The Serpent's Kiss

by Mark Terry

  She slipped the disk into the drive and waited. After about thirty seconds, the program had located the password and opened the computer files. She scanned the programs, checking Documents. Despite all the paper scattered about the office, Schultz had placed a lot of his work on his computer. She quickly scanned through over a hundred files in Documents alone, not including hundreds of photographs and music files.

  She clicked on the search option and typed in “Center for Biological and Chemical Terrorism Research.” The computer began to churn through the hard drive.

  “Agent Beckwith.”

  Professor Lloyd had returned with another faculty member, a severe woman in a flowered-print dress, steel-gray hair pulled back in a bun, with glasses on a cord dangling from her scrawny neck.

  Beckwith glanced at the two of them, took in the time—12:54 P.M.—and pulled her handgun out of its clip and pointed it toward the ceiling. In a flat voice she said, “Step back. Close the door.”

  The woman gasped. “I’m calling security.”

  The clock turned to 12:55 P.M. A computer window opened. Search Completed.

  On her feet in one fluid motion, Beckwith kicked the door shut and locked it. She popped the flash disk into a USB port on Schultz’s computer and downloaded all the files to it, then transferred the files to her tablet computer.

  Good to go, she thought, reaching for her phone.

  60

  3:57 p.m.

  DEREK AND JILL WERE working their way slowly into the downtown area. It felt like they had caught ever stop light, which meant every block. Derek had taken off his earphones and booted up his tablet PC, checking his e-mail every few minutes. His spirits were rock bottom. They weren’t going to make it. Again. He could smell dead bodies. His mind flashed on scenes from northern Iraq, women and children gassed to death by Saddam Hussein. He closed his eyes, willing the memories away, praying to God he wouldn’t add more to his morbid collection of mental images today. He felt ill, stomach churning, head pounding.

  Derek’s phone buzzed. He snatched it up. “Beckwith?”

  “Beckwith here,” she said. “I’m uploading all these files now. There are a lot of them.”

  “Thanks.” He clicked off and said, “Pull over.”

  Jill slipped the car into a spot on Woodward Avenue in front of a restaurant called Union Street Station. Derek already had his tablet computer up and running and was downloading the files.

  “How—”

  ”Satellite link-up,” he said. “Okay, here we go. Christ, there are 73 of them.” He started clicking on the attachments, all scenarios created by the Working Group of the Wayne State University Center for Biological and Chemical Terrorism Research. Click, click, click. One after the other, just as fast as he could.

  “What time is it?” he snapped.

  “3:59,” Jill said, voice hollow.

  “Shit. Shit, shit... there—”

  The file read:

  Wayne State University Center for Biological and Chemical Terrorism Research

  Scenario 27: Multiple, Timed Chemical Terrorism Attacks and Emergency Medical Response/Detroit, Michigan

  Abstract: This document represents a fictional scenario of multiple, timed chemical terrorism attacks on the city of Detroit and the emergency, law enforcement, and public health response. This scenario involves multiple sites attacked using sarin gas [See Weapon Analysis, section 2-1] at four-hour intervals in various locations around the city. The initial site is a small restaurant in the New Center Area, The Boulevard Café. It is attacked at precisely 8:00 A.M. [See Site Analysis, section 3-4A]. Exactly four (4) hours later, at 12:00 noon, a second site is attacked, a classroom at Wayne State University in Scott Hall [See Site Analysis, section 3-4B]. Again, exactly four (4) hours later, at 4:00 P.M., the third and final site is attacked...

  61

  4:00 p.m.

  SCOTT ABRAMS, THE GREEKTOWN Casino Manager, picked up his phone. “Yes?”

  “Sir, we’ve got a phone call from the FBI. They ... we need to evacuate, sir. Right now!”

  Abrams was a little slower on the uptake than desirable. “Ben? What’s—”

  ”Right now, Scott! I’m pulling the plug. Right now!”

  Abrams noted the urgency—almost panic—in his Chief of Security’s voice, Ben Lewin. “Do it!” he snapped.

