by Mark Terry
Nothing. Inside was the usual desk detritus: pens, business cards, a stapler, a pair of scissors, a ruler, miscellaneous bits of paper and notes, officer supply clutter.
Leaving it open, he turned to the other desk drawers. There were three, the bottom being a large drawer that could double as a filing cabinet. He slowly opened the top right drawer, careful to pay attention to any resistance.
Nothing. Inside was a ream of printer paper.
Derek left that open, then pulled open the second drawer. Slowly.
Old diskettes. Frowning, Derek scooped them out and stuffed them into his coat pockets.
The third drawer. He gripped the handle and slowly pulled. Was there resistance? Just the tiniest bit?
Derek hesitated. His pulse pounded in his ears. A bitter, metallic taste filled his mouth. Adrenaline, he knew. Now or never.
He pulled.
There was a hissing sound and suddenly an inflatable serpent popped up, bobbing as it filled.
Derek stepped back, heart in his throat.
The recording started. “Ha ha! Ha ha!”
He relaxed. Just like in the office at the university. A trademark. A joke.
The recording changed. “Better run! Better run! Three. Better run! Two. Better run—”
Derek leapt toward the nearest window, arms over his head.
48
2:44 p.m.
AGENT ROGER KANDLING STOOD outside the McNamara Federal Building. Off to one side was a hideous piece of sculpture made out of junked cars. He had carefully set up the location for the press statement so the sculpture wasn’t in the background. There were about a dozen reporters and TV cameras present, all trained on him. Kandling liked that he was going to be seen on TV. He thought it was possible the publicity might help his career. He only wished that the information he was going to give wasn’t so dicey. He wished that he didn’t have the feeling that Matt Gray was covering his own ass and tossing him a political anchor to try and swim with.
Kandling held up his hands. “I’m Special Agent Roger Kandling, with the Detroit field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have a statement to make regarding the sarin gas attacks, the pursuit of the terrorist calling himself The Serpent, and the shooting at the Medical Center earlier. Then we’ll have time for questions.”
The reporters focused on him. He cleared his throat. “As you know, a terrorist calling himself The Serpent has conducted two separate attacks on civilians using sarin gas. The first was at 8:00 A.M. at the Boulevard Café on West Grand Boulevard. There was no warning or provocation. At 10:30 A.M. The Serpent contacted a producer with WXYZ-TV, Channel 7, who was onsite at the Boulevard Café. Using an electronic device to modify his voice, The Serpent demanded that three million dollars be wired into a Bermuda bank account by 11:45 A.M. or he would set off another gas attack at noon.”
“Has the Bureau contacted the Bank of Bermuda Limited and discovered anything about who opened the account?” shouted a reporter with NBC. A clamor of questions from everybody else followed.
Kandling held up his hands for quiet. “As I said earlier, I will make a statement—“
”Was Agent Frank McMillan The Serpent?” shouted a CNN reporter.
More shouts. Kandling felt like things were getting out of hand. A tiny claw of panic gripped his heart and squeezed. He had to get this back under control. Somebody else shouted, “Does the Bureau have any other suspects beside Frank McMillan?”
He seized on the question, pointing to the reporter, a blonde woman with FOX. “The Bureau has a number of ‘people of interest,’ that it is investigating. One of those is...” He hesitated. This was bad. He’d known it before and he knew it now. But they were all watching him so closely. “One of those is Agent Derek Stillwater with the Department of Homeland Security. As some of you may know, Agent Stillwater was involved in the White House attack last month and in the U.S. Immunological attacks. He is currently under investigation by the Bureau and the Justice Department for questionable behavior during those events. Stillwater is an expert in biological and chemical warfare and terrorism and is considered by many in these areas of expertise to be a loose cannon.”
They began to shout, but everybody suddenly looked skyward as helicopters swooped overhead. In the near distance, sirens grew louder. The cameramen lost their interest in Kandling and focused on the helicopters, which were circling the area.
