The Panic Zone (18 page)

London, England

G
annon gazed out upon the silver wing against blue sky as his jetliner sailed over the Atlantic, bound for London at 550 miles an hour.

It felt as if his life was moving at the same speed.

When he'd returned to the WPA headquarters in Manhattan two days ago, he'd landed in the middle of high-level crossfire. Melody Lyon had ordered him to her office, where she was advising George Wilson that she was dispatching Gannon to London.

“London?” Wilson said. “The guy was a disaster in Brazil—he's not ready for international assignments. And you want to send him to London based on a flimsy lead? Let our people over there check it out.”

“It has to be Jack. His source will only meet with him because of the people he met in Rio,” Lyon said.

“Look.” Wilson turned to Gannon. “You got lucky and I'm glad you're still alive—the last thing we needed was another staff funeral—but you need more domestic experience. Keep him here on desk duty, Mel. Sending him to England, or anywhere right now, is a mistake.”

“He's on to something that may be tied to the bombing,” Lyon said. “I want him on this. And, I want the support of our London bureau, George, even if it means staying out of his way.”

Wilson took stock of Gannon, shaking his head at the bruises on his face as if they were badges of incompetence.

“You're the boss, Mel. I'll warn Ian and Miranda at the bureau. Gannon, try not get arrested, beaten up or taken hostage. Try being a reporter like you were in Buffalo. Only better.”

After Wilson left, Lyon said, “Don't mind him. We're still raw after losing Marcelo and Gabriela.”

“I know.”

“How are you holding up, Jack? Are you sure you're up to this?”

“I'll be okay.”

She gave him a large brown envelope.

“Now, it's not a requirement for Americans entering Britain,” she said, “but get over to our travel doctor on Broadway and get your main shots. Rachel has set it up. I want you prepared for anything. This envelope has money and other things for you. Rachel's got you on an early flight out of JFK to Heathrow tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Ever been to London?”

“Nope.”

* * *

Gannon turned from the plane's window. His arm still aching from his shots, he lowered the metal tray, switched on his laptop and reviewed his files. Maria Santo's friend, Sarah Kirby, had put him in touch with Oliver Pritchett in London. He headed Equal Globe International, the human rights group they had been working with. Pritchett knew more about the human trafficking situation. He'd agreed to share information, but his responses to Gannon's e-mailed questions were clear.

* * *

I will only meet you alone and face-to-face in London. It will be completely off the record, but I assure you it will be significant. I give you my word you are the only
journalist who knows of this case and I will not speak to any other news organization.

* * *

Gannon studied the notes on his laptop until metropolitan London sprawled below. He recognized the Thames just as the landing gear lowered and locked into position. At Heathrow, a young British Customs officer, curious about Gannon's bruises, accepted his explanation about his ordeal in Brazil.

“I trust you won't have any similar problems in the U.K.”

It took Gannon's taxi a little under an hour to slice through traffic and get him to the WPA's London bureau on Norwich Street.

It was situated in a six-story stone building built on the site of a bakery destroyed by Nazi bombs during the Second World War. It was a five-minute walk from Fleet Street, now the address of more law and business offices than newspapers. But the Associated Press and other foreign wire services were nearby, reminding Gannon that the risk of losing the story increased as time ticked by. The bureau was on the first floor and the reception desk was empty. A man in a suit came from an office to place a folder on it.

“Excuse me.” Gannon set his luggage aside. “Jack Gannon from WPA New York. I'm looking for Ian Shelton?”

“You've found him.” Shelton shook Gannon's hand. He was a tall, gaunt man in his thirties. “Welcome to London. George Wilson advised us that you were coming to work on your Brazil story.”

“That's right.”

“I take it you had quite a drama in Rio's slums, judging from your face.”

“A little bit.”

“Dangerous stuff, given what happened to our friends there. Why don't you let us help you here, Jack? We do know something about the U.K., enough to ensure you aren't taken hostage.”

“Thank you. I'm good right now.”

“I see. George called you a lone wolf, or some such thing.”

“I'm sure he did. Ian, what I'd like to do is get a hot shower. New York said that after I checked in here, the bureau would have a hotel for me?”

“Yes.” Shelton searched the top of the vacant desk, finding an envelope with Gannon's name on it. “You said you need to be in Kensington. We've got you at the Seven Seas, in Kensington, Earl's Court, on our account. Not as close to the bureau as we'd hoped, sorry.”

