The Panic Zone (27 page)

Vancouver, Canada

B
rakes creaked as the Zoom It Courier van stopped in front of the apartment house on East Pender.

The driver confirmed the address on his package, hustled to the door and pressed the buzzer. While waiting he took in the filthy porch, bordered with empty beer bottles and fly-covered takeout food containers. He wasn't fond of deliveries on the east side.

“What is it?” a female voice crackled through the intercom.

“Zoom It Courier—package for Chenoweth in Unit B.”

“Just leave it at the door.”

“Need a signature.”

Minutes passed.

A woman emerged on the other side of the door's wrought-iron security bars. Locks clicked before the door opened. The driver thought she was Asian, like the little boy at her side, who looked to be about three or four. The woman said something to the boy in Chinese, he stepped back and she signed for the delivery, Joy Lee Chenoweth.

The small package was from the Blue Tortoise Kids' Hideaway at the resort in the Bahamas where she and her boyfriend, Wex, had stayed.

She had an idea what this was.

Joy Lee took it to the kitchen. Before she opened it, she got a cookie for the little boy. The kid loved sweet things.

The package contained a letter thanking them for their recent business. It included a float pen as a small gift and instructions to go to a Web site and enter the unique barcode on the side of the pen.

Oh, yeah, Joy Lee knew what this was about.

She immediately went to their laptop, found the site, entered the security barcode, then went to another secure page where she was stopped. In order to proceed, she had to provide the first part of a password assigned to her at the outset of her job.

Her laptop beeped its approval.

She was given access to another secure site, which required the second part of the password. As she waited, Joy Lee glanced at the boy sitting on his chair eating his cookie.

He was a sweet boy who cried in his sleep for his mother. Sure, it broke Joy Lee's heart, but beyond that she didn't care. She couldn't care. Because watching over him was just a job.

A very lucrative one.

Less risky than her previous profession as a drug courier, at least that was the lie she'd been telling herself lately.

Twenty-five years old and what was she doing with her life?

Joy Lee had been an international student at Simon Fraser University. But her parents in Hong Kong had disowned her when she succumbed to partying and drugs and dropped out.

She'd met Wex at a party, a good-looking drug dealer who got her work delivering drugs. She earned ten thousand dollars U.S. per trip smuggling drugs from Bangkok, Jakarta, Mexico City, Amsterdam and Jamaica.

The smugglers trained her, paid for her airfare and the best hotels. It was like a vacation. She'd been saving to buy a flower stand, but her addictions inevitably eroded her profits.

Joy Lee wanted out of the life she was living and seized her chance in a hotel in Kingston, Jamaica, when Wex in
troduced her to an ice-cold, old white dude. He offered them the job of a lifetime. Wex half joked that the old dude was old-school CIA, or something.

Anyway, the old dude said he had a wealthy client who needed them to pose as a married couple adopting a Chinese boy, then watch over him for a few months. They would be paid two thousand dollars a day U.S. for as long as the job lasted, which he estimated could be four months.

Joy Lee and Wex agreed and the old dude arranged to get them counterfeit passports, credit cards, legal documents and cash. He warned them that the job required absolute secrecy and obedience, that any violation would result in immediate and unpleasant consequences.

Joy Lee and Wex flew to Malaysia and picked up the boy in a law office in Kuala Lumpur. The boy cried a lot and Joy Lee soothed him by telling him she was his aunt and would take care of him for a while. They returned to Vancouver without any problems. Nor were there problems when their employer paid to send “the family” on a fantastic Caribbean cruise.

It was all cool except for when they met the doctor at the Hideaway in the resort at the Bahamas.

Dr. Auden. That woman gave her the creeps.

The doctor checked over the boy like he was some kind of amazing specimen, asking if they'd been adhering to all their medical instructions while watching over him: diet, exercise, medicine, all that crap. Then the doctor told them to be ready to follow the “next step in the operation.”

Whatever, weirdo,
she thought, now willing her computer to speed up.
Just keep that delivery dude coming every week with an envelope of cash.

Finally, Joy Lee's computer had loaded and she entered the updated secure pages.

She was instructed that they would be receiving a new mobile satellite phone, and that they were going on an all-expense-paid trip to attend the Human World Conference in
New York City. Their air tickets were online, the hotel was reserved and all tickets to events and further instructions would be waiting for them in the hotel room.

“Wow!” Joy Lee was thrilled and turned to the little boy. “We're going to see the best bands in the world, even the monster show at Central Park!”

Joy Lee reread every online instruction twice. The last one directed her to view a short video. When it commenced, she groaned as she recognized creepy Dr. Auden.

The old girl's smile seemed so insincere, Joy Lee thought as the video played.