Then a dozen squad cars appeared from every direction, lights flashing, sirens blaring, screeching to a halt in a wide perimeter around that part of the downtown area. Cops began to flood the streets, shouting into walkie-talkies.
“Agent Kandling,” shouted Steve Shay, with WXYZ. “Do you know what’s going on?”
Kandling could only stare dumfounded, unsure how to react as a SWAT cop in full combat gear carrying an assault rifle raced toward them.
49
2:45 p.m.
JILL CHURCH, LUGGING THE gas canister and the computer disk case across William Harrington’s lawn to her car, was distracted, looking down the street. Was that...?
Behind her, she heard a crash. Spinning, she saw Derek burst out of an upstair window in a shower of glass. He skidded on the steeply pitched roof, tumbled to the edge, and grabbed onto the rain gutter as he went over.
She dropped the canister and disk case, running toward the house. Derek dangled from the gutter, feet kicking. With a muffled ker-whump an explosion blew out all the windows on the second floor. Flames flickered behind the windows. With a cry, Derek dropped into the bushes alongside the house.
Jill rushed over to him. His arms were covered with small cuts despite his coat, and a jagged gash on his forehead oozed blood.
“Are you all right?” she gasped. “What happened?”
Derek seemed slightly dazed. He reached out a hand and she gripped it, helping him to his feet. “I am having a really shitty day,” he said.
“Where’s your cane?”
He jerked a thumb toward the house.
“Lean on—”
A Honda Civic skidded to a halt behind Jill’s car. Michael Church leapt out and sprinted toward them.
“Michael! You were supposed to go back to school!”
“What happened? The house blew up?”
“Michael—”
Michael moved next to Derek and helped support him. “Come on, lean on me. Let’s get you away from the house.”
“Thanks,” Derek muttered, and let Michael assist him across the lawn to Jill’s car. Michael opened the front passenger door and helped Derek sit down.
Jill stood, arms crossed, glaring at the two of them. To Michael she finally said, “You were supposed to go back to school.”
“Mom—”
”Michael!”
“Mom, by the time I got there school would be over.”
Jill threw up her hands. “You need to leave,” she said. “I’m going to have to call the Birmingham Police and the fire department and I don’t want you here. You weren’t here. Understand?”
“You want me to lie?”
Jill scowled. “I want you to get in your car and go. Now. I’ll talk to you later. Go.”
Michael’s scowl matched her own, but he made a half-wave gesture to Derek, slouched over to his car, and with a growl of the starter, kicked it into gear and peeled away.
Jill punched 911 into her cell phone and got the fire department and the police out. When she was done, she turned to Derek, who was leaning over the back seat scrounging through one of his GO Packs.
“You opened the damned desk, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Derek said, finally finding a bottle of water and a packet of pills. He downed one of the pain killers.
“Dammit, Stillwater. Why? Why didn’t you wait?”
“We’re running out of time. And I didn’t want you to take the risk.” He gestured in the direction Michael had gone. “You’ve got a son. I’ve got no one.”
Jill turned to stare at the house, which was now engulfed
in flames. Neighbors had begun to gather, watching the fire.
Derek, talking to her back, explained what had happened. She didn’t respond. Finally, she said, “I’m going to ask the neighbors what they know about William Harrington.”
“Good idea,” Derek said.
She turned to study him, looking him up and down. “Your head’s cut pretty bad. I’ve got a first aid kit in the trunk.”
Derek held up a small kit he had retrieved from his GO Pack. “I’ve got one.”
She snatched it from him and opened it. It was extensive and specialized. She held up a container. “Potassium Iodide pills?”
“In case of a dirty bomb or nuclear attack. For the thyroid.”
“Ciprofloxacin?” She held up another container.
“Anthrax.”
Jill took out an alcohol wipe, a Betadine wipe and a bandage. She dropped the first aid kit back in Derek’s hands, studied his forehead, then tore open the alcohol wipe and swabbed the gash.
“Ow!”
“Stop being such a wimp. You deserve this.”
