The Panic Zone (17 page)

Benghazi, Libya

T
ime was ticking down on Dr. Gretchen Sutsoff.

After launching her experiment against the cruise ship passenger, she flew to Libya to confront the angry leaders of her inner group.

The secret meeting was at the new National General People's University. Drake Stinson had arranged it with the help of Professor Ibrahim Jehaimi, one of her inner circle. Jehaimi had worked with Sutsoff on some sensitive projects while he'd studied in the United States. Since then, he'd remained a believer in her cause.

The university's campus featured a vast palm-lined water mall that was deserted today, for Jehaimi had scheduled the meeting on Saturday evening when few students were present. Stinson's private security teams were positioned throughout the building. The meeting took place in a room within the engineering department where Sutsoff sat patiently at a boardroom table.

As Stinson and Jehaimi ushered the members of her inner circle to their seats, Sutsoff surveyed their faces: General Dimitri, who once led the corrupt intelligence agency of a former Soviet Republic; then Goran, the unshaven man in torn jeans, who operated a global human trafficking network out of Istanbul. There was Reich, the man in the tailored suit who headed a web of criminal corporations out of Zurich;
and Downey, the well-built man who was an international arms dealer from Newark.

“You know, Doctor—” Goran, the trafficker, scratched his whiskers then studied his fingertips “—there are people who want you dead for failing to deliver on your promises.”

“Such a shortsighted view,” Sutsoff said. “It will guarantee our failure when all I require is a little more time to ensure our success.”

She put up with this unholy alliance because each member provided resources she needed for her work.

“How much time before we see results?” Reich asked.

“Soon.”

“You've been saying that for weeks,” Downey said.

“We've been pouring money into your secret tests that we know nothing about. When are we going to see a return?” Reich asked.

“Stinson told you of security breaches in Brazil, Dar es Salaam and other places,” General Dimitri said.

“It's your job to take care of them,” Sutsoff said.

“We have, but the longer this takes, the greater our vulnerability.”

Goran the trafficker scowled at Sutsoff. “I don't like what I'm hearing, Doctor. My people don't like it. We want results now!”

“I've told you, the prototype's been launched,” she said. “Watch for news reports. Watch how they'll scramble. Every indication points to a successful outcome. All that remains is for me to obtain the key component to strengthen our formula, then initiate the last stages to activation. I leave tomorrow to personally oversee the final part of the operation.”

“You haven't told us what the ultimate target is,” the general said.

“The Human World Conference in New York City.”

“That's just over a week away. Will you be ready?” Downey asked.

“Yes,” Sutsoff said. “That's when E.D. will demonstrate its power to reshape human destiny. The return on your investment will exceed anything you could ever imagine.”

Goran smiled.

“Now, Drake, if you will.” Sutsoff nodded and Stinson began removing the cork from a dark bottle and pouring its contents into six glasses. “My apologies to our host for violating local custom with this wine, but I picked up a lovely red in Paris and I believe we must toast destiny.”

Jehaimi checked his cell phone then excused himself from the room, making Sutsoff curious as to why he was leaving just as all the men joined her in raising their glasses. Each of them drank; however, Sutsoff's glass held wine from a different bottle.

As each of the men swallowed his wine, Sutsoff smiled.

“Now, if you'll allow me to say good evening, I'd like to head back to my hotel. I have an early flight.”

Sutsoff had started down the corridor but was halted by the sound of footfalls of several people approaching. It appeared to be an entourage. Jehaimi was among them, walking beside a large man in a white suit. “Doctor,” Jehaimi said, “allow me to introduce Shokri Kusa, senior science advisor to the colonel, he flew up from Tripoli.”

“I was in Surt, actually.” Kusa's bored eyes fell on her. “Jehaimi speaks highly of you.” Sutsoff had been promised privacy. She shot Jehaimi a look of betrayal as Kusa continued. “I've been on the phone to the colonel telling him about your research. He'd like to meet you and invites you to be his dinner guest in Surt tomorrow.”

Sutsoff stretched her neck to see something behind Kusa, beyond his entourage. Her attention was drawn to a man in his late twenties wearing a wrinkled navy suit. He had his eyes fixed on them from far across the hall, watching as Stinson and the others exited the meeting room to join them. The man in the suit aimed something at them, then hurried off.

“Sorry, that man there—” Sutsoff said “—he took our
picture!” Kusa, Jehaimi and Stinson looked to where she was pointing. “The young man in the blue suit heading down the hall! Ibrahim, do you see him?”

Jehaimi shouted something to two university security guards among the entourage who spoke into their walkie-talkies.

“Drake,” Sutsoff said into his ear, “do something!”