“Thank you.” Gannon tucked the envelope into his bag.

“Call us if there's anything we can do,” Shelton said.

During the cab ride Gannon reflected on what Melody Lyon had said when she hired him—how she'd warned him to expect tension, even resentment, if he were sent to help out at the international bureaus.

“They're turf-protectors. They consider anything and anyone from headquarters a challenge to their expertise about their coverage area.”

She was right about that,
he thought, as he reached his stop. The Seven Seas Inn was a town-house hotel, a four-level building attached to other four-level buildings that, together, resembled wedding-cake layers where Penywern Road led to the gentle curves of Eardley Crescent.

Gannon's room was the equivalent of a cramped closet with frayed carpet. It was on the third floor, overlooking the street. He started his laptop and sent Oliver Pritchett an e-mail telling him he had arrived. Then he showered. He was unpacking when Pritchett called.

“Trust you had a safe trip.”

“It was all right.”

“Fancy a walk to our office, then?”

Using his map to follow Pritchett's directions, it took Gannon thirty minutes to walk along Earl's Court Road to Kensington and a side street, Stafford Terrace. Equal Globe
International's nameplate was on a battered red door, shoehorned between Mae's Flower Shop and First-Rate Tuxedo Rentals. Gannon pressed the button for EGI, and the intercom buzzed. He looked into the small security camera, held up his WPA ID and said, “Jack Gannon, WPA New York.”

“Right,” Pritchett said and the door clicked.

Gannon climbed the staircase to a second floor, where he could hear music turned low. “I Don't Like Mondays,” the old Boomtown Rats song.

“Oliver Pritchett,” said the man waiting at the top of the stairs.

Pritchett had a full salt-and-pepper beard, small round wireless glasses and long silver hair tied in a ponytail. He wore sandals, torn faded jeans and a T-shirt with the face of an emaciated child with huge pleading eyes, under the words Don't Let Another One Die.

Gannon followed him into an office that had a hardwood floor and wooden tables cluttered with computers, and towers of newspapers, books and reports alongside walls papered with posters of Live Aid, protests, starving children, children toiling in sweatshops and prisoners facing torment. Pritchett shoved some files into a faded military canvas shoulder bag, then snatched his keys and a cell phone.

“We'll talk in the park.”

A few blocks later they arrived at Holland Park, a glorious field of tranquil green space. They sat on a bench. Across the pathway a white-haired man was reading a newspaper. Pritchett waited for a couple conversing in German and pushing a stroller to pass before speaking.

“Sarah's team in Rio said we could trust you, Jack.”

“I won't run anything based on information your group provides until we're both comfortable with it.”

Pritchett considered the situation.

“Why don't you tell me about Equal Globe International and what you think you're on to?”

“Give you my spiel?” Pritchett looked off to the trees.

“Beyond what's on your Web site.”

“We're an ideal really. We hold dear the belief that everyone is equal and we strive to make it a reality. EGI is an umbrella of social justice organizations around the planet—church groups, charities, labor groups, student associations. We fight injustice in all its manifestations—poverty, hunger, crime, war. We lobby governments. We are on the front lines. We issue reports and, well, lately we gather intelligence on acts of injustice and all that they entail.”

“That's what Maria Santo was doing in Rio de Janeiro?”

Pritchett removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“She was brave. We think she was the target of the café bombing in Brazil because she'd infiltrated the law firm, Worldwide Rio Advogados. You see we had long suspected that firm of illegal activity around the world—money laundering, bribery, police corruption. Their activities seemed to escalate. Maria worked at getting a job inside, then started sending us reports, files.”

“And you found a link to something bigger?”

“It's complicated. Very complicated. But some of her files seem tied to what we were getting from another EGI worker, Adam Corley. He thought there was a link to a vast and organized human trafficking network.”

“Wait, who is Adam Corley?”

“Adam is Irish, an ex-cop from Dublin who'd worked in the Irish Garda's Special Branch as a low-ranking security and intelligence officer. When his wife died suddenly of a brain tumor, he left his career, devoted himself to his church and pursued a PhD in humanities abroad.”

“So how did he come to work with your group?”