“Hello to our friends around the world. The fact that you are watching me now means that you have received your kits and your instructions. Please follow them carefully. Thank you for your cooperation. By attending this event you are about to embark on the experience of a lifetime. Your small group will change history. Follow the written instructions, then make certain you spread goodwill to everyone at the conference by shaking hands and having your little ones shake hands. Reach out and touch everyone you can. It is imperative that you do this. Your participation will take humanity into a new era. Believe me, it will happen before your eyes, a transformation unlike the world has ever known.”

The message ended.

Was she some kind of religious cult nut?

Whatever. Joy Lee shrugged, reviewing instructions on how to give the boy a few drops of medicine contained in the liquid of the float pen. Looked easy. More important to Joy Lee was the lineup of bands performing at the five-day event.

This was so great. Wex was not going to believe this.

She ran up the stairs to wake him up.

Alone, the little boy picked up the float pen.

He watched the little sailboat float from one end to the other while above him, Wex and Joy Lee began packing for New York City.

McLean, Virginia

E
nsconced in the wooded countryside near the Potomac River west of Washington, D.C., stood the white concrete-and-glass structure that served as headquarters for the Central Intelligence Agency.

As he entered, Robert Lancer knew time was working against him.

He cleared security and strode to one of the building's vaulted rooms for his early morning meeting, mentally reviewing his concerns.

Nothing had emerged yet from the Moroccans on the murder of his source, Adam Corley.

Then there was the reporter—Jack Gannon.

Gannon was going to meet Corley to learn more about a link to a law firm in Brazil and its suspected ties to a global human-smuggling network and the bombing of a café in Rio de Janeiro that killed ten people. Drake Stinson, ex-CIA, who'd played on Black Ops, was a member of that firm.

Stinson had vanished.

Now a new threat had emerged out of Florida—a mystery death on a cruise ship—the CDC's alert to Homeland was that whatever killed the man from Indianapolis was engineered by somebody.

Was this part of an attack or something else?

Lancer could not dismiss Foster Winfield's fears that someone was attempting to replicate Project Crucible's abandoned experiments. How Winfield and his colleague Phil Kenyon were so uneasy about Gretchen Sutsoff, who had led most of the research. While they regarded her as a brilliant scientist, her extreme views troubled them.

And me, too, because I can't find her,
Lancer thought.
Could any of this stuff be connected?

He exhaled as he entered the meeting room. He nodded to the people he knew, helped himself to coffee and took his place. The conversations were muted, the mood was tense.

Everybody was at the table.

The agency had people from Intelligence, Clandestine, Science and Tech and Support. Homeland was there, as were the FBI, Secret Service, the National Security Agency, Defense Intelligence Agency, U.S. State Department's Bureau of Intelligence, the National Joint Terrorism Task Force and an array of others from the intelligence community.

The meeting commenced when Lincoln Hunter, assistant to the National Intelligence director—the president's advisor on intelligence—slapped his report on the tabletop.

“What do we have?”

The woman from the Centers for Disease Control summarized the gruesome case of Roger Timothy Tippert, a forty-one-year-old high school teacher from Indianapolis, who died while on a Caribbean cruise. Aspects of the autopsy troubled the Broward County M.E. who alerted the CDC.

“We've observed that it appears—I mean—” she cleared her throat “—there are strong indications that the pathogen that killed Mr. Tippert was manufactured.”

“Do we know who's behind it and if there are other victims?”

“No,” she said. “We alerted Homeland.”

“And we've alerted Fort Detrick,” the Homeland analyst said.

“We're in the process of flying samples from Atlanta to the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases at Detrick,” said the colonel from the Defense Intelligence Agency. “But our people are extremely concerned about the early indications.”

“What do they show you?” Hunter asked.

“Based on our teleconferencing with CDC, we concur, there are signs of genetic, or DNA, manipulation. It's very complex but it seems similar to or evocative of, classified research conducted by U.S. scientists years ago.”

“What? Is this a domestic? What do we know about this research?” Hunter was taking notes.

Lancer watched Raymond Roth, Nick Webb and a few of the CIA people shifting uncomfortably in their chairs.

Roth leaned forward to respond.

“It was called Project Crucible,” he said. “It emerged in the years following the end of the Cold War. Through covert operations we obtained access to advances in military, chemical, biological and genetic research made by enemy and rogue states.”

“What was the objective of Crucible?” Hunter asked.

“The project's scientists were tasked to first defend, then dismantle, the work. But in many cases, they had to replicate it.”

“Replicate it? And you think someone is using the technology gleaned from Crucible against us?”

Lancer was waiting for his CIA colleagues to reveal the full story.

