michael.” He leaned down. “There’s only one dose. So if you have to decide, do your mother.”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  “Don’t worry,” Derek said. “We’ll be fine.” And he turned to join Jill.

  42

  2:20 p.m.

  AS THEY APPROACHED THE front door, Jill Church said, “I was wondering why you were familiar.”

  Derek nodded, studying the front door of William Harrington’s cape cod. “I thought we’d met before. I don’t specifically remember you, but Michael sure looks like his father.”

  Jill bit her lip and stayed silent.

  Derek cocked his head. “Sorry about the CIA thing.”

  “It’s okay. It’s time he knew, I guess.” Jill turned back to the door. “You have a plan?”

  “I would like to avoid getting blown up again today.”

  “That’s a goal. Now, a plan?”

  Derek reached out and knocked on the door. He waited.

  Jill had her hand on her gun. Derek did, too. Nothing happened.

  “Okay,” Derek said. “Nobody’s home. At least nobody alive. It’s been that kind of a day.” He pointed. “I’m having problems kneeling. Would you take the flashlight and light up along the edges of this door, see if you notice anything unusual.”

  She took the flashlight and scanned the door, then clicked it off with a shrug. “Nothing unusual. Let’s walk around the house, like you suggested.”

  They moved slowly around the perimeter, studying the ground, the base of the foundation, the windows. Whenever they came to a window, Derek approached without touching anything, turned on the flashlight and attempted to peer into the dim house. Whenever he was done he handed it to Jill, who double-checked. The interior of the house appeared empty. Nothing stood out.

  Finally they worked their way around the whole house, back to the front door. Derek glanced over at Michael in
the Honda. “Seems like a good kid.”

  “He is, generally. He’s at that age.”

  “What’s he into?”

  “Girls. Video games. Girls. Karate. Girls. Rap and heavy metal and hip-hop.”

  “And girls,” Derek said.

  “You were probably just like him when you were sixteen.”

  “Not the rap, heavy metal or hip-hop. And the karate came later for me. I was into track and cross country. Good grades. I was a grind. Straight As. Big into chemistry and biology. The girls, though...” He sighed and turned to the door. “Nothin’ but trouble. Some things never change. Here we go. Said your prayers?”

  “We’re going to feel foolish if we take all these precautions and there’s nothing here.”

  “Not nearly as foolish as we’d feel if our body parts were scattered over downtown Birmingham.” Derek reached out and opened the screen door. He sighed. “One down.” He retrieved the electric lock pick from his pocket and gestured for Jill to examine the interior door. She did, finally saying, “Nothing obvious.”

  Derek inserted the pick carefully and clicked the button. After a second, he gripped the knob and said, “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  He opened the door. Again, nothing happened. Derek swung the door wide, but didn’t step inside. He played the flashlight around. The front door opened into a foyer with hard-wood floors. A navajo rug covered most of the entryway in muted reds, oranges and yellows. Together they studied the rug.

  “Should I try lifting it up?” Jill asked, gesturing.

  “I don’t see anything that could be a trip-wire. Lift just a corner.”

  She did, then lifted it all. Nothing.

  “In we go, then.” Derek turned and waved at Michael. He raised an open hand, all five fingers displayed. Five minutes. Then he and Jill entered the house.

  It was neat and clean and seemed entirely empty. Sticking together, they moved through the house, looking for trip-wires or anything that seemed remotely suspicious. Finally Derek said, “Tell Michael he can go back to school. And tell him thanks.”

  Jill nodded and slipped out of the house. She returned a few minutes later with the atropine injector in her hand. She gave it to Derek, who slipped it into his pocket. “Okay,” Derek said. “What are we looking for?”