“Through his church's global charity network. When Corley learned of us and what we did, he volunteered. He gathers intelligence. He's one of our best people.”

“And he thinks Worldwide Rio Advogados is involved in a global child-stealing operation that involves illegal adoptions?”

“Yes, but he thinks there's more. Recently Corley got word of a private meeting of traffickers and their associates in Libya. He managed to observe the players and obtain more intelligence. He now believes the child-stealing network is tied to something bigger.”

“What could be bigger than stealing children for illegal adoptions?”

“Corley thinks there's a purpose.”

“Money, I would think.”

“No, bigger.”

“Like what?”

“Not sure, but he hinted that there were scary elements lurking in the shadows. He was pressing his sources and hoping to learn more for a detailed report he's preparing for us. We may take it to a special committee on human trafficking at the United Nations.”

“I need to talk to Corley.”

“I've arranged it. He's agreed to talk to you.”

“Can we do it tonight?”

“No. This is very dangerous. Adam's convinced that the people behind it are vigilant. He insisted on a face-to-face meeting with you.”

“Fine, where is he?”

“Rabat, Morocco.”

“Morocco? I'll get my bureau to get an airline ticket and a visa for me.”

“Contact me when you get there, then Adam will get in touch with you.”

* * *

When he returned to his hotel, Gannon alerted Lyon in New York about what he'd learned from EGI and that he'd gotten a lead that required him to go to Morocco.

“It's a good thing you got your shots. I'll authorize the travel and get the London bureau to get you a ticket and visa as soon as possible,” she said, adding, “We want this story, but I need you to be very careful given all that's happened so far.”

“I know.”

“That means no more risks, Jack. We've lost too much already.”

“Melody, this story was a risk from the get-go.”

Rabat, Morocco

T
he sound of seat belts unbuckling filled the cabin as Gannon's Air France flight came to a stop at Salé International Airport.

He tried to concentrate on the job ahead but was haunted by what happened in Brazil. He didn't want to go through anything like that again.

Was he losing his nerve? Or should he chalk it up to jet lag?

Exiting the terminal, he jettisoned his doubts and got into a cab to his hotel. Rabat was Morocco's capital, and the World Press Alliance had a one-person bureau here. But the bureau chief was on assignment in Tangier.

Gannon was on his own, which made him a little nervous. Rabat was not as big as Casablanca, but terrorism in this region remained a security concern because extremist groups had taken up the cause of al Qaeda. His face was still bruised and he was still shaky from his ordeal with the Blue Brigade in Rio de Janeiro.

He looked out at the city with its modern buildings, mosques, markets and ancient tombs. Feather duster palms lined the main thoroughfares. His hotel, the Orange Tree, was on Rue Abderrahmanne El Ghafiki, in the district of Agdal, Rabat's center.

Gannon checked in, then, as he had in London, he
e-mailed Oliver Pritchett with his hotel information, confirming he'd arrived and was ready to meet Adam Corley as soon as possible.

Gannon then went online and searched for developments on the café bombing. Reuters and the Associated Press had each moved items reporting that while no arrests had been made, police had all but ruled out narco gangs. These were obvious follow-ups to his WPA story. It meant the competition was inching closer to his trail.

The phone in his room rang.

“Jack Gannon.”

“Corley. Got your message from Pritchett. Are you familiar with Rabat?”

“No, it's my first visit.”

“We'll meet in the medina, when the call to prayer ends in one hour.”

“The medina?”

“It's the market in the old city. We'll meet at a little place called the Sun and Moon. Its on Rue des Consuls. Directions are tricky, get the hotel people to get you a map. Be there in one hour.”

“Why not meet here, or at your location?”

“I ran into trouble in Benghazi. I'd prefer to be cautious. I've got your mobile number, here's mine.”

Gannon noted Corley's number then asked, “How will I know you?”

“I've got your picture online, so I'll recognize you.”

Before going out, Gannon shut down his laptop, tidied his files, then hid them in his room. The concierge was happy to sketch directions for him on a preprinted tourist map. “Very simple. This way, then that way, sir, simple, and you are at the Sun and Moon. Very simple, sir.”

To Gannon, Rabat's medina was a step back in time. As he followed a network of cobblestoned streets, he saw a group of boys roasting a goat's head on an open grill. Artisans displayed their handmade wallets, necklaces, lanterns and wood carvings on mats on the ground.