Jill smeared the yellow Betadyne wipe on the gash, tore open the bandage and affixed it over the wound. She crumpled the wrappers and tossed them angrily to the ground. “I’d ask you to help, but you’re no help at all. You’re a train wreck. Do you have a death wish?”
Derek didn’t answer.
“Do you?”
He looked up at her. In a low voice he said, “Go question the neighbors. I’ll be right here.”
With a frustrated groan she backed away and went to interview the onlookers. Sirens were fast approaching. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Derek retrieve a tablet computer from one of his duffel bags. Good, she thought. Maybe that’ll keep him out of trouble.
50
2:46 p.m.
AGENT ROGER KANDLING MOVED toward the SWAT cop, who slowed. Kandling held up his Bureau ID so the man wouldn’t freak out with the assault rifle. “What’s this all about?” he demanded.
“Sir,” the SWAT cop said, dark eyes taking in the crowd of reporters. A wiry black man, face barely visible beneath the helmet, the SWAT cop seemed to stand up a little straighter. “The Serpent made contact with a reporter just minutes ago, and a trace indicated—”
”Wait a minute,” Kandling said. Behind him, the reporters edged closer. Dozens of microphones and cameras swung their way. He grabbed the arm of the cop and pulled him further away from the crowd. “What do you mean The Serpent made contact with a reporter?” He glanced over, searching for Mary Linzey. She stood next to her cameraman and the reporter, Steve Shay.
“That’s all I know, sir. Your field commander contacted us. The Serpent was calling from this area, sir.” Suddenly the SWAT cop tilted his head, hand to his ear. Kandling realized the guy didn’t have a walkie-talkie, but a radio patched directly to an ear bud.
“What now?” Kandling snapped.
The SWAT cop said, apparently to whoever he was in communication with, “Yes, I’m speaking with...” He gestured for Kandling’s identification. Kandling handed it over. “...Special Agent Roger Kandling. Yes.” The cop looked at Kandling. “Your phone—”
It buzzed. Kandling snapped it on. “Kandling here. Who is this?”
“Simona Toreanno. Roger, The Serpent just made a phone call to a reporter’s cell phone. It wasn’t from a cellular, though. We got a line trace. The Serpent called from the Federal Building.”
51
3:03 p.m.
JILL CHURCH FINISHED TALKING to the Birmingham Fire Department captain and walked back to the car, where Derek had remained the entire time. She felt exhausted and stressed. She didn’t want to talk to Derek, find out what he was planning next. It was time—way past time, probably—to check in, so she pulled out her cell phone and dialed Matt Gray’s number. She was routed through the switchboard.
“It’s Agent Church,” she said. “I need to talk to Agent Gray.”
“Just a moment.”
It seemed like a long moment. Too long. While she waited, she watched the firefighters dowsing William Harrington’s house with water. There were two trucks, lights still flashing red, coils of hoses, the smell of smoke. The house was a disaster. It had been a large enough explosion with enough heat generated to engulf the entire second floor within seconds. By the time the fire fighters showed up the house and been completely involved and the roof collapsed not long afterwards.
The Birmingham P.D. were not pleased that she and Derek had done their own illegal search, resulting in triggering an incendiary device. The Birmingham Police chief himself, Chief Walter D’Agosta, had pulled her to one side to hear her story and to make sure she knew just how much trouble she was in. He was a heavyset, balding man in a navy blue three-piece suit, wrinkled white shirt and blue patchwork tie. Mostly bald, he had a classic comb-over that threatened to lift all at once like a lid whenever the wind blew. He chewed gum and acted like he wanted to take a bite out of Jill at any moment. He probably figured he was intimidating, though Jill didn’t feel very intimidated.
“I should lock you up, you and that asshole Stillwater. I went over there to talk to him and he slammed the damned door in my face, said he was busy. I don’t appreciate this, Church. You had no warrant. That’s going to be very nice for the D.A. And the only person who was in the house when this bomb went off won’t talk to me. I think you’d better go over there and make sure your partner gives us a statement.”
