by Mark Terry
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you think that?”
Derek hesitated. Then, “Because the Boulevard Café is a weird-ass target for a bunch of terrorists, don’t you think? Some greasy-spoon café during the breakfast rush in Detroit.”
“So. That cult hit a subway.”
“I know.”
“So you could be wrong.”
“Always a possibility.”
Fitzgerald stared.
“I need that clipboard and stuff, Captain,” Derek said.
“Yeah. I’ll get right on it.” Fitzgerald stumbled off.
LaPointe tapped Derek on the shoulder. When Derek turned, LaPointe said, “This is a weird target. Why not the hospital across the street?”
“Why not anyplace else? Terrorists hit discos and subways and restaurants and businesses. This could just be another target,” Derek said.
“But it doesn’t feel high-profile enough. Does it?”
Derek shook his head. It didn’t. It felt wrong and it felt worse--it felt expectant. Like the other shoe was waiting to drop. Whoever had done this had done it for some reason. Derek built a career on that, on studying the why’s and how’s of biological and chemical terrorism and warfare. Terrorists had an internal logic to what they targeted. It wasn’t always obvious to the observer until later, but there was always some sort of warped, bent logic to their decisions.
To Derek, something about this attack felt strange. It was just intuition, but he had relied on that intuition over the years to keep his ass intact in some extremely hairy situations. He didn’t ignore his intuition, especially when it came to biological and chemical weapons.
His intuition told him the Boulevard Café was chosen for a reason.
And his intuition told him that the attacker wasn’t done yet.
8
9:49 a.m.
MATT GRAY WAVED JILL Church over to the FBI command center, a motor home with an unusual number of antennas sprouting from its surface. Gray’s face was turning purple, which was never a good sign. She walked over and he snarled, “So what’s with Stillwater?”
Jill shrugged, which she knew infuriated Gray. “He’s inside.”
“Yeah? What for?”
“Matt, I think it’s his job.”
He glared at her. “We’re supposed to isolate him. You know that, right? I want him isolated. I told you that.”
“What did you want me to do, handcuff him?”
“You’d like that?” He smirked at her.
“You want to go on the record with that statement?” she said, voice low, keeping her temper in check, but not rolling over and playing dead, either. “Want another swing at a sexual harassment lawsuit? We had so much fun the first time.”
Gray flinched and flushed even more, but his gaze drifted away from her. “Sorry,” he said. “Out of line. It’s the pressure. Why’s he inside?”
“He’s an expert on this stuff, Matt. Chemical weapons.”
“He’s something. You’re aware—” He broke off, staring over her shoulder. “What the fuck?”
A Detroit fireman walked toward them, a sheet of paper in his hand. He looked hot and sweaty, a young guy with red hair cut short, his blue eyes dulled by stress and fatigue. His pale freckled complexion had a grayish-green tinge to it, like the underside of a mushroom. His gaze jerked back and forth between the two of them. “Is one of you Agent Jill Church?”
“Me,” Jill said, raising a hand.
The fireman said, “Um, can I talk to you for a minute, uh, alone? I’ve got a message for you.”
“For me?”
“Um, yeah.”
Jill thought this fireman looked about twenty. Not much older than her son. He’d clearly been inside the restaurant. What was this all about?
“Who’s it from?” Gray demanded.
The fireman eyed him. “I’m ... I’m just supposed to give this to Agent Church.”
Gray reached out to take it, but Jill held up her hand and took the paper. On it were scribbled fifteen names and addresses. “Who’s this from?”
The fireman nervously said, “Um...”
With a disgusted sigh Jill walked away from Matt Gray, the fireman following close behind her. “That better?” she asked, once they were out of earshot of her boss.
“Yeah. Sorry. I mean, this hardass from Homeland was real specific he wanted this given to you and nobody else.”
“The hardass...?”
“Yeah. Dr. Stillwater. He told me to give it to you and nobody else but you.” He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing.