  Almost immediately an alarm sounded. Man, thought Abrams. Ben must have literally had his hand on the alarm.

  Lisa Mobly pushed through his door without knocking. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. Ben called, said the FBI called.”

  Her face paled. “It’s four o’clock.”

  “So?”

  “The Serpent...”

  Abrams’ eyes went wide. “Let’s go. Get everybody out. Everybody!” They raced from his office, yelling for everybody to evacuate immediately. This was not a drill.

  Out on the main casino floor people were reluctantly leaving their money and heading for the doors. Security guards, faces tense, were directing people, hurrying them out. Teams of security moved quickly from floor to floor, making sure people were headed for the exits.

  Abrams, pushing through the crowd, trying to locate Ben Lewin, heard a cry and spun, fear flooding his senses unlike anything he had ever experienced in his entire life.

  62

  4:11 p.m.

  JILL PULLED HER CAR to the curb of Monroe Street. A Detroit cop, looking grim, hurried over to her. “You’ll need to leave the area,” he growled.

  Jill held up her ID. “Where can I put the car?”

  The cop squinted at her ID, then gestured around the corner. “Somewhere over there. This is a major cluster-fuck.”

  Jill nodded and did a U-turn, double-parking on Brush Street. The streets of Greektown were mobbed with people, cars, fire trucks and ambulances. She looked over at Derek. “Can you walk?”

  “I’ll try.”

  He opened the door, but found that he couldn’t put his full weight on his leg. He shook his head. “No.”

  “Hang on.”

  Jill raced off, reappearing a few minutes later with a pair of crutches. Derek raised his eyebrows. “Where the hell did you find these?”

  “Ambulance.”

  “Ah.” It took him a moment to get his balance, and he found that he really only needed one, but after a bit of adjustment he was able to keep up with Jill. They pushed themselves through the crowds, moving from Detroit cop to Detroit cop, getting directions to where Agent Matt Gray was talking into a walkie-talkie. He turned when they appeared. He looked at Jill, then turned to Derek.

  “What happened to you?”

  Derek ignored him. “Were we in time?”

  Gray cocked his head. “In time for what, Stillwater?”

  “Did we warn them in time?”

  “That was you, huh?”

  “I made the call,” Jill said. “We found a scenario—”

  ”This is all very interesting, Jill,” Gray said. “I’m sure we’ll need to get everything in writing. But right now I don’t want to hear it.”

  Derek moved past Gray, hobbling with the crutch, but Gray snapped, “Where the hell are you going, Stillwater?”

  “Were we in time? Did we get them out in time? How many died?” He couldn’t keep his anger under control any longer. He moved toward Gray as if to attack, a ludicrous idea, balanced on crutches.

  Gray smirked. “Go ahead, Stillwater. Try it again. I’ll beat you with your own crutch.”

  Derek grimaced. “You’ve screwed this up from the beginning, Gray. The second attack should never have taken place.”

  “Sure. And your involvement’s been a big help. Just like the U.S. Immuno debacle. Saved a lot of lives there, didn’t you? How’s that helicopter pilot? Able to walk yet?”

  Derek lunged at Gray, who stepped aside and kicked the crutch out from under him. Derek flailed and slammed to the pavement.

  “C’mon, Stillwater,” Gray said, standing over him. “Get up so
I can kick your ass.”

  “Enough!” Jill jumped between them, helping Derek to his feet.

  “Oh, are you on his side, Jill?”

  Jill, not looking at her boss, said, “That looked real good, Matt. Turn and smile at the cameras. I bet you’ll make the national news for that one.”

  Gray paled. He didn’t turn to look at the TV cameras, which were indeed focused in their direction, but his posture went rigid. His Adam’s apple bobbed so hard it looked as if he were trying to swallow a live cat. He held a hand out to Derek. “Hey, no bad feelings. We’re even now.”

  Derek glared at him. “Were we too late? Did we get them out?” His voice was low, harsh, as if being squeezed through a tiny hole.

