The Panic Zone (29 page)

Wheeler-Sack Army Airfield, Fort Drum, New York

L
ess than twenty minutes after Foster Winfield was helped into a waiting plane, it accelerated down the runway and lifted off.

Hours earlier, a caravan of vehicles carrying two plainclothes RCMP officers, two Canadian military officers and three U.S. military personnel, one of them an army doctor, arrived at his cottage in Canada.

Winfield was instructed to give them his passport and to pack a bag.

His escorts provided no details. Their classified assignment was to deliver the CIA's former chief scientist to a specified location. It concerned a matter of U.S. national security. Few words were spoken as they sped through the tranquil countryside, but Winfield had deduced that it was about Project Crucible. He hoped that there was still time to do something.

The caravan crossed into the United States without a hitch at the Thousand Islands border crossing, then rolled toward Watertown, New York, and Fort Drum, where a plane stood by to rush Winfield to Maryland.

The short flight ended when his escorts handed him off to a team from U.S. Army Intelligence and the CIA. They put Winfield into a black SUV and drove him to Fort Detrick and the army's biodefense lab, located northwest of
Washington. During the drive, Winfield considered all the scenarios that could arise from Crucible and hoped that Lancer, the FBI agent, was still working on the case.

The vehicle arrived at the fort's checkpoints, where they were cleared by armed guards before driving to a remote building. In silence, Winfield was led down hallways equipped with security cameras, electronic sensors and a series of secure doors passable via keypad-coded entry systems.

He was taken to a small, barren room with white cinder-block walls. It had a hard-back chair on either side of a table with a wood veneer finish.

The door opened and two men in suits entered.

One sat opposite Winfield. The other stood.

“Dr. Winfield, this concerns our investigation into your letter.”

Winfield had assumed as much.

“We have reason to believe the subject is related to an ongoing threat to national security.”

Winfield nodded.

“Before we proceed,” the man said, “I'll remind you that as a retiree you must still adhere to agency standards and agree to undergo a polygraph examination.”

Periodic polygraphs were fairly common when he'd worked on Crucible.

“Of course.”

A few minutes later, a young man with prematurely gray hair entered the room carrying polygraph equipment in a hard-shell case.

“It'll take a moment to set up,” the polygraphist said.

He explained that his new machine was a five-pen analog. The man connected instruments to Winfield's heart and fingertips to electronically measure breathing, perspiration, respiratory activity, galvanic skin reflex, blood and pulse rate. Then he began posing questions.

“Are you Dr. Foster Winfield?”

“Yes.”

“Did you oversee Project Crucible?”

“Yes.”

“Was the program abandoned?”

“Yes.”

“Are you currently involved in using material from Project Crucible for any means?”

“No.”

“Do you have factual information on anyone currently attempting to use research from Project Crucible for any means?”

“No.”

“Do you have information on the whereabouts of Dr. Gretchen Sutsoff?”

“No.”

“Are you currently in contact with Gretchen Sutsoff?”

“No.”

“Are you aware of anyone who may have information on her whereabouts?”

“No.”

“Do you think Dr. Sutsoff currently could pose a risk to the security of the United States and other nations?”

Winfield hesitated.

“Sir, your response? Do you think Dr. Sutsoff currently could pose a risk to the security of the United States and other nations?”

Winfield swallowed.

“Yes.”

The exam continued with similar questions asked different ways for nearly an hour before it ended. Winfield was given a few old copies of
Newsweek
and
Time
and left alone in the room. Thirty minutes later he was taken to another room where he saw three men his age.

They were familiar.

“Foster?” One of them stood. “We figured they'd grab you, too.”

It took a few seconds before he recognized what time had done to Andrew Tolkman, Lester Weeks and Phil Kenyon, his old team from Project Crucible.

“Hello. Good to see you.” Winfield touched each of them on the shoulder then glanced around. “Although, not ideal circumstances.”

“They can't find Gretchen,” Tolkman said.

“No one can,” Kenyon said. “I told them she's the one they need.”

A door opened and a man in his forties, wearing jeans and a golf shirt, entered and handed each of them a slim file folder.

“Gentlemen, my name is Powell, Army Intel. Biochem. We have little time. As you may have gathered, this concerns your work on Project Crucible. In a nutshell, we think some of your classified work is being applied to launch a strike. In fact, it may already be under way.”

Kenyon muttered a curse.

“No one else is better qualified to help us at this stage than you. I'll give you time to read the material, then we'll suit you up to work with our people on the sample we have in the lab. We hope you can tell us what we're up against.”

