The Panic Zone (28 page)
Authors: Rick Mofina
Big Cloud, Wyoming
S
wirls of scorched pavement marked the spot where Emma Lane had lost her husband and baby boy.
Today under the morning sun, she knelt near it, where the gravel shoulder met the grass, and placed a memorial wreath of roses against a small white cross that Joe's friends had erected.
Jack Gannon was watching with Emma's aunt and uncle a short distance away. Seeing Emma mourning on the high plains before the majestic mountains resurrected what he'd lost. He thought of his mother and father, killed in a car crash in Buffalo. They'd been on their way to meet a priest who had information on the whereabouts of his sister, Cora. Years earlier, she'd run off with a loser who'd gotten her hooked on drugs.
In the time that had followed, Gannon's parents tried to find her. There were a few long-distance calls from her, an occasional letter with no return address, but ultimately, they never saw her again.
Gannon searched the peaks.
In his loneliest times, when he missed having a family, he thought of finding Cora. He thought of confronting her with all he was carrying: anger for leaving them and hurting everyone. He hated her for what she had done, yet loved her for what she had meant to him.
She was his sister.
As Emma returned to the car, his cell phone vibrated. It was his editor calling from New York. He answered and strolled away.
“Gannon.”
“It's Melody, how is it going?”
“Major pieces have emerged. Emma Lane believes her son was abducted from a crash that killed her husband. Get thisâshe says it's tied to a California fertility clinic she'd used where someone in the lab was selling DNA to some shady corporation. I've got some phone numbers we're trying to trace. I think this could be tied to the café bombing, that Rio law firm, illegal adoptions and child trafficking.”
“Is it the clinic Golden Dawn Fertility Corp. in L.A.?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“The
Los Angeles Times
just reported that a woman who died in a suspicious fire was a former lab worker suspected of selling the clinic's files to an unknown research group.”
“Oh, man.”
“People are gaining on us, Jack. We need to hide Emma Lane. We've invested too much in this story to get beat now. Ask her if she'll come to New York today, for further interviews on the story. The World Press Alliance will pay her expenses. Try to get back here as soon as possible.”
After Gannon told Emma what the WPA wanted, she contemplated the request then consulted her aunt and uncle.
A moment later she gave Gannon her answer.
“I'll do anything if it brings me closer to my son.”
Washington, D.C.
R
obert Lancer entered his section chief's office at FBI Headquarters and set a folder before him.
Hal Weldon slid on his bifocals and loosened his tie. As he reviewed the file, Lancer glanced out the window overlooking the National Mall and the White House.
Since Jack Gannon called him yesterday, Lancer had worked on warrants to obtain the phone records of Polly Larenski and the pay phone in Santa Ana, California.
He'd called the FBI's Los Angeles field office and FBI's Santa Ana Resident Agency. He prepared a summary of all the facts, including his sworn oath and belief that the information was linked to a suspected imminent attack. The rest had to be processed up the chain for sign-off before it went to a judge.
“Looks good, Bob. I'll take it from here.” Weldon removed his glasses. “I just got off the phone with Charley. We're still trying to locate Drake Stinson and Gretchen Sutsoff.”
“Are we going to go public?”
“It's being considered.”
“And the others?”
“Defense and the CIA have located the other scientists who worked on Crucible, and they've volunteered to cooperate. They've been taken to military bases to be flown to Detrick, but the CIA will give them a rough reception.”
“Why?”
“They're suspects, too,” Weldon said.
“What? Foster Winfield's the one who first alerted them to this. The guy's got a terminal condition.”
“They're covering their asses,” Weldon said. “Look, we'll flag our warrant application as an expedited request. How fast we make it through the lawyers to a judge is anybody's guess. I'll keep you posted.”
* * *
As he navigated D.C.'s traffic back to the Anti-Threat Center in Virginia, doubt gnawed at Lancer.
In the warrant application, he'd failed to specifically detail that Jack Gannon claimed to possess Adam Corley's computer files on the case, because he knew Weldon would have demanded he go after Gannon for the files with a warrant, or even an arrest.
Am I a fool to allow Gannon, a reporter, free rein with what could be a significant piece of evidence in a threat to national security?
Lancer was on a tightrope.
He needed time to cultivate Gannon as a source. The guy was good at digging up information. Maybe he could strengthen their uneasy alliance with some quid pro quo? As for the warrant, well, that was a roll of the dice at best. They could take days or hours.
Even then, would it yield anything?
At his office at the center, Lancer scrutinized everything he had that was related to the case. He made calls and followed leads. The sun had set by the time he got a call from Weldon.
“We got our pitch to a judge who granted the warrant. Our people are banging on doors in California. We should have the phone records by morning, Bob. I hope to hell we get some mileage out of this.”
R
apid keyboard tapping underscored the intensity with which Sandra Deller attacked the data yielded by the new warrants.