“I'm on it. We've got our people here.” Stinson fished into his pocket for his cell phone. “Clay? Yes, did you see that? White male, late twenties, dark blue suit. He was headed to the west doors.”

“Excuse me, everyone, but I must leave,” Sutsoff said. “I have an early flight in the morning. Ibrahim, thank you. Mr. Kusa, please pass my regrets to the colonel. I have to decline the honor. I have pressing matters I must take care of. Ibrahim, can you show me another exit and have my driver meet me there now?”

“By all means. I don't know how this happened.”

Sutsoff leaned to Stinson's ear.

“Find that fucker and deal with him, Drake.”

Benghazi, Libya

A
dam Corley knew he was being followed.

Voices echoed behind him as he headed down an empty hall and into an elevator, relieved he was alone.

Six floors to the lobby and the exit—he had to work fast.

He turned on his camera to check the images he'd captured of Drake Stinson, ex-CIA, and Dr. Auden, the scientist, along with other players.

Jesus, it was true. This was huge.

The information Corley's group had received from their friends in Rio de Janeiro and the Bahamas was dead on. It was another critical piece that brought them closer to putting this file together.

He had to alert headquarters.

He stopped the elevator on the third floor, stepped into an empty classroom and pressed his director's cell phone number, praying that the call would work. After several moments of static, the line crackled and his call was answered in London.

“Pritchett.”

“Oliver, it's Corley in Benghazi.”

“How did it go?”

“Fantastic.” Corley heard the distant slam of doors, voices. “I don't have much time. I'll back things up the usual way.”

“Can you give me a quick summary?”

“Our Brazilian links are definitely tied to other tentacles of the trafficking ring. Our university source here passed me tons of new data out of Tanzania, the U.S., everywhere. It's incredible. I've got too much to send you now. I'll go through it and send you my report when I get to Rabat.”

Corley heard voices getting nearer and hurried his call.

“Oliver, children are being stolen around the world, but there's a rumor that it's all linked to—”

Corley stopped.

“I have to go. I'll start writing my report on the plane. I'll probably need a new cell phone and camera after this.”

“Good work, Adam, be careful.”

Corley dropped the phone, ground it to pieces, scooped them up and returned to the hall and elevator.

Voices called to him but he got back on the elevator, quickly dropping the fragments of his cell phone down the shaft through the small gap in the floor. As the car descended to the main lobby he double-checked his digital camera then adjusted his tie.

The doors opened to several grim-faced men in suits. One of the men had a small scar on his cheek and confronted Corley in Arabic.

“Excuse me, sir, did you just come from upstairs?”

“Yes,” Corley said.

“Your identification, please?”

Corley handed him his cards and passport.

The men passed them to each other. Some of them took notes, while others spoke quietly into cell phones and radios.

“You were born in Dublin, Ireland, and reside in Morocco. What is your business there and here in Benghazi, sir?”

“I'm an international student at Mohammed V University in Rabat. I'm a doctoral candidate, completing my PhD. I was invited by professors here at the university to attend the Clean Water Symposium.”

Corley tapped a folded letter of invitation tucked in his passport. The other men who were still scrutinizing his identification and talking into their cell phones eyed Corley coldly.

“We have reports that a man matching your description took unauthorized photographs,” said the man with the scarred cheek.

“Yes. It was me. I was unaware of any restrictions.”

“It is a serious matter.”

“Look, what I did is harmless. I have a small internal newsletter for international students studying global warming. I was taking photos for it.”

“Whose photo?”

“I saw an entourage and thought that it was the colonel.”

“May we see your camera?”

Corley passed it to the man, who asked him to display the pictures. Corley clicked through them.

“We'll have to confiscate your camera.”

“Confiscate it? Are you joking? That camera was a gift.”

“We are keeping it, sir. Do you have a cell or mobile phone?”

“No.”

“Then you don't mind if we search you?”

“Search me?” Corley hoped he conveyed the right amount of indignation. “This is outrageous.”

“Sir, may we have your jacket?”

Corley scowled and slid it off.

He watched them place his personal items on a desk—keys, hotel key card, cash, air ticket back to Morocco. They looked through his wallet at everything, checking and double-checking, as others patted him down.

“This is insulting. I'm going to write to the secretary, the ministry of education and call my embassy.”

When the security men were satisfied, they allowed Corley to collect his items and leave, but without his camera. He inhaled deeply as he stepped into the clear eve
ning air, catching breezes rolling in from the Mediterranean Sea.

He hailed a taxi, trying to focus on getting the hell out of Libya and getting all of his new information to London. He needed to check out of his hotel and get to the airport. He had a long flight across the top of Africa. He'd start writing his full report on the plane.

