The Panic Zone (10 page)

Fairfax County, Virginia

I
t was late.

Robert Lancer downed the last of his tepid coffee then dragged his hands over his face.

The unconfirmed intel out of Dar es Salaam concerning an imminent attack weighed on him. He'd been searching for anything to connect this dot to the next one. Before this had surfaced he had been working on a letter from a troubled ex-CIA scientist living in Canada.

His line rang.

“Lancer.”

“Bob, it's Atkins at Homeland. We've got zip so far on Salelee.”

“Nothing to substantiate?”

“Zilch. The Tanzanians are keeping him for a while. He could've been blowing smoke. You know how these guys make claims to leverage deals, or deflect attention.”

“Keep looking and keep me posted.”

Lancer reached for his mug, remembering it was empty.

Like my apartment. Like my life,
he thought, glancing at the framed photographs of his wife and daughter next to his phone.

Take nothing for granted.

He sat up and went back to Salelee's file.

He realized that this latest threat was at risk of being
rolled into so many others that had arisen over the years. As of last fall, U.S. security agencies were tracking about five thousand people, two hundred suspicious networks and investigating at least seventy-five active plots.

Lancer reviewed a few in the database. There was a threat to destroy a U.S. airliner over the Pacific. Nothing came of it. Then there was the group in New York arrested in a plot to use fertilizer-based explosives in attacks on packed nightclubs. On the international side, in the Chechen Republic, a man tied to extremist groups, who possessed large amounts of the lethal poison ricin in a barn outside of Grozny, had tickets for a charter tour of Washington, D.C., which included a visit to the White House. And in Turkey, a plot to bomb the U.S. embassy in Ankara was foiled.

Lancer exhaled. That was just a sampling.

He'd been deployed to the Anti-Threat Center from the FBI because he'd requested it. Besides, the people at the center wanted to take advantage of his counterterrorism experience. But Lancer knew he was afforded special consideration because of his “personal investment in U.S. national security,” according to the handwritten letter he'd received from the director.

He looked at the faces of his wife and daughter.

My personal investment in U.S. national security.

Lancer was given a special assignment, allowed to operate as a one-man flying squad, investigating where his skill and instinct took him. He was cleared to cut across jurisdictional and agency boundaries to help on hot files and cold cases. His primary concern was soft targets that could yield the highest number of civilian casualties on U.S. soil.

Salelee's claim could involve a soft target,
Lancer thought and reviewed possibilities, the bigger ones.

There was an upcoming spiritual gathering at the L.A. Memorial Coliseum that would draw one hundred thousand attendees. The Texas State Fair in Dallas would see over two million people pass through its gates. In Columbus, a music
festival was expected to bring one hundred thousand people to Ohio Stadium.

Then Lancer looked at another big one: the Human World Conference coming up in New York City. It would be a family-friendly gathering of music and love, aimed at spreading harmony around the planet. There would be addresses by Nobel laureates, actors, authors, artists. Music groups would perform free concerts. It was set for Central Park and was expected to draw about one million people.

This one was on the radar of every local, state and federal security agency. There was a long list of potential attack methods to consider: suicide bombers, a truck or bus filled with explosives or a chemical, biological or radiological device—a dirty bomb.

Lancer considered recent history.

Some terrorist groups claimed to have chemical, biological or radiological weapons. While there had been few attacks on civilians employing such methods, those carried out were lethal.

In 1995, a cult known as the Supreme Truth released sarin, a deadly nerve agent into the Tokyo subway system killing a dozen people and injuring at least five hundred others.

In 2001, a series of anthrax attacks was launched in the U.S., using letters containing anthrax spores. At least five people were killed. In 1979, nearly nine hundred miles east of Moscow, several vials from top-secret biological and chemical military experiments vanished.

Take nothing for granted,
Lancer thought and went back to the letter he'd been reviewing. It involved an older case and was written by a dying CIA scientist who'd overseen deadly classified U.S. military experiments that were long abandoned. The letter went first to the CIA, but upon assessing it, the agency referred it to the National Anti-Threat Center.

The scientist was concerned about rumors among fringe
elements of the underground research community that an unknown international group was somehow now attempting to replicate parts of those “terrible experiments.”

Lancer questioned himself:
Doesn't that constitute a threat? Doesn't it require investigation?
He looked at the letter. The scientist was living out his final days in a remote cabin in Canada.

If Lancer chose to follow intelligence of this sort, policy required he make a face-to-face interview.

He read the letter one more time.

