The Serpent's Kiss

12

Once they got off West Grand Boulevard, traffic thinned enough so Jill could get off the sidewalk and back onto the street. Jill wound around traffic, driving from Second to Palmer to Cass, really picking up speed, then cutting over on Warren past the Wayne State Bookstore and Welcome Center, hooking a right on Woodward to Alexandrine to the Medical Center. The Detroit Medical Center was a complex of about fifteen buildings running about eight blocks long and two or three blocks wide. It made up the V.A. Hospital, Hutzel Hospital, the Kresge Eye Institute, Harper Hospital and the Karmanos Cancer Institute, as well as Detroit Receiving, the major trauma center for the city.

“Where the hell are we going?” Derek said, clutching the chicken-stick handle on the door. Jill roared into a parking garage.

“I know where we’re going. Just follow me.”

They ditched the car in the parking garage and Jill led him down a flight of steps, into a walkway, then into the University Health Center. She moved confidently. “You’ve been here before?” Derek asked, racing to keep up.

“From time to time, yes. One of the weaknesses of the FBI is we don’t always know the cities we work in as well as the local cops. I’ve tried to get to know the area well. I’m not originally from Michigan.”

“Where you from?”

“Around,” she said vaguely, concentrating on their route. Derek wasn’t sure he could have found his way back to the garage, they had taken so many turns since leaving her Honda Accord behind.

“Nice driving back there,” Derek said when they stopped to catch their breath.

“If this is a wild goose chase,” Jill said, “maybe I can take up NASCAR, because I sure as hell won’t be with the Bureau.” There were plenty of professional medical people in white lab coats or scrubs, as well as probable patients standing around waiting. Nobody payed them much attention, except for a burly security guard, who was keeping an eye on them, but giving them distance. “There,” Jill said, pointing to a name on a placard. “Let’s go.”

“Lead on. I’m on your turf.” Derek fell into step beside her.

The Wayne State Center for Biological & Chemical Terrorism Research was in the Department of Public Health, and really didn’t exist as a physical entity. What Jill was looking for was somebody — preferably a secretary — who worked for John Simmons. John Simmons, she knew, worked in the Department of Public Health, which she found listed on the placard. When they arrived at the DPH, the secretary was an older black woman with graying hair pulled into a bun, and gray-plastic-framed bifocals perched on a long thin nose. She wore a very professional-looking navy blue suit and skirt with a gray and black striped blouse with a fluttery collar at her throat. A diamond and ruby pendant decorated her lapel. When Jill started to speak the woman held up her hand and pointed to a radio on her desk.

“They’re saying something about that terrorist attack. Just a second.” She leaned over and turned up the volume.

“The attacker has apparently made contact with the media,” a deep male voice was saying. “The terrorist, identifying himself as The Serpent, contacted Mary Linzey, a producer with WXYZ, the local ABC affiliate, Channel 7. He provided details about the device used in the attack for proof of his legitimacy, and made an official statement. We’re waiting for a tape of his statement to be… yes, here, it’s being played on TV. Here…”

There was a lot of fumbling, then a computer-modified voice said:

“I am The Serpent. I am responsible for the Sarin gas attack at the Boulevard Café at eight o’clock this morning. If I don’t receive three million dollars from Wayne State University by 11:45 A.M. today, transferred into the account number 84-532-68873-23 at the Bank of Bermuda Limited, I will set off another Sarin gas attack and more people will die. This is not an empty threat. I repeat. The money must be in account 84-532-68873-23 by 11:45 A.M. or many more will die.”

The deep voice on the radio station came on to repeat what The Serpent had said, but added nothing new. The secretary, hand trembling, turned the radio down. She distractedly focused her attention on Jill and Derek. “Isn’t that awful? I’m so sorry. What a tragedy. Some people! May I help you?”

Jill offered her FBI identification and introduced herself. “We’re here to speak to somebody about John Simmons.”

“Dr. Simmons isn’t… “ She broke off. “Oh dear Lord. The Boulevard Café! That’s… oh dear God! Is he okay? Was he there? That’s where they usually go on Wednesday morning, I think.”

“How many of them?” Derek asked. “How many usually go?”

“How many? I’m not… ten, I think. That’s been going on for a while.”

“Anybody else from this department?” Jill asked. “Do you know the names of the people he went with?”

“What’s this about? I’m sorry, do you need a warrant?”

“This is about the sarin gas attack, ma’am,” Derek said. “And trying to stop the next one.”

“Oh. Oh Lord!” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m so… let me think. He and Dr. Beales. Dr. Beales isn’t from this department, not exactly. Dr. Beales and Dr. Simmons work together a bit with the CBCTR. That’s—“

”Yes, we know,” Derek said. “Okay. All right. Dr. Beales and Dr. Simmons. Anybody else you know?”

“Well… well, Dr. Harrington, but, well, William Harrington, but he hasn’t gone in quite some time.”

“May we speak with him?”

She seemed startled. “Dr. Harrington called in this morning. He said he was feeling ill. He’s…”

Derek took a look at the fifteen names. A woman walked by, saying, “Cassandra, have you heard? Oh! Sorry!”

Derek and Jill studied the woman. She stood slightly over six-feet, a big-boned, solid woman who nonetheless looked feminine in a gray tweed pantsuit and black pumps. Her hair, expertly frosted, curled back to shoulder length. Diamond earrings pierced both ear lobes and her makeup was subtle. Somewhere between fifty and sixty, Derek estimated.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Oh,” Cassandra said. “Dr. Taplin. Perhaps you can help them. This is Agent Jill Church with the FBI, and this is…” She faltered, her hand gesturing at Derek.

“Dr. Derek Stillwater, Department of Homeland Security,” he said.

“Oh,” Cassandra said. “Yes. I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t catch your name. Anyway, this is Dr. Taplin-Smithson. She works with Dr. John Simmons on several research projects. Perhaps she can help you.”

Taplin-Smithson frowned. “What’s this about?”

“May we go to your office?” Jill asked.

When Taplin-Smithson hesitated, glancing at her watch, Derek said, “It’s a matter of national security, Doctor. Please. It’s urgent.”

Taplin-Smithson nodded. “Follow me.” She spun on her heels and strode down the hallway.