by Mark Terry
What was the code this terrorist spoke in? What symbols were in his head?
Derek reached for the door knob, pulse hammering in his ears. Suddenly he felt exhausted and dizzy. Bitter, metallic sweat seeped from his pores. His knee throbbed with pain. All the squatting and kneeling necessary to go through the pockets of the victims at the Boulevard Café had aggravated his knee injury.
Around his neck were beads and a chain. Involuntarily he clutched at the rabbit’s foot and the St. Sebastian medal around his neck.
Behind this door was ... what?
If Harrington was The Serpent, it was possible he could have booby-trapped his office.
Sweat beaded on his forehead.
Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes, then gripped the knob and turned. Locked.
He glanced at his watch again. Thirty-seven minutes left. Quit screwing around, Derek!
He flung his shoulder against the door. It cracked with a loud bang, but didn’t open. Again, he slammed against the door. With a wood-and-metal shriek the door burst inward. He stood there on the edge of the office, panting, relieved he hadn’t been at the mouth of an explosion or a gas attack. If Harrington was The Serpent, it was possible he could have booby-trapped his office.
It was still possible.
The hallway was filling up with people. Across the hallway a woman in a white lab coat said, “Who are you?”
He held up his ID, announced his authority, and stepped into the office.
Somebody else said, “Call security.”
Even less time than he hoped for.
The office was less quirky than Taplin-Smithson’s, but about the same size. There was a large, round-edged desk, possibly made out of some sort of maple or bleached oak. A large computer monitor dominated. There was a high-backed cloth office chair and two other chairs in front of the desk. A credenza held a laser printer. Two matching bookcases contained medical reference books and bound copies of medical journals. There were two four-drawer metal filing cabinets. On the wall was a painting of a seascape that looked like it was painted with acrylics. On another wall were several diplomas and award certificates.
Derek sat at the computer and popped it on, waiting for the Windows desktop to come to life. When it finally did, he brought up Microsoft Outlook, clicked on e-mail and looked through the SENT file.
It was all correspondence with students and colleagues. He scanned as quickly as he could. One header caught his attention. It read: CHEM/SCENARIO 14.
Derek clicked on it. The body of the e-mail read:
To: Bernard W. Schultz, Ph.D.
Stanford University
SKOLAR MD/Biological and Chemical Terrorism database
B—
Attached is the latest chemical terrorism scenario to come out
of the concept group. I don’t like their response—too optimistic. They don’t understand friction. Still, it shows promise. Let me know what you think.
Bill
Attached to the e-mail was a Word document. Derek clicked on it and read the title.
Wayne State University Center for Biological and Chemical Terrorism Research
Scenario 14: Chemical Terrorism Attack and Emergency Medical Response/Detroit, Michigan
Abstract: This document presents a fictional scenario of a chemical terrorism attack on the city of Detroit and the emergency, law enforcement, and public health response. This scenario involves a chemical terrorism attack at the North American International Auto Show, held annually in January at Cobo Center in Detroit, Michigan. The event draws in anywhere from 800,000 to 1,000,000 visitor each year, including, in 1999, President Bill Clinton. Media attention is very high, with over 6600 journalists from 68 countries in attendance. The show runs for...
It was all very interesting, Derek thought, but the auto show was held in January and this was October. But if Harrington was involved in this, then maybe there was another scenario here somewhere. He fingered the row of computer CDs in a disk case, the sense of urgency weighing him down. Jill Church appeared at the door, her face white.
“Are you insane? What are you doing in here?”
He ignored her, continuing to search.
“We can’t just go breaking and entering,” she said, anger lacing her voice with tension. “We have procedures. We have the chain of evidence. Everything will get thrown out of court the way—”
He spun in the chair and reached for a filing cabinet drawer. “Feel free to tell the families of the next group of victims that you didn’t stop things in time because you were waiting for a search warrant.”
She still didn’t enter the room. He stopped, his hand inches from the cabinet handle.
“What?” she asked.
Again, a wave of fear swept over him. He said, “There’s some sort of working group here that puts together chemical and biological terrorism scenarios. I’m wondering—”
Suddenly she was next to him. “You’re sure?”
He nodded and waved at the computer. “There’s one there.”
She glanced at it, her eyes opening wide. “Dear God! You don’t suppose...?” She whirled and started to open the filing cabinet. His hand caught hers.
“What?”
“We have to be careful of booby-traps.”
“What?” Her face went even chalkier. “What are you talking about?”
Derek pointed to the floor. From behind the filing cabinet ran a wire. It looked like fishing line and was almost invisible. It ran along the crease between the floor and the wall, out of sight behind a bookshelf.
Voice low, Derek said, “You need to evacuate the building.”
“I’ll call the bomb squad,” she said.
Derek nodded. He glanced at his watch. It was 11:29 A.M. They had 16 minutes until their money deadline and 31 minutes until the next group died. He was going to have to take the chance.
15
11:31 a.m.
AS JILL MOVED DOWN the hallway, she spoke in a loud, authoritative voice: “Everyone must leave the building. I repeat: Evacuate the building. This is an emergency. Everyone calmly leave the building!”