Take nothing for granted.

Lancer picked up the phone to make travel arrangements to Canada.

Quiggly Ranch, Ram River Ridge, Wyoming

T
he Quiggly place was thirty miles outside of Big Cloud in the foothills of the Laramie Mountains.

In the late 1800s, Lance Quiggly drove his herd from Texas to establish his Five-Spur brand here after purchasing five hundred acres of grassy rangeland in the river valley. But each time the operation was passed to a succeeding generation, it was parceled and subdivided.

All that remained were forty acres where Emma Lane had come to search for answers. She turned down the dusty road to the ranch, praying the Quigglys would come to her aid again.

“Of course we'll talk to you,” Mave Quiggly told her earlier when she'd called. “Anything we can do to help.”

Driving out, Emma sensed the purity of this place and the goodness of its people. When she reached the house, Mave stepped from the porch and greeted her with a hug.

“Come on in, I'll put the kettle on.”

She took Emma to the sofa in the living room, which opened to the large kitchen, where Mave gazed out the window.

“The fellas saw you drive in, they're coming up from the river now.”

As the older woman busied herself, she punctuated her tasks by checking on Emma's well-being, patting her hand and shoulder.

“We went to the funeral service,” Mave said. “We sat at the back of the church.”

The kettle boiled and Emma struggled to hold herself together as Herb Quiggly and his teenaged son, Rolly, entered the kitchen from the rear door, telegraphing concern as they approached her.

“Herb Quiggly.” The elder man shook Emma's hand. “This is our son, Rolly.”

Rolly's acne-ravaged face was as still as a mountain lake as he nodded to Emma, his eyes lingering on her cuts and scrapes.

“You drove out here all by yourself, in your condition?” Herb asked.

“Hush now.” Mave set a tea set down. “Emma's a strong young woman. She wants to talk to us and after all she's been through, we're going to listen.”

Emma slid both hands around her teacup to steady herself.

“I need to know what happened that day, what you saw. Did you see the second car?”

“No, we saw nothing at all. We told the deputy we'd been out to Three-Elk Point. Rolly and I wanted to look at a bull J. C. Fargo was selling.

“We were northbound on that stretch, not another vehicle in sight until we saw your SUV on its roof. Rolly said he thought they were making a movie, or something. Kevin Costner shot part of one of his films out here years back.”

Rolly nodded.

“But he didn't think that for long,” Mave said. “We saw you there—saw your husband halfways out, saw the baby's seat caught up in the twisted metal like it was in a steel web.”

“Did you see Tyler? Could you see him inside?”

“No,” Rolly said. “Just saw that baby seat in the mess, heard you and smelled the gas.”

“Could you hear Tyler crying?”

“I don't recall—you were screaming pretty loud,” Rolly said.

“We had to get everyone out of there on account of the gas,” Herb said.

“But you didn't actually see Tyler in his seat?”

Herb and Rolly shook their heads.

“It was twisted up in there,” Rolly said.

“And you saw no other cars in the area?”

“Nothing,” Herb said.

The Quigglys were patient with Emma as she continued pressing them. But as they recalled details for her, their voices faded until she heard only fragments.

“It happened fast…like a blast furnace…nobody could've survived…”

Their recounting of the aftermath had catapulted her back to those terrible moments on the highway.

Emma struggled with what the Quiggly family was telling her: There was no other car.

It can't be true because if it is it means my baby burned to death. But I saw someone. I saw someone save him.

Didn't I?

Emma's hands shook.

“Careful, Emma, careful.” Mave rushed to her.

Hot tea had splashed over the cup's rim, onto Emma's hands and to the floor.

“I'm sorry.”

Mave hurried her to the kitchen sink and ran cold water gently over her wrists and hands. It was an act of kindness and as the water soothed her skin Emma felt something deep inside break apart. Mave Quiggly comforted her until she was calm again.

“Thank you,” Emma said. “I should be going.”

“Maybe we should take you home and have Rolly drive your car back?”

Emma shook her head then collected her purse.

“You sure, you're okay?” Herb asked as they saw her to the door.

“I am convinced there was another car.”

Rolly was scratching the back of his head, a habit familiar to his parents when something was gnawing at him.

“What is it?” Herb asked.

“Well, I was just thinking.”

“Is it something Emma needs to hear?”

“Well—” Rolly continued rubbing the back of his head “—there
was
a car.”

Emma stared at him.

“I didn't see any car,” Herb said.

“Rolly, don't be talking this way if you're not sure,” Mave said.