Deller, the chief analyst at the Anti-Threat Center's Information Command Unit, had made Robert Lancer's case her priority. Pages of call logs going back several months for Polly Larenski's landline number appeared on Deller's monitor.
“According to my sourceâ” Lancer came and stood next to her “âLarenski is believed to have received and made calls concerning our subject from her home phone and the pay phone near her home on Civic.”
Deller clicked and a second set of call logs appeared.
“This one?” she said.
“Correct.”
“We're looking for a number or numbers that will appear in both logs.” Deller issued a few commands for a merge. “Voilà .” She highlighted the number that appeared: 242-555-1212.
“Where is that?”
Deller entered the number in another database.
“Bahamas. Nassau. Actually, it's Paradise Island. That's a resort area. Hang on.” Deller continued her swift searches. “Look, it's for the Grand Blue Tortoise Resort.” Deller went to a Web site for the resort and clicked through pages. “Nice. Let's see if we can be more specific with the number.” She
continued searching and said, “The number is for the Blue Tortoise Kids' Hideaway. Let's check it out.” She went to the Hideaway's Web page. “It's a child-care center, Bob.”
Lancer raised his eyebrows as his instincts hammered at him.
“I think we have something. Thank you, Sandy. Let me know if you find anything more.”
At his desk, Lancer searched for the FBI's legal attaché at the U.S. Embassy in Nassau. The whole time he questioned whether they should put the child-care center under surveillance or hit it with the Bahamian police?
There were risks to both, he thought, as he dialed a number. If you took your time and watched your subject, you built a stronger case for prosecution. But if an attack happened during that time, if something got by you, you'd be accused of not taking action.
So many signs pointed to an imminent attack.
He couldn't take anything for granted.
The call connected to Nassau.
“Paul Worden, FBI.”
“Bob Lancer, FBI at the Anti-Threat Center. Paul, you're our Legat in Nassau, right?”
“That's what they tell me.”
“Going to need your help. It's urgent.”
For the next twenty minutes as they reviewed the file over the phone, Lancer brought Worden up to speed.
“I'll get in touch with our senior people at the embassy,” Worden said, “then with my sources at the Bahamian Attorney General and the Royal Bahamas Police Force. I'll use the wording from your warrant to get the wheels turning here. We'll run every record we can on the Kids' Hideaway. We'll request surveillance or get warrants to swoop down on the place, whatever you want. We'll keep each other posted.”
Lancer hung up and his line rang. It was Sandra Deller.
“There's a second number,” she said. “It has an 841 area code.”
“What's that one?”
“It's an area code for a satellite phone with world service.”
“Anything on an owner?”
“A numbered company with a post office box on Cable Beach, Nassau.”
Lancer called Worden back with the new information, then exhaled and dragged both hands over his face.
Now what?
He glanced at his small desk calendar and the red Xs marking the Human World Conference in New York.
Was it the target? Was the president attending? There were too many unknowns.
Then there was Jack Gannon, who had Adam Corley's files.
Were there answers on Corley's memory card?
Lancer had to move on this.
His digital clock rolled into a new hour.
New York City
T
he World Press Alliance had a contract with a hotel near the Empire State Building to put up out-of-town editors and reporters.
The WPA had arranged for Emma Lane to stay in a twentieth-floor room. Gannon and Emma's flight had arrived late at LaGuardia. He got her checked in to the hotel and met her there the next morning.
Sirens and traffic noises filled the sunny morning air.
As they walked to WPA headquarters, Emma took in the buildings and searched the stream of faces, wondering if she would ever see Tyler again, hoping Jack Gannon and his global news service were the answer to her prayers.
It did not take long to travel the few blocks beyond Madison Square Garden and Penn Station. Melody Lyon met them in her office.
“Thank you for coming, Emma.” Lyon shook her hand. “On behalf of the WPA, please accept our belated condolences for your loss.”
Once Emma was seated, Lyon got down to business.
“You're obviously contending with more than anyone should have to bear,” she said. “Jack told us of the extraordinary steps you've already taken. Are you certain you're up to this?”
“I'm certain because I need to find my son.”
“As you know, we've lost two of our people recently and we think their deaths are linked to your case. In our pursuit of the truth we'll be sharing confidential information with you. Emma, as crass as it sounds, we need to know that your cooperation remains exclusive to the WPA.”
“Yes,” Emma said. “No one else believed me or would help me. Before we left, my aunt and uncle promised not to speak to any other reporters.”
“I'll update you,” Lyon said. “Jack, we've just learned that the
New York Times
is going to report that the CIA wants to question former scientists about a canceled top-secret program that may be at play somewhere in all of this. This could be related to our story. A number of news organizations are chasing pieces of it, but we've got most of them. Jack, is there anything new on your other angles?”