“Sure,” she’d said placatingly, knowing by now that Stillwater didn’t give a rat’s ass what the Birmingham Chief of Police wanted. “I’ll talk to him.”
“And you, you should know better. And by the way, you’re aware that the media is buzzing about Stillwater? That your own people are suggesting that he’s this guy, The Serpent?”
“Do you trust everything the media says, Chief D’Agosta?”
Chew, chew, chew. “I do not. I’m not a fool. But maybe if he’s working with you guys, you should get your story straight.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“I should lock him up.”
“It’s the Bureau that wants to talk to him, Chief D’Agosta. I’m the Bureau. Consider him to be in my custody.”
D’Agosta chewed some more, staring at her disbelievingly. “Where the hell’s the owner of this house?”
“We don’t know.”
“Is he The Serpent?”
“Possibly.”
D’Agosta chewed some more, then swore and stomped away. He turned around and jabbed his thick finger at Jill. “No more of this in Birmingham. You hear? No more. You step foot inside my jurisdiction, you drive through my jurisdiction, you alert me. We’ll have you escorted by one of my officers. You understand me?”
“Yes,” Jill said. Putz, she thought.
Now Matt Gray came on the line sounding breathless and angry. “Church, where the hell are you?”
She gave him a synopsis. Gray was silent for a moment. “Were you there with him?”
“No.”
“Why the hell not?”
“There was a canister of what we assume is sarin gas and a bunch of computer disks. I was taking them out of the house. Because of what happened at Harrington’s office, we were aware of the possibility the office might be booby-trapped. We wanted to get evidence out of the house, just in case.”
“Tell me this, Church. Is there any possibility that Stillwater is in cahoots with this guy, The Serpent? That maybe Harrington’s The Serpent, but Stillwater’s along to muddy things?”
“No, sir. I don’t think so. Agent Stillwater is righteous.”
“Don’t give me that ‘righteous’ bullshit, Church. He’s under investigation for a reason.”
“His entire focus is stopping the next attack, Matt. Not building a case or going to court. He could care less what happens as long as he stops more people from dying. That’s why he cuts corners. You don’t have to agree with the approach—I don’t—but you need to understand it. It’s our job to
build a case and go to court. That’s not his agenda, whatsoever. We don’t have to like it. He doesn’t work for us. What’s going on at your end?”
Gray was silent for a long moment. Then, “The Serpent called a reporter with NPR and said there’s going to be another attack if somebody doesn’t put five million in that Bermuda bank account.”
“What time? 4:00?”
“Right. Four o’clock. And here’s the odd thing. He didn’t specify who was to pay the five million.”
They were both silent. Jill said, slowly, “What do you think that means?”
“I think it means the money is bullshit. That’s what I think. I don’t think this asshole is doing this for money. He’s doing it to jerk everybody around. I think he’s doing it because he likes doing it. And you know what, he’s great at jerking people around. We’ve got everybody and their brother here at the Federal Building because he placed his last call from the Federal Building. And get this, from the Department of Veterans Affairs on the 12th floor. They think somebody waltzed right in, sat down at an empty cubicle and made the call, then walked right back out.”
“Surveill—”
”We’re stripping the tapes now, Church. But it makes us look bad, that’s for sure.” More silence. Then Matt said, “Jill.”
“What?”
“This guy, Stillwater ... he know what he’s doing?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Are you making any progress? Because I got to tell you, Jill, I don’t want another attack on my watch. I’m serious.”
“I know. Yes, he knows what he’s doing. One thing you can do is try to track down names of everybody involved with writing scenarios with the Center for Biological and Chemical Terrorism Research.”
“I’ll get ... I’ll get Agent Toreanno on it.”
“Good. That’s good. And get the University to track down a photograph of William Harrington. Security should have it in a database or even on the university website. Get it to the media. Be on the lookout.”
“Good. Good. That’s good. Very good. Anything else?”