“There was a car in the area,” Rolly said.

“But, Rolly,” Emma said, “in the statement you gave to police, in all of your statements, no one saw a second car at the scene, or on the highway.”

“That's just it,” Rolly said. “The deputy asked me if I saw any cars
at the scene or on the highway,
and I didn't. But I saw this car just before we came to yours.”

“Where was this?” Mave asked him.

“At the junction. Mom, you had leaned over to look at the gas gauge and tell Dad how he shoulda stopped in Big Cloud. I just looked east and it was way out there. I couldn't tell you the make. It could've been white. This car was way off by the T-stop near Fox Junction, way off kicking up dust on that dirt road. It was moving real fast.”

* * *

Less than an hour later at the Big Cloud County Sheriff's Office, Reed Cobb's head snapped up from the glossy pages of a hunting magazine. Some fool was spanking the hell out of that bell at the front counter. Cobb's utility belt squeaked as he got up and went to straighten them out.

“Emma? What the—?”

“There was a second car,” she said.

“What?”

“There was a second car fleeing the crash! Rolly Quiggly saw it. I just came from the Quiggly ranch.”

“Hold on—”

“This means someone saved Tyler! My baby's alive!”

Emma's commotion drew other deputies and clerks to the counter.

“Emma, you should be home resting.” Cobb gave a little nod to the others.

“No! You should get your people out there looking for that damn car!”

“Emma, you're upsetting yourself.” Cobb exchanged glances with the other staff members. “We're going to get you home. John and Heather are going to make sure you get home safely.”

“No!”

“We can take of care your car later.”

The deputies, John Holcomb and Heather MacPhee, approached Emma. She knew them a little from school fund-raisers down at the Big Cloud fair grounds. Holcomb was a part-time rodeo clown who operated a dunk tank and MacPhee sold home-baked pies and tarts. Her apple pie was very good. The deputies each took one of Emma's upper arms.

“No,” Emma said. “Stop! What are you doing?”

“Take it easy now, Emma.” Holcomb's grip was firm.

“My baby's alive! Help me find him!”

“Emma, you have to stop this kind of talk,” Cobb said. “It's not doing you any good.”

“No!” Emma struggled. “Why are you doing this? Help me find my son!”

Dog Lake, Ontario, Canada

A
fter landing in Ottawa, Robert Lancer drove southwest for nearly two hours before turning his rental car onto Burnt Hills Road.

The side road led to secluded parts of cottage country, where Foster Winfield, the CIA's former chief scientist, was living out his last days. Upon crossing a wooden bridge over a waterway, the pavement became a dirt road winding through sweet-smelling forests. Gravel popped against the undercarriage and dust clouds rose in his rearview mirror, pulling Lancer back to Said Salelee's claim of a looming attack.

Marty Weller's team was following Salelee's information. Tanzanian police and U.S. agents were searching for other Avenging Lions for questioning, to determine who was behind the operation.

Was Salelee's information valid or, like most raw data, unverifiable?

They had to be vigilant.

As I should've been with Jen and Becky.

As Lancer drove, he remembered the events of a decade ago.

Seeing his wife and daughter off at the airport for their trip to Egypt.

Becky, who was attending school in New York, had re
ceived a scholarship to study Egyptian art in Cairo for a year. Jen, who had worked in Cairo when she was a cultural attaché with the State Department, was going to help her set up. Back then, he was with FBI Counterterrorism.

Watching their plane lift off that night in the rain, Lancer had felt a drop of concern ripple through him because of threats against the West by 37MNF, a new militant faction in Egypt. U.S. analysis said the group was poorly organized and poorly funded with little means to carry out an action.

That analysis was dead wrong and the life Lancer knew ended the moment his section chief called him into his office and told him to sit down.

Jen and Becky were on a tour bus near the pyramids on Cairo's outskirts when 37MNF extremists hijacked it to the desert where they murdered all forty-two tourists, the driver and tour guide.

Egyptian police later tracked down the militants and shot them.

Lancer blamed himself.

While the analysis was not his, it reflected the work he did, and it had concluded that 37MNF did not constitute a valid threat.

Not a threat?

Then why did my wife and daughter come home in boxes?

Their deaths haunted him and led him to doubt what he did for a living and to doubt everything he had ever believed in.

After Lancer took bereavement leave, September 11 happened, and in the aftermath he used his rage to forge a new purpose. He was deployed to the National Anti-Threat Center where, in the years that followed, he buried himself in his work.