“We won't know that until the people at Fort Detrick conclude their testing,” Roth said.

“Who ran Crucible?” Hunter asked.

“We did, sir,” Roth said. “And when this Florida case came to light we endeavored to locate former personnel who had been assigned to Crucible to determine if it was a factor.”

“Excuse me,” Lancer said to Roth, “but I understand
concerns surfaced long before this Florida case. I believe that approximately one month ago, Crucible's lead scientist contacted the agency expressing anxiety about someone attempting to replicate the project's research.”

“I don't believe that's entirely accurate.” Roth did not look at Lancer.

“I have a copy of Foster Winfield's letter and the agency's response,” Lancer said.

“Could I see that?” Hunter asked. “I'll attach it to my report to the director for his brief to the Oval Office.” Hunter then took stock of the room and shook his head.

Roth refrained from looking at Lancer.

“Sir,” Roth continued, “since we've been investigating we've discovered that files and material from Crucible are missing, dating back to the time the project was abandoned.”

“Christ.” Hunter clicked his poised pen. “What's missing?”

“Samples of Marburg and anthrax.”

“Christ,” Hunter said. “What else?”

“A number of other materials and files.”

“And no one knew?”

“It first appeared to be an inventory error. Dangerous material was to have been destroyed or locked away years ago. But our further investigation, prompted by Winfield's letter, confirms material was never destroyed and has, in fact, been missing since Crucible was phased out.”

“And you've accounted for and interviewed all former personnel?”

“We're in the process.”

“Listen up.” Hunter's jaw was pulsating. “You find every scientist who worked on this nightmare and get them to Detrick ASAP to, first, help us determine who's behind the missing material and, second, help our people there analyze the tissue to determine what we're dealing with.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you hold them until we determine what the hell
we've got and who's responsible. And to the rest of you—don't let your guard down or rule out other sources.”

Hunter stood, gathered his material and glared in Roth's direction.

“You get those scientists to Fort Detrick—now,” Hunter said.

As the meeting broke up, Lancer went to Roth and Webb.

“Marburg and anthrax? That's a witch's brew—how do you lose that right from under your own noses?”

Roth and Webb glared at Lancer without speaking.

“Would you guys like some help?” Lancer asked. “I could use some help locating Sutsoff.”

The agents began walking away.

“We're supposed to work together to connect the dots, break down these compartmentalized barriers.”

“Stay out of our way, Lancer.”

Lancer left the room and the building, and hurried to his car.

* * *

Dammit, is this all connected? Is something big coming down?

A million scenarios shot through Lancer's mind as he drove across Fairfax County to the Anti-Threat Center. When he came to a red light, his cell phone rang. He pulled over to answer it.

“This is Jack Gannon with the World Press Alliance.”

“Yes.”

“Are you the agent who was with me in Libya?”

“Yes.”

“I have to be sure. What was the name of the man I was supposed to meet?”

“Corley.”

“I have information that might be critical to both of us.”

“I'm listening.”

“Before I go ahead, I want a name. I want to know who I'm dealing with.”

Lancer hesitated. “None of this ever goes in print, you swear.”

“You've seen what I've gone through for this story.”

“Lancer, Robert Lancer, FBI, tasked to Anti-Threat Operations.”

Gannon explained Emma Lane's case, the accident that killed her husband, her conviction that her baby was alive and the connection to the clinic and Polly Larenski.

“What sort of information was this Polly selling?”

“DNA.”

A car horn sounded behind Lancer and he realized he was blocking a lane.

“Hold on.”

He wheeled his car around to a strip-mall parking lot and continued his conversation with Gannon.

“Lancer, I have two phone numbers. You have to search the phone records and see who was buying DNA from Polly Larenski. It could lead us to whoever is behind the child trafficking.”

“I'd need to get warrants. You should call the local police.”

“No. She tried that, there's no time. These numbers are critical.”

“I need to know how you got your information.”

Gannon hesitated.

“Jack, what led you to Emma Lane and the DNA angle?”

Gannon was deciding on how much to share with Lancer.

“Come on, Gannon!”

“Corley sent me his files.”

“What?”

“Before I was supposed to meet him, he'd made arrangements to send me a memory card. He thought he was being watched. The card came to the hotel before I left and I read the files on the plane home.”

This changed everything.

“Are you withholding evidence? You'd better turn those files over to us.”

“I'm sharing the information. Listen, Emma Lane's file was in Corley's information. There's some sort of connection to her baby's DNA. Lancer, you have to search the call history of these two numbers, look for a similar number on both. One is Polly Larenski's home, and one is a pay phone near her home.”

“I want that memory card, Gannon.”

“We can't waste time!”

“Give me the numbers and let's go over everything one more time.”