The Serpent's Kiss

16

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.