Now, as he drove, Lancer glimpsed his folder with Winfield's file on the passenger seat.

Foster Winfield was born in Brooklyn, New York, where his father was a chemist and his mother was a math profes
sor. Winfield was a gifted scientist. He'd been a professor at MIT before working with DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. He then left DARPA for the CIA to head some of its top-secret research.

Lancer left the dirt road for a grass-and-rock stretch that twisted down to the lakeshore and an A-frame cottage.

Winfield cut a solitary figure standing on the deck watching Lancer approach. The old man was wearing a rumpled bucket hat, khaki pants and a faded denim shirt with a pocket protector from which pens peeked out. He stood a few inches above Lancer's six feet and had a firm handshake.

“Thanks for coming, Bob. Coffee?”

While they waited for the coffee to brew, Lancer noticed a golden retriever on the floor.

“That's Tug, the neighbor's dog. He comes by every day.”

Lancer's gaze went to Winfield's desk: a laptop hooked up to the satellite dish outside, a phone, files, a framed photo of Winfield's wife, who'd died years earlier. They had no children.

It underscored a void familiar to Lancer.

The two men took their coffee out to the deck, where they sat in Adirondack chairs and Winfield talked about his terminal condition while he stroked the dog.

“I take medication—there's no discomfort. They gave me six months, five months ago,” Winfield said. “It's come full circle for me. My parents had a cottage here. Some of the happiest days of my life were the summers I spent here as a boy.”

Winfield gazed out at the tranquil lake.

“Forgive me, you're not here to listen to an old man reminisce.”

“It's all right, Foster.”

“As you know, DARPA was created in the late 1950s, after the Russians launched Sputnik. I came aboard many years later, after they'd headhunted me at MIT.”

After several years with DARPA, Winfield had been approached by the CIA.

“The Cold War was in its death throes and the CIA wanted me to put together a secret research team to ensure the nation did not let its guard down—exciting stuff but lots of pressure. I got the best people I could, Andrew Tolkman, very brilliant, from Chicago, Gretchen Sutsoff from San Francisco—she was our youngest team member and known for her strong will and strong views. We had Lester Weeks from Chicago, very even-handed, Phillip Kenyon, the über-intellectual from Harvard, and several others from MIT, Cornell and Pittsburgh. Our objective was to ensure that the U.S. not be surprised by an adversary's technological advances in weaponry.

“First, we were to defend against, match, then surpass any work by the Soviets or Eastern Bloc scientists, or the Chinese, or North Koreans, or some Middle East and Gulf states whose research was emerging rapidly.

“The CIA provided us with historical intelligence on research by Nazi, Chinese and Japanese scientists, up to our time and on dangerous advances made by enemy states.”

“What kinds of stuff are we talking about, Foster?” Lancer asked.

“It was a spectrum of research over the years, ways to destroy your enemy's crops with infestations, ways to contaminate the water supply, the air. We analyzed their work on mind-control experiments, the effects of chemical compounds on humans, parapsychology, engineered pathogens, advances in chemical and biological warfare, human endurance studies, medical breakthroughs and human engineering.”

“Sounds like a Pandora's box.”

“Not all that long ago we learned that some African rogue states had initiated work on genetic attacks. They'd planned to secretly introduce malevolent microorganisms to attack the DNA profile of certain races by secretly contaminating
a national health initiative, like flu shots. The microorganisms were designed to cause an extremely high rate of miscarriages in that race, with the aim of wiping it out. That work was covertly thwarted.

“Another disturbing file concerned biological warfare. One of the Soviet satellite countries was developing a new lethal airborne virus that could be used to infect enemy troops. The scientists who engineered the virus also created the antidote, so that the weapon could not be used on their forces and population. That threat was also contained. And, more recently, we learned of something called File 91.”

“File 91?”

“North Korean scientists had made advances on hyper tissue regeneration, to accelerate and increase survival rates of battlefield wounds. The research used nanotechnology, essentially, microscopic robots introduced into the body that are programmed and controlled by computer via low-frequency radio signals to read DNA and engage in rapid rebuilding—molecular manufacturing of cells, tissue and bones.”

“It sounds miraculous.”

“Yes. But there's a flip side. The CIA had learned that other rogue states and terrorist groups wanted to exploit the technology to reverse the process, to manipulate it to attack and destroy, rather than rebuild.”

“I'm not sure I follow you.”

“We feared File 91 technology could, in theory, be used to deliver a synthetic biological agent or microorganism that was unlike any known pathogen.”