She wondered if Stillwater had threatened the kid. The kid acted a little afraid. Of course, what the kid had seen today...
“What is it? Is there a message?”
“Uh, yeah. Dr. Stillwater says he wants you to start running background checks on these fifteen people. They’re, uh, he says those fifteen are top priority.”
“Are they ... where’d he get these names?”
“Um ...” The firefighter licked his lips. “Some of the people inside. You know, the victims? He’s gettin’ names and I.D.s and he won’t let anybody move the bodies until he’s got sketches of where everybody is.”
“Holy hell,” she muttered. “And these are...”
“He said to tell you they were at ground zero in there.”
She stared at him, mind racing. She glanced back down at the list, running through the names. Jonathan Simmons. Melanie Tolliver. Brad Beales...
“Well,” she said, almost to herself. “At least it’s something to do.”
“Yeah.”
“Is that it?”
The firefighter looked even more nervous than before. He wiped sweat off his forehead. “Well, uh, Dr. Stillwater, uh, he said that you should do it yourself and not delegate it. He especially said I shouldn’t give it to Matt Gray. You were to do it.”
“Is that it?”
“Yeah. Just...”
“What?”
“I think he meant it. That guys got brass balls or something. I mean, the Captain wanted to bring the bodies out and this guy stood him down, man. Took right over. One of the FBI HMRU guys said go along with him, he knows what he’s doing.”
She glanced back at the list, then over to Matt Gray. “Okay,” she said. “Thank you. Well done.”
When the firefighter walked back to the tent, she returned to Gray, who had remained standing by the control center watching her.
“What the fuck was that all about?” he demanded, hands on hips.
She told him.
Gray snatched the list out of her hand, quickly scanned it, then crumpled it up and threw it in the dirt. “Who the hell does he think he is? We don’t work for him. Go do your job, Church. Keep your head down and keep Stillwater boxed in. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Gray spun on his heels and strutted over toward a group of TV reporters. When she was sure he wasn’t watching, she picked up the crumpled list of names and headed for her car.
9
10:29 a.m.
DEREK WALKED OUT OF the staging tent, his hazardous materials suit cleaned, dried and carefully folded back into his duffel bag. The cool October air felt awesome after an hour in the suit stepping over and around dead bodies. The only saving grace was that the suit prevented him from smelling the stench of body fluids and death. He took in a deep chest full of air. Cool and sweet. He looked around for Jill Church, but didn’t immediately see her. His temper flared, wondering what she did with the lists of names he sent out for her the last forty minutes.
Going through the personal belongings of dead people was hot, uncomfortable, unsettling work. Pulling wallets from pockets, opening purses, looking at ID badges. So many dead. Most of the dead were employees at Henry Ford Hospital across the street. Some worked for the HMO next door, Health Alliance Plan. A few came from Wayne State University and a few were from the neighborhood, people just stopping off for coffee or breakfast befo
re going to their jobs or coming home from their night-shift work.
LaPointe sketched the restaurant and labeled the names of every single person on the chart as Derek read off the information. A tedious, but vital process.
Derek tucked the final names and his copy of the map into his back pocket. LaPointe was taking a break before overseeing the removal of the bodies from the restaurant to a makeshift morgue being set up in the basement of the hospital.
“Stillwater!”
Derek turned. Jill Church strode toward him, jaw tight, eyes blazing. She stopped in front of him.
“Did you start on those lists?” he asked.
She looked around. Nervously, thought Derek. “Yes,” she said, voice low. “I did. We’ve got a problem.”
“We do?”
“Yes,” she said. “We do. I went through my chain-of-command and gave that original list to my SAC.”
“Goddammit! I told you—”
”And he threw it away. My job isn’t to investigate. My job is to put little walls up around you and keep you out of this business.”
“Give me the goddamn list.” He held his hand out, snapping his fingers at her.
“I’ve got a question for you,” she said, not turning over the list.
“Goddamn it. I have a job to do, Church. You have my permission to go stick your head in the sand. I’m not going to do that, though. Give me the list.”