Small cooking fires created haze and seasoned the air. He saw old men bent over antique sewing machines under bare lightbulbs inside storefronts hidden in the market's shaded narrow alleyways. The medina was choked with people, haggling at stalls and shops over jewelry, leather crafts, vegetables, fruit, pottery, baskets and carpets.

The Sun and Moon was a darkened open-front café with six tables and a counter displaying meats, mixed salad and rice dishes, fish and pastries. Gannon ordered a Coke. He pressed the sweating can to his forehead and sipped slowly.

By the time he'd ordered his third Coke, Corley had still not arrived. The calls Gannon had made to his cell phone had not been answered.

He was hungry and ordered a chicken shawarma.

As time passed he was approached by boys offering to give him private tours of the medina, or find him drugs or women. A withered man with an agitated monkey in a cage offered to have his animal perform tricks for him. A one-eyed beggar with rotting teeth put his hands together in an elaborate thankful prayer gesture after Gannon gave him a coin.

Nearly three hours later as the sun sank, Corley was a no-show.

Gannon gave up waiting. He returned to his hotel, where he sent Oliver Pritchett a terse e-mail before reviewing his files in bed.

* * *

Gannon did not remember falling asleep.

For a panicked moment he did not remember anything and his torpid brain struggled to give him information as his phone rang.

“Hullo.”

“Jack, Oliver Pritchett in London.”

Gannon's memory ignited and he recalled his anger.

“Hey!” He sat up, cradling his head with his free hand. “What the hell's going on? Your guy stood me up! The WPA
spent a shitload of money to send me to London then here, and Corley doesn't show!”

“I don't know what to tell you. Maybe something came up. This is unlike Adam. I can't reach him.”

“So what now?”

“I'm going to do something we never do with our people.”

“I'm waiting.”

“I'll give you his private address. You can go bang on his door.”

“That's a start.”

Gannon ordered a small breakfast to his room, showered and shaved. When his breakfast arrived he ate as he dressed, then got a taxi.

According to Pritchett, Corley lived on a tiny side street off of Rue Calcutta, in the district l'Océan, not far from the Kasbah des Oudaias.

The neighborhood was quiet.

Gannon asked his driver to wait, then walked down the narrow zigzagging street. It was a bright, clear morning.

The quarter was deserted; the only sounds gulls overhead. The ancient square houses were small, neat, built of stone. Many had parapets. They were painted white with blues, pinks and greens, their windows covered with wrought-iron bars. Some had flower boxes and planters with palms near the entrance. Others had rooftop gardens or clotheslines laden with garments drying in the sun.

A gull shrieked just as Gannon reached Corley's address: number 104, a small white house trimmed in coral-pink. He knocked on the wooden door, dark and heavy with its ornate design. A full minute passed without a response. He knocked again, harder this time.

Nothing.

He pressed his ear to it.

Nothing.

He tried to look through the windows, but the ironwork
made it difficult. He went around to a small sun-warmed patio. Fragrant from the dozen or so flower boxes, the patio gave him a view over rooftops to the sea.

When Gannon came to the back door he stopped.

It was slightly open.

What the hell?

He blinked, thinking. Then he leaned into the doorway.

“Hello!”

The weather-worn door creaked as he pushed it open to a small kitchen. It was clean with a sand-colored linoleum floor, white shelves, white tiled walls and a gas stove.

“Adam!”

The house was silent as Gannon continued to the living room. Two small sofas with print designs faced each other over a coffee table. Everything was bathed in yellow from the sunlight filtered by the closed yellow curtains.

Everything was in place. He checked the bedroom, the single bed, the quilted spread, the desk, dresser, goatskin lampshade. All in order and tinted blue from blue curtains.

“Adam?”

Gannon moved on to the bathroom.

At least that's what he figured the next room to be, given the white door was ajar and he glimpsed a mirror. As he reached out his hand to open the door, he hesitated.

The house was too still.

He swallowed.

As he slowly pushed the door open, a prickly sensation shot up the back of his neck. A shoed foot was hanging over the lip of the bathtub. He then saw a hand, an arm, blood splattered over the white tiles, before he met Adam Corley's eyes.

Staring into him from a wide-eyed death mask.

A sound.

Something moved fast behind Gannon.