“Would it work?”

“With File 91, it is theoretically possible to create a new deadly microbe you could introduce into a host, but it would not harm the host. The host could be your mode of delivery. You could manipulate and control release of the new agent, control infection or even target infection of a certain population using DNA profiles, using cutting-edge nanotechnology and state-of-the-art genetic manipulation.”

“That's a nightmare. How would you stop it?”

“That was the crux of our job through a classified program called Project Crucible. Research by our enemies, rogue states and terrorist groups was aimed at killing large numbers of people. Without our scientific understanding of it, the United States would be helpless to defend itself and its allies. Through Project Crucible we worked to defend against, and to dismantle, that work. But in order for us to gain effective knowledge we had to replicate it and, most important, test it.

“Some CIA agents gave their lives providing us with intelligence on the research. It was a key component but it was not all we needed. We had to embark on the most critical aspect—secret human trials. It was the only way we could get accurate results.”

Lancer shook his head slowly.

“Traditionally,” Winfield said, “we used inmate volunteers, usually those serving life sentences. They were told about military research and signed their consent to be test subjects. All work was done with their knowledge, consent and cooperation. Still, some of our team were hinting at modifying trials on Project Crucible to be conducted on civilian populations.”

“What?”

“Not using anything lethal,” Winfield said, “but substituting the agent with something as harmless as a common cold, to study the effectiveness of delivery and other aspects even more accurately because you're using the real environment, or theater of application.”

“But with the public's knowledge?”

“That's a sensitive area. As you know, throughout history there've been cases of secret experiments on humans without their consent or without them understanding the risks involved. I'm talking about notorious experiments conducted on soldiers, on unsuspecting groups like the poor, POWs or concentration camp victims. Such work is crimi
nal and morally repugnant to doctors and scientists. It gave rise to the Nuremberg Code.”

“Which deals with consent.”

“The code holds that the voluntary consent of a human subject is essential for research. Now, Gretchen Sutsoff was a leading expert on genetic manipulation and diseases. She was a passionate firebrand and in the case of File 91 she was convinced it was flawed. To prove it, she advocated that Project Crucible's trials be conducted on a civilian population without consent.”

“Without consent?”

“Tolkman and Weeks said her strategy was a clear violation of the Nuremberg Code.”

“How did she react?”

“Not well. We argued. I told her we would never allow public trials to happen without consent, but I needed Gretchen on the team. I admit she was arrogant, impatient, isolated and lacking in social skills. She had a troubled life. But she was also one of the world's most accomplished scientists. She was astounding. I admired her, respected her and valued her insights and contributions. I felt she was getting burned out, suggested she take a leave, travel, clear her head.”

“Did she?”

“Yes, but ultimately she resigned. She debriefed with the CIA, severed all ties, then disappeared. A legend grew around her departure. She was ostracized by much of the scientific community. Rumor had it that she found lucrative research in some poor country after she left the U.S. Might've even taken up citizenship in another country, Senegal or Aruba, or someplace. No one in our old circles has been able to find her. It's not surprising—she was embittered when she left.”

“What happened with File 91 and Project Crucible?”

“Our agents worked covertly to destroy File 91.” Winfield peered at the bottom of his coffee cup. “I know we pro
duced some good work, work that saved lives, but ultimately all research we'd completed to that stage of Project Crucible was shelved. All our Crucible work was destroyed or locked up. A new generation of scientists has carried on with new research that seems to focus on cyber threats.”

“Foster, you'd said that you feared Project Crucible's experiments are now being replicated?”

“Elements have surfaced in some obscure online discussion groups. I've alerted the CIA to my concerns and they've concluded that they are without substance. They've suggested I've misread things. I know they've written them off as the age-impaired ramblings of a dying old man.”

“What do you think?”

“Few people alive know the contents of Project Crucible as well as I do, and I am convinced that from the snippets I've picked up online that someone is out there now attempting research arising from Crucible's files. And in the time I have left, I will continue sounding the alarm.”

“Who do you think is behind it? Gretchen, or maybe someone from your old team?”

“We don't know. I've been in touch with a few of the remaining Crucible scientists. Not everyone agrees with me and we've debated my concerns. Maybe someone sold research, that's one possibility. But we don't know. However, something's come up that may help.”

“What's that?”

“This morning, before you arrived, Phil Kenyon e-mailed me saying he's got a lead on something recent he thinks is tied to Gretchen Sutsoff.”

“Will he talk to me?”

“I'll arrange it. He's in Chicago.”