“Can I trust you?”
He stopped. “That’s up to you.”
Jill caught his shirt sleeve. “I read some of your file.”
“The FBI’s file is a little biased.”
“I can’t decide if you’re a bad guy or a hero. But I’ll tell you something. I’m a very overpaid babysitter and I did run those names you gave me. So my question is this. Do you know what you’re doing?”
He met her gaze. Again he was struck by that sense of familiarity, of deja vu. Had they met before?
“Yes,” he said. “Agent Church, I know what I’m doing.”
She nodded, as if to herself. “Then let’s go. Those first fifteen names? Some of those are really, really interesting.”
10
10:30 a.m.
MARY LINZEY STALKED BACK and forth behind the Channel 7 News van, glaring at anyone who came near her. They were sitting on top of the biggest news story in years, and it was growing stale. The FBI ASAC, Matthew Gray, had come over and done a stand-up, saying practically nothing useful. It would make a decent sound bite, but it didn’t contain anything of substance.
She was trying to think who they could talk to, who they could interview. There was the SAC, and there were the HMRU guys in their space suits, but so far they hadn’t made themselves even remotely available. She had noticed one of the guys from DHS drive off with one of the FBI agents. It might be a scoop to talk to him, but she didn’t know where he’d gone. Nobody seemed to know. And when she had suggested that Steve Shay, their reporter, ask Gray about the Department of Homeland Security, Gray had merely said the DHS was present in an advisory capacity.
There was a shout from over by the restaurant. Someone said, “They’re bringing them out!”
Thank God, she thought. Finally, something to put on tape. Her cameraman, Ed Wachoviak, was a pro, perfectly capable of framing Shay so they could see these corpses brought out by the anonymous FBI agents in their creepy space suits. She knew damn well the network would be using this. She should get over there and make sure everything ran smoothly. Make sure Bill didn’t trip over his own tongue and say something really stupid.
Her cell buzzed. Not hiding her irritation, she punched receive. “Mary Linzey here, WXYZ.”
“You’re a producer at Channel 7, right?”
“Yes.” She tapped her foot impatiently. Who was this? Some guy, his voice sounding kind of strange. Distorted. “Yes, I’m a producer with Channel 7. What can I do for you?”
“I have a statement to make.”
She sighed. Mary was 37 years old, had a Master’s in Communications, and had been twice-divorced. Her life revolved around her job. She had no children. She was a pro, through and through, and had spent years dealing with nuts. She figured this guy for a nut.
“A statement about what?” She ran her hand over her short hair, worn cropped to her skull. Only a black woman could get away with hair that short.
“I am the Serpent.”
Definitely a nut. “The Serpent? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Are you at the Boulevard Café?”
“Everybody’s here. So what?”
“I made it happen,” the voice said.
She stood up straighter, suddenly on high alert. “Made what happen?”
“I planted the sarin gas in the restaurant. And I’m going to do it again.”
“What? Say that again?” Mary’s heart was racing now, adrenaline pouring into her veins.
“You heard me. I have a statement.”
“No, no,” she said desperately, looking around for Bill and Ed. “Why should I ... why should I just take your word for it?”
Silence. She thought she’d lost him. Maybe he was a crank after all. Then the voice said, “The gas canisters were red. There were six of them, all connected with a regulator. They were placed in a cabinet in the main room of the restaurant that was part of a booth seat and divider. They were set off via cell phone.”
I can verify that, she thought.
“I have a statement to make.”
“I ... I can record this.” She could, too. “Just give me—”
”I am the Serpent,” he said.
“Why the Serpent?”
The voice was silent again. Only now she didn’t think he would click off. He was going to wait her out. This guy was for real. Probably. Finally the Serpent came back with: “Are you taping this?”
Mary was fumbling through the back of the news van, looking for the digital voice recorder. She snatched it up, thrilled to see the jacks were still there. “Just a second. I’m getting the recorder. Hold on.”