“I'm still waiting to hear back from Lancer on Polly Larenski's phone numbers. I have files to review and sources to check.”
“Good, we've put more WPA people on this story, quietly digging. I did some checking with my sources in Washington. I've just sent you some new data we've put together. I want you both to review it. Jack, you will remain our lead reporter on this file. Start a running draft of all we know as soon as possible.”
* * *
The first thing Gannon and Emma did was go to the WPA cafeteria for two strong coffees. Alone in the elevator, Emma turned to Gannon.
“Will I find my son?”
“I don't know. But a lot of people are pushing hard to get to the truth behind what happened to you, Adam Corley and the people murdered in Rio de Janeiro,” he said. “We've both come a long way and neither one of us is giving up.”
At his desk in the newsroom, Gannon got a second chair for Emma, then set up his laptop for her to read over files. While he worked on his PC, Emma paged through older files
and notes from his sources. Her concerns grew as she realized the magnitude of what could be looming.
She looked at Gannon's monitor and her breathing quickened as she read what was on it: the detailed note from Melody Lyon.
Jack, I called in a few favors with my sources in the intelligence community and this is what I've put together on Extremus Deus. The group's origins flow from the following:
In the Cold-War era, various White House administrations and Western governments expressed alarm over the population explosion. There were fears the earth's population would double, even triple, in a short time, deplete the planet's resources and result in chaos and the collapse of civilization.
At that time, some officials were consumed by these fears and over a few decades, various strategies for slowing growth were secretly discussed. Some included chilling military options involving the creation of new lethal agents that could attack certain segments of the population.
By the late 1970s, fears about population had subsided, but the years that followed saw a combination of key events, namely, the collapse of Communism in Eastern Europe and the emergence of the new threat of global warming. New democratized nations joined materialistic Western societies in a wanton depletion of the earth's resources in a time of out-of-control greenhouse-gas emissions.
In some darker corners of the world, this served to rekindle the belief that the world was racing headlong to ruin and that action was needed.
Some conspiracy theorists hold that a select number of scientists, intellectuals and various rogue political, military and intelligence players created a
secret organization known as Extremus Deus, from the Latin meaning “Extreme God,” to formulate policies, strategies and action.
According to the theories, the most effective way to reduce the strain on the planet and the threat to humanity is to reduce population.
The conspiracy theorists hold that Extremus Deus has been secretly developing chemical and biological options gleaned from military experiments, such as a genetic attack through the manipulation of DNAâ¦
Emma's face was a mask of fear. She'd dropped her coffee. Gannon reached for a box of tissue as she tapped his monitor and the note.
“This group, this Extremus Deusâthis can't be serious.”
“There's no evidence this group exists, but the theories are based on facts.”
“Are you telling me some freakish doomsday cult stole my baby for his DNA? Oh, God, they've killed Joe and now they'll kill Tyler.”
“Take it easy, Emma. We don't know if there's a connection. This is just one possible piece of a story that has many pieces. We don't know what's real, speculation or fiction.”
The phone next to his computer rang.
“WPA, Jack Gannon.”
“It's Lancer.”
“Did you process those phone numbers I gave you?”
“I'll tell you something, but think hard before you answer.”
“All right.”
“I want Corley's memory card. I need to see those files.”
“I already told you what I found.”
“You don't have a clue as to what's relevant. Now, I can invoke national security, get warrants, jam up your life, even have you arrested.”
“Don't threaten me, Lancer! After you witnessed me
beingâ” Gannon caught himself. “You know what I went through, so don't threaten me.”
“You forget that I'm the guy who got you out of that mess.”
“What do you want?”
“Send me electronic copies of Corley's material nowâall of itâand I'll give you new information.”
Gannon looked around, knowing where news organizations stood when it came to sharing information with police. He was walking a fine ethical line.
“What have you got for me, Lancer?”
“Possibly the next phase of this case.”
Gannon had to decide this on his own. No one but Lancer knew what he went through in the Moroccan prison. And it was true: Lancer was the one who got him out.
“Send me an e-mail address,” Gannon said, “then give me a few minutes. It's a large file.”
Gannon worked fast copying everything from Corley's files into special folders he sent via e-mail to Lancer. Ten minutes went by, then twenty, thirty, nearly forty when Gannon's line rang again.
“Listen up,” Lancer said. “We're going to execute warrants on a subject in Nassau, Bahamas, tomorrow. It's a three-hour flight from New York. Check in to the Grand Blue Tortoise Resort and wait for my call.”
“Wait! Give me some idea of the target.”
“When you get there.”
“No, I need to alert my desk.”
“A child-care center.”
“A child-care center?”
Emma's eyes widened.
“Okay, Lancer, I'll be there, but I'll have another person, a reporter, with me and maybe a photographer.”
“Just get there, stay out of the way and wait for my call.”