  “Yeah,” said Gray, suddenly conciliatory for the cameras. “You two were in time, all right. Nobody died here, Stillwater. There was no gas attack. The only people hurt here were three old ladies who wouldn’t leave their slot machines and got knocked down by the crowd rushing for the doors.”

  Jill pressed her hand to her forehead. “Matt—”

  Gray shrugged. “I’m sure you two have a good story, but the fact is, there was no gas attack here.”

  “Is the HMRU here?”

  “Sure, Stillwater. They’re going over the place inch by inch. I was just talking to Fitzgerald. So far, nothing.”

  Derek stared at the long, low building. It felt so wrong. What ... what happened? It made sense. The scenario...

  He moved toward the front doors.

  “Derek!”

  He ignored Jill, heading forward. He was stopped by one of the HMRU agents, who was wearing a contamination suit, the hood dangling down his back, a radio in his hand.

  “Hey, Derek.” It was Andrew Calloway, the lanky FBI agent who he had teamed with at the Boulevard Café. He looked exhausted, face pale, red hair damp, shoulders slumped. “You look like shit. What happened to the leg?”

  “No gas?”

  “Nope,” Calloway said. “And I’m glad, man. This has been a rough day. What have you been doing?”

  Derek swung back to Calloway. “Chasing down leads. I’ve been in two explosions set by this guy. He likes to booby-trap things.” He described the collection of terrorism scenarios they had found.

  Calloway scratched his head and sighed. “Derek, I don’t know what the fuck to say. Maybe he chickened out. Maybe somebody dumped money into that account. You know, paid the ransom.”

  “Who?”

  Calloway shrugged. “Beats me.”

  Derek studied the doors. “I’m going in.”

  “I’ll help you with your suit. Come on, we’re set up—”

  ”Screw the suit,” Derek said. “I’m going in.” He shuffled toward the doors.

  63

  4:15 p.m.

  AGENT SIMONA TOREANNO SAT in John Simmons’s office. Even though the building and this office had been swept by the bomb squad, she had taken no chances on entering. She took Dr. Webster’s master key and asked him to move down the hallway, and every step of the way she took whatever precautions she could to make sure she wasn’t at the center of an explosion or gas attack.

  It had seemed damn near anticlimactic when nothing happened. Webster had shot her a curious expression, but she had not apologized for her caution. Better safe than in pieces.

  He watched her carefully sift through Simmons’s office, then asked if she still needed him. She had assured him she did not and said she would let herself out. He had paused for a moment, no doubt wondering if he should leave her alone in the building. Finally he had agreed and left.

  Silence fell with his departure. It was a little disturbing being alone in the building. It felt empty. And there was still the smell of smoke. She could hear the sounds of the ventilation system, the whir of generators, the whisper of computers. But otherwise it had the peculiar feel of an abandoned building.

  She studied Simmons’s office. Prominent on the desk was a photograph of Simmons with another woman, presumably Rebecca Harrington. They were a nice-looking couple. Probably in their forties somewhere, fit, wearing casual clothes, arms around each other, smiling. The background was a sunset over a lake—possibly Lake Michigan, based on the distant horizon. A romantic trip somewhere? She felt a pang for them, for their deaths.

  Agent Toreanno wondered if this entire disaster with The Serpent had been sparked by their affair? If William Harrington had snapped and decided to take out hundreds of people along with his ex-wife and her lover. She shivered, thinking of her ex-husband. At one time or another she would gladly have put a bullet in the bastard’s head, but not really! He was Bureau, too, now working in D.C. His own affairs had put an end to their marriage, and her humiliation had almost ended her own career. It probably was true that the spouse was always the last one to know.

  But she had worked her way high in this branch of the Bureau. She and Roger Kandling had a friendly competition for promotion, either here or elsewhere. She respected Roger, though he was almost as political as Matt Gray. She was much more cautious in her politics, preferring to do good, hard work and accomplish things, and try to stay on everybody’s good side without compromising herself with politics. Maybe she was just an idealist. She preferred to focus on the job, not on personal advancement. Sure, she wanted to succeed and she hoped to work out of D.C. someday, but it wasn’t her overall ambition. In her job, the wrong focus could cost lives.