“Better hurry,” the voice said. “I’ll give you thirty seconds or I’ll go to someone at Fox.”
“Don’t do that! Don’t do that! I’ve got it. I’ve got it. Here. Just a second.” She slammed the microphone jack into the cell phone and hit record, deeply satisfied that the batteries were charged. “Go ahead,” she said.
The Serpent was silent for a long moment. Don’t shut up on me now, she pleaded, cell phone pressed against her ear. And then the Serpent spoke and Mary didn’t know whether to be thrilled to be on top of this story or sick to her stomach.
11
10:35 a.m.
JILL DROVE AND TALKED, filling Derek in. “Those first fifteen names,” she said. “There were two of them that got flagged big-time.”
“Flagged how?” Derek drummed his fingers on the arm rest, a bundle of nervous energy, impatience oozing from every pore.
Jill felt the same way, but hid it better. They were stuck. Closing traffic for a block around the hospital was creating an incredible kind of gridlock. The New Center Area was one of the healthier areas in the city, and it was a nexus for several major roadways—the Lodge, West Grand Boulevard, Pallister, I-94, Woodward Avenue. She had gotten away from the initial crime scene, but was now sitting bumper to bumper on West Grand Boulevard in front of the Fisher Building. She just needed to make it to either Second or Woodward, but they weren’t going anywhere.
“I ran all the names through our database.”
“FBI?”
“Yes,” she snapped. “That’s who I am, right? FBI. Anyway, I ran those fifteen names, not expecting anything. But two names got flagged.”
“Which ones?” He held the lists in his hands, flipping through them to find the first one with fifteen names.
“John Simmons and Bradley Beales.”
“Okay,” he said, finding their names. He compared their names to the sketch of where the bodies lay. “They were sitting together, a group of nine. Righ
t at ground zero. In fact, it looks like they were sitting opposite each other. What’s so special about these guys?”
“Beales first,” she said, pointing to her laptop. “He got flagged by the CIA.”
Derek snapped open the laptop, trying to ignore the fact they might as well have stayed where they were, the progress they were making. People were getting impatient, honking their horns and yelling. Nobody was moving.
“Why?”
“Well,” said Jill, scowling out the windshield. “First, he took a trip to Pakistan this summer.”
“Okay. So he’s got bad judgement. Pakistan stucks. It’s not my idea of Vacation Land, but some people like hostile hell holes. Why’s the CIA in an uproar?”
“You see, Beales is a linguist at Wayne State University. He was taking the trip to Pakistan, apparently, to practice his new language, which is Urdu.”
“Urdu.”
“Right. Primary language of Pakistan. The other thing is, you see, Beales spoke a whole bunch of languages—Urdu, Hindi, Farsi, Arabic, whatever the Turks speak. Turkish, I suppose. He worked for the CIA translating documents.”
“But not at Langley.”
“I asked. Apparently not. But he has a very high clearance and he’s definitely on the payroll. His being killed in a terrorist attack rings a few bells in Washington.”
“I bet.” Derek thought about. Not only had Beales been on the payroll of the CIA, he was an expert in the languages an awful lot of foreign terrorists—the Muslim extremists, anyway—spoke. It was a nexus of some sort and it made his spider-sense tingle.
“Who’s the other guy? John Simmons.”
“Simmons is at the Wayne State University Department of Public Health. He’s also Associate Director of the Wayne State Center for Biological & Chemical Terrorism Research.”
Derek focused his entire attention on her now. “Which is what?”
Since they weren’t going anywhere anyway, she took her eyes off the road and turned to him. “Sort of a think tank. You know since 9/11 there’s been so much money being thrown around that a lot of universities got in on the act, and set up these terrorism centers. They’re generally run by people who know a lot about different aspects of terrorism—public health, emergency medicine, sociology, epidemiology. So they work cooperatively with various universities and keep tabs on what’s going on with the government and try to stay on top of things. It’s what academics do, right?”