A blond man in a white lab coat poked his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose and stood in her path. “What’s this all about?”
“FBI,” she said, badge ready in her hand. “We have an emergency situation. Please evacuate—”
”What’s going on?” someone else interrupted. Jill wanted to roll her eyes. Count on a bunch of doctors to stand around asking questions instead of getting their butts in gear.
“We have a bomb threat in this building,” she said, hoping this wasn’t the wrong approach. “You need to evacuate the building. Immediately!”
That got their attention. People began moving toward the door. Jill finally threaded her way to the receptionist’s desk and was about to commandeer the phone when a uniformed security guard appeared. “There’s a situation?”
Jill flashed her credentials. “There’s a possible bomb in one of the offices on this floor. We need to evacuate the building immediately.”
The security guard squinted at her, then put the walkie-talkie to his lips, moving away from her. She heard him say, “We have a Code Orange. I repeat: Code Orange.”
A moment later a voice came over the loudspeaker requesting an immediate evacuation of the building. It repeated the message. A klaxon began to sound and everybody hurried toward the exits.
Jill picked up the phone and dialed Matt Gray again. He picked up after a single ring. “Gray, FBI.”
“Jill Church again. There’s a possibility that Harrington’s office here at the Public Health building has a bomb in it. We’ve found evidence of chemical terrorism scenarios and the office may be booby-trapped.”
After moment’s silence, Gray said, “You are way beyond what I ordered you to do, Jill. Way beyond.”
She ignored the comment. “I’ve got security involved. They’re evacuating the building. Can you organize the bomb squad?”
Mo
re silence. Then, “We’re on it. I...” Gray trailed off. In the background, over the sound of the siren in the building, she heard a babble of voices. Finally Gray said, “I was going to send you over to the university president’s office to discuss paying the ransom. He’s expecting you—”
”We have a policy of not negotiating with terrorists,” she said, mind momentarily blank. What was Matt talking about? She had a situation here.
“I know what our policy is,” he snapped. “But it’s not our decision, is it? We can only make recommendations. Meanwhile, we need to consider shutting down the university. They may be the target.”
“We’ve got a bomb here, Matt.”
More silence. “Where’s Stillwater?”
Jill pressed the phone to her ear in amazement. “He’s in the office. He’s the one that uncovered the possible device.”
Again that delayed silence, as if Matt Gray were running everything by someone else before responding. “You left him alone?” Gray’s voice was incredulous.
That did it. “Call the bomb squad, Matt. Now!” She slammed the phone down and whirled, heading back toward Harrington’s office and Derek Stillwater.
16
11:37 a.m.
DEREK COULD SMELL DEAD bodies. He knew he wasn’t really smelling them. Not here in Harrington’s office. It was a hallucination his brain churned out for him when he was stressed. When Saddam Hussein had used biological and chemical weapons on the Kurds in Northern Iraq, he had been part of a covert team that slipped over the Turkish border to investigate.
When Aum Shinrikyo gassed the Tokyo subway, killing 12 and injuring over 5000 people, he had flown in with a team of FBI, CIA and military experts.
During the first Gulf War he had been a front-line cowboy, creeping to within shouting distance of bombing targets, setting up laser-guidance systems and evaluating the biological and chemical fallout from destroyed ammunition depots.
Derek knew the stench of dead bodies.
He knelt on the office floor beside the bookcase and slowly removed books from the bottom shelf. He moved deliberately, cautiously edging the books out one at a time. It was possible the books were wired for just such a situation. Or worse, they had been set on a pressure switch and removing them at any speed would set off an explosion or gas attack.
One book at a time. On the entire bottom shelf were bound copies of The Journal of Public Health Policy. From the looks of it, at least six years’ worth. Each bound copy was about three inches thick and must have weighed close to a pound.
Once he had five of the texts removed and stacked neatly to one side, he could peer in. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see a damn thing. He fished in his pocket and came up with his key chain, which contained a tiny flashlight. He had a much better set of equipment back in his GO Pack, but that was in Jill’s car trunk in the parking garage. A piss poor place for it, under the circumstances.
He slowly stuck his head into the space left by the removal of the books and held the tiny flashlight in his teeth. He could see the wire continue along the wall. It didn’t seem to be attached to any of the books.
“Didn’t seem to be” were words he had been taught to be concerned about in his special forces demolition training.
Jill appeared at the doorway. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” He didn’t turn away from his work. With great care he removed another bound journal.
“The building’s being evacuated and the bomb squad’s on its way.”
He removed another book. Three more to go. “What time is it?”
“11:43.”
“So in two minutes the university’s going to wire a million dollars into a numbered Bermuda bank account and this whole thing will go away,” he said. “Two minutes.”
When Jill didn’t respond, he tilted his head to look at her. “And in 17 minutes more people will die. And the only chance we have of stopping that might be in this room.”
Jill swallowed.
Derek met her gaze, then went back to removing the books. It was 11:45 according to his watch when he pulled the last book off and could see that the wire was tied to an eye bolt screwed into the wall. The line was drawn taut.