The file contained information on the deceased cruise-line passenger from Indiana, based on reports provided by the Broward County M.E., the CDC and the army's experts. The aging scientists read it all carefully.

“How is it possible?” Andrew Tolkman whispered more to himself than to the others as Powell returned.

“Gentlemen,” Powell said, holding the door. “We'll head to the lab.”

Cutting across the compound to the lab, he led the scientists through several secure doors to areas flagged with signs warning of danger. They passed through a series of sealed rooms before coming to a changeroom with lockers and other lab staff. The lab staff helped the men into blue containment suits, taping their socks and wrists after they tugged on latex gloves.

Next they entered a sealed chamber that featured a disinfectant shower. After they each showered with their suits on, they put on rubber boots and another set of heavy rubber gloves and proceeded down a corridor where they each reached for a hose from the ceiling and connected it to their suits.

They then passed through another air lock, waiting until it was safe to enter the lab where a team of army scientists was at work. The Crucible experts joined their teams, analyzing, processing and running tests on the tissue samples from the cruise-ship victim. Each team worked on different aspects of the sample. During this time, Powell remained in a remote room watching the work on closed-circuit TV while communicating with them.

“What do you think?” Powell asked.

“It is definitely evocative of the work we did on Crucible,” Winfield said into his radio-intercom.

“You mean the work Gretchen did,” Kenyon added.

After some three hours, the scientists exited the lab, moving carefully through the various chambers. They each stayed in their suits and took another decontamination shower before moving along to the locker room where they were helped out of their suits.

Powell was waiting for the four men again in the same room where he had originally briefed them.

“Your assessment?”

Winfield looked at his colleagues.

“We would not have believed it had we not seen it,” he said. “Theoretically, it should be impossible.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's definitely a manufactured agent,” Winfield said. “It's totally new and has characteristics of Ebola, Marburg and anthrax. We can't really identify it. But there's more.”

“More?”

“Its foundation is in File 91 and some of the other agents developed by some enemy states. But we cannot fully under
stand the delivery system, the control system and how it seems to be manipulated.”

“I'm not sure I follow you.”

“It's extremely sophisticated. I don't think we can defend against it.”

“What about an antidote or vaccine?”

“Well, while it encompasses a manufactured lethal agent, it's less characteristic of a virus, more like a controllable agent. Its engineering is very advanced.”

“Isn't there anything we can do?”

“It's like a weapon with no off switch. I don't think there's much we can do to stop it.”

Paradise Island, Bahamas

A
s their cab from the airport climbed the bridge over the crystal water of Nassau Harbor, Emma looked at the hotels rising from the island.

“It's funny,” she told Gannon. “I was a travel writer before I became a teacher, and I have been to a lot of places but never here. Joe and I were planning a trip to the Bahamas. We were going to bring Tyler but now, to come here as a widow, wondering if my baby's alive…” Emma reached under her sunglasses and touched the corner of her eye. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” Gannon said. “We need to know the truth.”

Gannon paid the driver after they arrived at the massive main building of the Grand Blue Tortoise Resort. Tourists, guests and staff crowded the lobby, which was as chaotic as an airport terminal. Live parrots cawed in a four-story aviary and calypso music filled the air. The reservation for two rooms next to each other was under Gannon's name. He used the WPA's credit card.

“Are there any messages?” Gannon asked as he collected their keys.

The clerk consulted the computer.

“No, sir.”

“I'm looking for my friend Robert Lancer—he should be registered here.”

The clerk checked.

“Yes, room 2322 Blue Reef Tower D. That's the next building west from you, sir. Do you wish to send Mr. Lancer a message?”

“Yes, tell him I've arrived and to please call my room.”

When Gannon got to his room there was still no message from Lancer. He set up his laptop and sent Lancer an e-mail telling him that he'd arrived at the hotel and was standing by. Then he sent a text message.

No response.

Gannon called the WPA's Nassau Bureau. Prior to his Bahamas assignment, the Nassau chief had run the Amsterdam Bureau.

“WPA, Peter DeGroote.”

“Jack Gannon. I just arrived.”

“Ah, yes, Jack. New York advised us to expect your call. We'll support you in every way possible. I trust you had a good flight?”

“Yes, thanks. Are you hearing anything at all related to a police action on a day-care center anywhere?”

“No, but we are monitoring police emergency radio chatter on our scanners and we'll alert you on your mobile phone.”

“Do you have a photographer ready?”

“We have two. One is a freelancer. Both are in Nassau waiting to be dispatched.”