Christ, it was true. This was huge.

Children were being stolen around the world by a global trafficking ring and he had more information and now pictures of the key players. Corley inspected the back of his tie, checking the tiny memory card, the backup he'd affixed to his tie clip.

It was all there.

He was free and clear, he thought, as the lights of Benghazi flowed by.

Los Angeles, California

E
mma Lane looked at the woman in the mirror.

She stared into her red-rimmed eyes, at the tiny ridges on her cheeks and hair that needed to be brushed.

Was she crazy for what she was about to do?

Emma searched her room. She was in the same hotel that she and Joe had used when they came to the fertility clinic two years ago,
after making the biggest decision of their lives.

She was terrified then.

“Why are you afraid?” Joe had asked her.

“What if it doesn't work? What if we never have a baby?”

“It's going to work out.”

He took her in his arms and her fear melted because she believed him.

It was going to work out. It had to work out.

And it did.

It worked out beautifully, until the day her world exploded.

Emma sat on the bed.

She ached for Joe. She needed him now, because here she was, back where their dream began, fighting her way alone through a nightmare.
Your baby is not dead!
the mystery caller from California had said.
Your baby is alive.
Emma had replayed that call a million times as her determination battled her doubt.

“Am I doing the right thing, Joe? Will I find Tyler? God, I miss you both so much it hurts.”

As Emma looked around her empty room, a wave of encouragement passed through her. She ran her hands over her face, collected herself, and considered her situation since leaving Wyoming.

She'd left a note for her aunt and uncle on the kitchen table at her house in Big Cloud. “Don't worry. I'll be all right. This is something I have to do.” She'd taken out several thousand dollars in cash from the bank, left her phone and credit cards behind. She did not want anyone to find her.

Or stop her.

She stood, went back to the mirror and summoned the will to apply a little eye shadow and a bit of cover-up. After she finished getting dressed, she called a cab.

The Golden Dawn Fertility Corporation was on West Olympic Boulevard, about a mile from the Staples Center. It occupied the third floor of a three-story rectangle of dark green glass that reflected the McDonald's and 7-Eleven across the street. The reception area was finished with a soft pink-blue-and-yellow floral pattern. Emma thought she detected a hint of baby powder in the air.

“May I help you?” said the young woman at the desk.

“Yes, I'm a client, Emma Lane. I'm here for Christine Eckhardt.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I'm in the city on business but this is an urgent matter. Christine was our advisor. She helped us with our baby boy. I brought my files and I need to see her.”

“Please, have a seat. I'll see if she's free.”

The waiting area had white cushioned chairs. Family magazines with laughing babies on the covers were fanned out on the table. It had been over two years since she and Joe were here. Emma was glad she'd called earlier today to confirm that Christine Eckhardt was still at the clinic and on duty today.

“Excuse me,” the receptionist said, “Chris just stepped out of a meeting. This way please.”

They went down the hall to a corner office where Christine pulled her attention away from her computer monitor, closed a file and got up from her desk. Her metal bracelets clinked as she hugged Emma.

“Goodness, Emma!”

“Hello, Chris.”

Christine was in her late thirties. Her hair was a bit longer but her smile was as bright as Emma remembered.

“I am so sorry about what happened, Emma,” she said. “When word got to us, I didn't know what to do. My condolences, I am so sorry.” Christine indicated the small sofa. “Forgive my rudeness—please wait here. It'll take me five minutes to finish up a meeting. Would you like coffee, tea, anything?”

“No, thank you.”

Christine stepped into the hall. Emma overheard her telling the receptionist that she had to leave by 3:00 p.m. that day for a meeting in Pasadena. Christine's office was orderly, just as it had been when Emma was here with Joe. Christine had been so sensitive, so patient. Emma never forgot her compassion and sincerity in answering all of their questions, including the one Joe had about Christine's car.

“Is that a '68 Beetle?”

Emma almost smiled because it was still there in the same framed photo on her desk, a restored blue VW. Christine and her husband were leaning on it at the beach. “It is a '68. What can I say? I'm a child of hippie parents.”

* * *

A faint chime of bracelets announced Christine's return. She closed the door and hugged Emma again before sitting on the sofa next to her.

“I am so sorry. Is there anything I can do, Emma?”

“I need your help.”

“I'll do whatever I can.”

“I'm not sure how much you know about what happened.”

“There was a terrible accident back home in Wyoming and your husband and baby were—” Christine couldn't say
killed.

“Yes,” Emma swallowed and squeezed the tissue in her hand. “I was thrown from the car and before it caught fire I saw someone rescue Tyler from the wreckage.”

A question began to take shape on Christine's face.