“Ever had demolition training?” Derek asked, reaching in his pocket for a Leatherman multi-task tool he always carried.
“I spent five weeks at Redstone,” she said. “How about you?”
He studied her for a moment. Redstone Arsenal was the Army’s demolition training grounds outside Huntsville, Alabama. He had spent a year there, though most of that year had been spent teaching biological and chemical warfare history for the Weapons of Mass Destruction course work. The FBI ran their Hazardous Devices School there with the Army.
“I’ve had some training,” he said.
He opened the scissors part of the multi-task tool. “It’s possible,” he said, “that this wire goes to the back of the drawer and is connected to some sort of IED.” IED stood for Improvised Explosive Device, a military acronym for non-military things that go boom.
“Are you sure?”
He had his scissors poised over the wire. “No,” he said. “And my advice is to get out of the building with everybody else.”
“Why don’t you wait for the bomb squad?”
“Time?”
“11:47.”
He glanced at her. “Husband? Kids?”
She swallowed again. “A son. You?”
“Divorced, no kids. Not even a gold fish.” He nodded at the tool in his hand. “Last chance.”
Jill said, “Wait for the bomb squad.”
“Agent Church, I’m cutting the damn wire. If I were you, I’d take cover.”
She scowled at him. “I’m ordering you—”
”I don’t work for you.”
She pulled her weapon, a Glock, and trained it on Derek. “Stand down, Stillwater. We follow SOP on my watch. Enough with being a cowboy. Stand down.”
Derek shook his head. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.” He cut the wire.
17
11:47 a.m.
MARY LINZEY, THE WXYZ producer, stood with Steve Shay and Ed Wachoviak inside the Faculty Administration Building on the Wayne State University campus. It was a beautiful building, she thought. The outside was curved, mirrored glass. On sunny days it reflected the sun and the blue sky. Today, on a grim, chilly October day, it appeared gray, the only reflection being low-hanging clouds, the barely green lawn, Gullen Hall and the Student Center. The interior entryway was done in white masonry and rose four stories to a steepled glass ceiling. Marble tile floors and full-grown trees lined the entryway. It was currently jammed with members of the press, who had immediately rushed to the Ad Building to try and get a statement from WSU’s president, Dr. Alicia Kramer.
Dr. Kramer was not available for comment, not surprisingly. She was locked away in her office with her cabinet, the Board of Governors, several FBI agents and undoubtedly many, many lawyers. Campus security even locked down the building to the extent that the press couldn’t get past the atrium lobby.
Ed looked at his watch and said, “I’m gonna get in position. C’mon Steve.”
They jockeyed through the crowd to find a spot where they could get a shot of the President or possibly the University mouthpiece, Cassandra DiBiaggio, if and when they made an appearance.
Fred Ball, a reporter with WDET, the local National Public Radio affiliate, tapped Mary on the shoulder. “So you’re at ground zero on this one,” he said.
Ball was a pro and Mary liked him a lot. He had broad shoulders and narrow hips and stood slightly over six-feet tall. His shaved skull gleamed darkly and his teeth flashed in a smile.
“Hi Fred. Yes. My time up to bat.”
“Would you care to make a statement for me?” Fred pushed a microphone toward her.
She shrugged. “I’d just as soon not become the center of this news story.”
Fred had a very deep voice. “Mary, who are you kidding? This guy
contacted you personally. You’re news. The Serpent’s in contact with you personally.” He clicked on the tape recorder. “Why do you think The Serpent contacted you personally?”
“No comment, Fred.”
“What did he sound like?”
She was getting a little annoyed. “You heard the tape, just like everybody else. He used something to change his voice.”
“Do you think it was a man? Could it have been a woman?”
She hesitated. “The voice definitely sounded like a man, but that’s a good point. I guess we really don’t know. Now, Fred—”
”Did The Serpent say anything to you besides what was on the tape?”
She glared at Fred now. “No.”
“How did the FBI deal with you?”
She stepped aside. Other reporters were looking at them now. She said, “The FBI Special Agent-in-Charge, Matthew Gray, attempted to confiscate the recording and block us from airing it. He cited the U.S. Patriot Act, but the station’s attorneys assured us that the U.S. Patriot Act does not inhibit Freedom of the Press or the First Amendment. We did, however, cooperate fully with the Bureau by turning over the original recording.”
“What do you think The Serpent really wants?”
“You heard the tape. He wants money.”
“So you believe he’s doing this for money?”
“I can’t really say, Fred. That’s what he said.”
“Do you think you’ll hear from The Serpent again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think the University will pay the ransom?”
She hesitated. “We’ll know as soon as—”
Her cell phone rang. Fred’s eyes widened in interest. “Excuse me,” she said.
She stepped outside the building, but Fred followed her. “Turn that damned thing off,” she snapped. She hit RECORD on her tape recorder and answered her cell phone.
Again, she heard the mechanically altered voice in her ear. “Is this Mary Linzey?”
“Speaking. Who is this?”
“This is The Serpent. Are you taping?”