After the call, Gannon went to the next building to find Lancer.

* * *

Alone in her room, Emma studied her color photograph of Tyler and Joe, taken a week before the crash. She'd downloaded it to her cell phone. She traced her finger over their faces, smiling back at them before starting to unpack. That's when she noticed the resort's leather-bound directory of services on the desk. Paging through it she saw that the resort offered child-care service at the Blue Tortoise Kids' Hideaway.

Gannon's source had said police were going to get warrants for a child-care center and had advised Gannon to come to this specific hotel. She hurried to Gannon's room and knocked hard on his door.

No answer.

She'd go alone.

* * *

At her desk in the offices of the Blue Tortoise Kids' Hideaway, Lucy Walsh quickly read over the letter she was leaving for her employer.

The truth was Lucy had to leave the Bahamas because she was afraid.

When she finished with the letter, she printed a copy, signed it, put it in an envelope and slid it under Dr. Sutsoff's door. The office was always locked when the doctor was away. It was just as well Lucy did it this way; she never felt totally comfortable in the doctor's presence.

She returned to her desk and resumed packing her personal items.

Her growing fears that this company was a front for something evil had deepened. Last night she'd received stunning news from her church friend in Ireland, who had been forwarding her secret reports to an ex-cop who was working with a human rights organization.

“My contact on this case has been killed. I got word from London he may have been murdered in Morocco. It's dangerous for you. Take precautions, Lucy.”

* * *

Something was horribly wrong at this place.

Lucy glanced at her computer from which she'd duplicated every file she could to a private online folder. She had
also copied them to a blue memory card, no bigger than a stick of gum. Maybe she would send the information anonymously to the
Irish Times?
Somehow she had to alert the outside world.

As the computer beeped and lights flashed, she noticed through the glass walls that a woman was standing in the playroom staring at the children. The other staff members had not seen her.

Lucy went to her.

“May I help you?”

The woman turned, telegraphing an intense unease behind faded bruises and desperate eyes that failed to brighten as she tried to smile.

“Yes. My name is Emma Lane and I'm looking for my son.”

“Lane?”

“Yes, my son is Tyler Lane.”

“Lane, that name's familiar but we have about 104 children currently registered. Some are out on excursions. Follow me.” Lucy led Emma to her office and sat before her computer monitor and started typing. “L-A-N-E?”

“Yes.” Emma twisted the straps of her purse. “Tyler is spelled T-Y-L-E-R. He's a year old.”

“When did you bring him in?”

“I didn't.”

“Oh, his father brought him in?”

“His father's dead. I think my son was abducted and brought here.”

All the blood drained from Lucy's face.

“Please,” Emma whispered. “Please help me.”

* * *

After knocking on Lancer's door in vain, Gannon called Lancer's cell-phone number.

It was futile.

Dammit. Where was he?

Walking from Blue Reef Tower D across the complex,
Gannon froze. Almost hidden at the base of a grove of coconut palms, he glimpsed a shoulder flash, dark military overalls and a leather holster.

A cop. A SWAT member in tactical gear.

As Gannon's eyes adjusted, he noticed a second cop in the grove.

Then, through the courtyard in the distance, he saw a cube van, obviously a police equipment truck. Next to it, he saw an ambulance.

They were setting up for a takedown somewhere.

Was this Lancer's target? It had to be near.

Walking quickly through the vast courtyard, Gannon looked in every direction for any sign of Lancer, for any clue. Guests lounged around the pool, oblivious to what was coming. Gannon knew from his crime reporting days how police would soon seal the area with inner and outer perimeters as they prepared to move in.

Where were they going?

Gannon scanned everything until he saw the entrance of a low-roofed building almost hidden by tropical vegetation. He strained to read the wooden sign amid a garden of flowers: Blue Tortoise Kids' Hideaway.

Yes, it all fit.

Lancer's information

We're going to execute warrants…Grand Blue Tortoise Resort…a child-care center.

Gannon started trotting to the building.

* * *

Lucy Walsh stared at Emma not knowing what to say.

“Please,” Emma said, “I know it's crazy, sometimes I think it's all a bad dream, but it's real. Please, I'm begging for your help.”

Lucy said nothing and Emma continued.

“I sense you're a good person and by your reaction, I think you know something. Please.” Emma struggled as she cued up the photo of Joe and Tyler on her cell phone and
showed it to Lucy, her voice soft. “My husband died beside me and my son is missing—please!”

Maybe it was fate, maybe it was the timing, but Lucy did not have to search Emma's eyes long before she found a reason to follow her convictions.