“But you told police? They looked into it, right?”

“They don't believe me. No one does. But it's true. I was there.”

Christine hesitated. “I know.”

“Besides, they never found any evidence of Tyler's re—” Emma paused. “They found no trace of him in the crash. They say he was incinerated.”

“Oh, Emma.”

“I don't believe it. I know what I saw that day.” She stared into a crumpled tissue. “And not long ago, after I got Dr. Durbin's letter saying that he'd notified the clinic here about Tyler's death, I got a phone call in the middle of the night from a stranger, a woman. She said, ‘Your baby is not dead. Your baby is alive. That's all I can tell you.' The call came from the Los Angeles area. The police looked into it, but they don't know who made it. They told me it was a wrong number and that I'd imagined the conversation, but I know what I heard and in my heart I think it has something to do with the clinic.”

Emma searched Christine's eyes.

“Can you help me find out who made that call?”

“Emma, I'm sorry, I don't think I can.”

“You don't know anything about it?”

Christine didn't say anything, but in her silence Emma saw unease and a flicker of knowledge, as Christine took Emma's hands and held them.

“Emma, you've been through so much. You're being
forced to bear the unbearable. It's possible that the call happened the way police have suggested, that it was a wrong number and—”

Emma pulled away. “You know more than you're telling me.”

Christine cleared her throat. “I'm aware that police talked to people here about the call. We told them it couldn't have had anything to do with our business. That it did not come from the clinic. We would have no reason to make such a call.”

Emma turned away, her shoulders sagging with disappointment.

“You've been under so much strain from this horrible accident that it's likely the call was a wrong number, and you thought you heard something that was never said.”

Emma shook her head and bit back on her tears.

“Is there someone I can call for you?” Christine asked.

“No.” Emma found her composure, straightened her shoulders. “I just thought you could help me. I'm sorry to have taken up your time.”

“Emma.”

* * *

She left the building and walked, block after block without a destination, struggling not to think as her sense of defeat grew, until it was nearly crushing her. Somewhere near the Staples Center she waved down a cab.

“Just drive me to a beach, please. Any beach.”

What was she going to do now?

Dark clouds were gathering.

As she sat on the beach for the rest of the morning and early afternoon, watching waves roll over the sand, she realized there was no turning back. She had to see this through.
Trust your gut feelings,
she told herself, as she kept returning to that telling moment when Christine's eyes had betrayed her deception.

She knows, dammit. She knows more about the call.

Maybe she knows where my baby is?

Thunder grumbled in the distance as Emma left the beach, walking to a strip mall where she got another taxi and headed back to West Olympic and the clinic. It was 2:40 p.m. Christine had said she needed to leave by three today. Emma didn't enter the building. Instead, she walked to the rear and inventoried the parking lot for a blue VW bug just as thunder crashed and the sky released a downpour.

As she ran to the side of the building, she glimpsed Christine dashing to her car with her briefcase over her head. Emma ran after her through the lot. She was drenched when she tapped on the driver's side window.

Christine lowered it, concerned.

“You scared me!”

“I know you lied to me today.”

“Come on, get in out of the rain.”

She hurried to the passenger door and climbed inside. The motor idled and the wipers snapped back and forth.

“You, of all people, should tell me the truth. I deserve to know.”

“I understand your pain. You're suffering post-traumatic—”

Emma slammed her palms on the dash.

“Stop it!”

Christine flinched.

“I just want the truth!”

Christine stared at the rain bleeding on her windshield for a full minute then killed the motor. She gripped the wheel, inhaled and turned to Emma.

“I've worked at this clinic for ten years. I believe we do good work. You know we do.”

“Chris, I'm begging you!”

“For a long time, one of our lab workers had been overwhelmed with personal problems. Recently she became unstable. We had to let her go.”

“Did she make the call?”

“I don't know. She's called a few people late at night, cry
ing, making no sense. But I doubt she called clients. We have no proof whatsoever—that's why we didn't tell police. Because she's not employed by the lab anymore, we didn't want it to reflect on the lab, and it has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with our clinic.”

“I want to talk to her.”

“I don't think that will help you. You need to go home to Wyoming.”

“I need to talk to her.”

“Emma, she's going through all kinds of trouble.”

“Did she have access to all the client files?”

Christine said nothing.

“Chris! Did she have access to all the files when she worked here?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to start a civil action against the clinic?”

“Emma.”

“Chris, I'm begging you to help me! I need to hear her voice to decide if she made the call.”

Christine bit her bottom lip and stared through her windshield.

“Chris, my husband died beside me! I saw someone take our son!
For Christ's sake, will you help me?
”

“Her name is Polly Larenski. She lives in Santa Ana.”