The Serpent's Kiss

24

The man who called himself The Serpent stood outside Scott Hall with the rest of the spectators, taking it all in. It gave him a thrill to watch the chaos. It was a particularly exciting feeling, to watch a plan as complicated as this one come to fruition.

So far events had gone pretty much the way he hoped they would. He was surprised by this, actually. There was a concept called “friction,” that meant, basically, that things did not go according to plan. It was a military term, first coined by Carl von Clausewitz in his “On War,” and referred to physical impediments to a military campaign. Clausewitz’s prime example of friction was the weather.

The Serpent reflected that maybe he had been lucky. He remembered thinking about the wind just before detonating his gas device in the Boulevard Café. He remembered questioning whether he should have considered the weather in his planning. But his attacks all involved interior sites and the temperatures were all moderate. Sarin reacted faster in warmer environments, but it seemed to be working fast enough for his needs.

Things had worked out so far, and he knew it was because he had planned carefully, because he was smarter than they were, and because he was keeping several steps ahead while at the same time setting up his master plan. But his plan was moving into its most complicated phase and the risks were going to get very high.

He smiled, heart beating hard in his chest. You will know who I am, father. I will be as famous and as revered as you are. And as feared.

Moving slowly through the crowd, he acted like any other rubber-necking spectator. The Detroit Fire Department had set up an inflatable tent off to one side and used it as a staging area for moving people in and out of the building in their hazardous materials suits. It was here that he was headed, but part of his plan required a slightly different approach.

Two yellow Detroit fire trucks were parked along with several ambulances, police cars, medical examiner vans and other vehicles. The Serpent walked toward them, everybody’s attention focused on the building and the removal of the bodies. Nobody guarded the vehicles.

He walked right up to one of the fire trucks, eyes scanning it. He saw what he was looking for — a dark windbreaker with DFD stenciled on the back. Without breaking stride he snatched it up and slipped into it, heading toward the containment tent.

At the tent, a uniformed Detroit cop stood lackadaisically to one side, his job primarily to keep the media away. With a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, hands stuffed into the pockets of the windbreaker, The Serpent nodded at the cop, and walked into the tent as if he had every right to be there.

Once inside, he saw that the various agencies had clustered into their own corners, segregating themselves. He found what he was looking for — where the FBI had congregated. Each bag was stenciled with a name. Smithson, J. Corrigan, W. McMillan, F.

That was the one. Frank McMillan. Kneeling down, The Serpent took out his cellular phone, made certain it was turned on, and dropped it to the bottom of Frank McMillan’s duffel bag beneath his street clothes.

Mission accomplished.

The Serpent, job completed, turned and walked out, nodding to the Detroit cop on his way out. This had been the riskiest thing he had done so far and it had gone without a hitch.

The Serpent smiled, enjoying the nearly sexual flush of adrenaline. Yes, everything was going just fine.