She got up, glanced around to be sure they were alone, then locked her door and returned to her computer.

“Where are you from, Emma?”

“Wyoming.”

Lucy entered her database of secret files she'd been copying.

“Emma, are you from Big Cloud?”

“Yes!”

Lucy caught her bottom lip between her teeth, then continued checking files. Her concentration sharpened as she pulled up more information.

“You have to swear that you'll never tell anyone you got this from me.”

“Yes, yes! Please, do you have something?”

Lucy jotted information on a slip of paper.

“Your son is here.”

Emma's hands flew to her face. Her body started shaking.

“Here? Oh, God! Where? Do you have him?”

“No, he's not here at the center.”

“Where? Who has him? Tell me!”

“Listen carefully. Two people, their names are Valmir and Elena Leeka, are traveling on Albanian passports or U.S passports. Tyler is identified as their son Alek on an Albanian passport. They will say that they adopted him through an international agency and are staying here on vacation.”

“How do you know all this? What's going on?”

“Just listen. I've just learned that they're supposed to leave for New York City today, at any moment. They are registered here, at the resort in Main Sail Tower A, Room 1658.”
Lucy thrust the paper with the information into Emma's hand. “You have to swear not to say how you found out.”

“Yes. Room 1658, Main Sail Tower A.”

“Go before it's too late.”

“Thank you.”

“It could be dangerous. Don't go alone.”

“God bless you, thank you!”

“Wait! Wait, there's something else!” Lucy snatched the tiny blue memory card from her desk and handed it to Emma. “Don't lose this.”

“What is it?”

“Information. Don't say where you got it, just look at it later. It'll help explain everything.”

Emma stared at the memory card, then jammed it into her bag.

“One more thing.”

Emma waited.

“I had no part in this.”

“Thank you for helping me.”

Emma hurried from the center. Once outside, she began running across the courtyard when she spotted Gannon heading in her direction.

“Jack!” Emma held up the slip of paper like it was a winning lottery ticket. “He's here. Tyler's here!”

“What? How did you find out?”

Emma updated him as they hurried through the complex, following the direction signs to Main Sail Tower A. They found a private corner in the busy lobby to come up with a strategy. To confirm if the Leekas and Tyler were in the room and to gauge what they might be facing, Gannon would knock on the door alone in case the couple had Emma's picture. If they were there, then Gannon and Emma would summon police.

“What do we do if they're not there?” Emma asked as they stepped into the elevator.

“I've got a plan,” Gannon said.

On the sixteenth floor, Emma stayed down the hall out of sight while Gannon knocked at room 1658. He tried for thirty seconds. He placed his ear to the door but heard nothing, then signaled to Emma.

“Follow my lead on this,” he said as they walked down the hall and around a corner until they found a chambermaid's cart parked outside a room.

“Excuse us,” Gannon said.

An older slender Bahamian woman emerged from the bathroom wearing rubber gloves.

“I am so sorry to trouble you but we just stepped out of our room and realized we left our room keys and camera inside.”

The woman eyed them both.

“We're running a little late—we don't have time to go to the desk in the main lobby. Is there a chance you could let us in?” Gannon reached for his wallet and produced an American twenty-dollar bill.

The woman sighed and waved off the money.

“This happens all the time, which room?”

“Thank you. This way.” Emma pointed and started ahead of them, smiling at Gannon, then checking the woman's tag, “Oh, thank you, Matilda.”

“No need to thank me. All the time people are forgettin' this and forgettin' that.”

Matilda inserted her plastic keycard in the key slot, a small light winked green, the locks clicked and she cracked the door a few inches for Gannon.

“Please, Matilda, we insist.” He pushed the twenty in her hand.

“Well, with all my grandchildren I have to get a birthday present every other week. Thank you.” She smiled and returned to her work humming.

Gannon allowed her to get a safe distance away before they entered.

Nothing prepared them for what was waiting.

Blood.

The room was drenched in blood.

On the ceiling, walls, curtains, the floor, the lamps, the mirror, the furniture and the bed, where two meaty mounds rested on the blood-soaked sheets. It was as if something had exploded, leaving two sets of adult arms and legs reaching out from the visceral matter.

Emma's groan morphed into a stifled scream.

She cupped one hand over her mouth and searched the room, bathroom and closet.

“Tyler!”

There was no sign of her son.

She began rummaging through the documents on the desk.

Gannon stood before the wall over the bed transfixed, for amid the splatter he discerned a message scrawled in the blood: “Erase them all!”