  She scanned the office, taking in the details, hoping to get a sense of its occupant. Simmons kept a neat office, clean, not too messy. It looked like a working office. Files were piled neatly on a folding table along one wall. It also held his laser printer, a scanner and boxes of computer disks. The bookcases were utilitarian, but everything aligned and upright; photographs of a number of people, many who looked like graduate students, decorated the walls and the bookcases. Simmons, she thought, had been a people person.

  She reached over and picked up one photograph. It was of ten people sitting at tables in what she recognized as ground zero of The Boulevard Café. There were varying expressions on their faces, but they all seemed to be in a good mood, enjoying each other’s company. There was William Harrington, sitting across from Rebecca Harrington. Simmons next to Rebecca, friends, maybe not yet lovers. A tall goofy-looking guy, she had identified as Brad Beales, the linguist.

  She put the photo carefully back where it was, feeling her mood sink. So much destruction and death. Such a waste.

  Toreanno checked her watch and quickly made a phone call to headquarters, asking for an update. She was told that everybody was at the Greektown Casino, that Church and Stillwater might have gotten a step ahead of The Serpent. So far, no additional deaths.

  She booted up the computer, found it wasn’t password protected, and began to sift through Simmons’s documents. She found the same scenarios that Derek Stillwater had been hunting. Patiently, methodically working her way through them, she came up with Scenario #27 and read it through. Good job, Stillwater, she thought, reading. Nice work, Jill. Several hundred gamblers owe you their lives.

  She printed it out, then decided she needed to just take the computer with her. This was serious evidence that was going to be useful in court if they ever caught The Serpent.

  But before she shut down, she printed out Simmons’s contact list, then cross-referenced it with the authors’ names on Scenario #27. The CBCTR’s Working Group appeared to have ten names, though quickly scanning through a few of the other scenarios indicated that the Working Group changed periodically. Some of the names were graduate students in various departments. Others were faculty members from different departments. Every scenario she checked had both Harrington and Simmons’ names on them, probably because they were the director and assistant director of the CBCTR.

  Frowning, she took out her notebook, clicked on Scenario #1 and checked the names. She started a list of all the Working Group members. There always seemed to be ten. She saw that Agent Frank McMillan was cited as a consultant for the FBI. In
addition, there were names for contacts with the Detroit Police Department, the Detroit Fire Department, the State Police, the Michigan Department of Public Health and various Emergency Medical Services and security firms. But those weren’t actually part of the Working Group. They were people who consulted with the Working Group. Who presumably answered questions and provided information on how their organization would behave under different situations.

  She felt a sense of loss at Frank’s death. They had been more than friends ... maybe. Could have been, anyway. The saddest words on the planet: could have been.

  We’ll get him, Frank. Count on it. I promise.

  Brushing away a tear, Toreanno started a list of all the people involved in the Working Group, cross-checking them with each Scenario. These people were going to help nail The Serpent. She was sure of it. They would be able to help throw a noose around William Harrington. It was only a matter of time.

  64

  4:16 p.m.

  AS DEREK MOVED PAST Calloway, the FBI agent kicked the crutch out from under him. With a curse, Derek slammed into the ground.

  Calloway leaned over him. “Derek, stick it up your ass. I’m not letting you in there without a suit. And I doubt you could beat me in a fight without the crutches, so don’t even think about trying all lamed up.”

  Derek glared at him, then abruptly burst out laughing. “Dammit, Andy. Help me up, then.”

  Calloway shook his head. “Promise me, no screwing around. By the book in there. If this guy’s a booby-trap kind of guy, he might be more happy trying to knock off the agents and firefighters who go in after the so-called false alarm instead of the gamblers. You know the kind.”

  “I promise.”

  “By the book, Derek.”

  “I said I promise.”

  Calloway helped Derek to his feet, returned his crutches, and led him over to the tent that had been set up off to one side of the entrance. There was an FBI agent and two Detroit cops guarding it, demanding I.D.