The Panic Zone Read online

  Lancer blamed himself.

  While the analysis was not his, it reflected the work he did, and it had concluded that 37MNF did not constitute a valid threat.

  Not a threat?

  Then why did my wife and daughter come home in boxes?

  Their deaths haunted him and led him to doubt what he did for a living and to doubt everything he had ever believed in.

  After Lancer took bereavement leave, September 11 happened, and in the aftermath he used his rage to forge a new purpose. He was deployed to the National Anti-Threat Center where, in the years that followed, he buried himself in his work.

  Now, as he drove, Lancer glimpsed his folder with Winfield’s file on the passenger seat.

  Foster Winfield was born in Brooklyn, New York, where his father was a chemist and his mother was a math professor. Winfield was a gifted scientist. He’d been a professor at MIT before working with DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. He then left DARPA for the CIA to head some of its top-secret research.

  Lancer left the dirt road for a grass-and-rock stretch that twisted down to the lakeshore and an A-frame cottage.

  Winfield cut a solitary figure standing on the deck watching Lancer approach. The old man was wearing a rumpled bucket hat, khaki pants and a faded denim shirt with a pocket protector from which pens peeked out. He stood a few inches above Lancer’s six feet and had a firm handshake.

  “Thanks for coming, Bob. Coffee?”

  While they waited for the coffee to brew, Lancer noticed a golden retriever on the floor.

  “That’s Tug, the neighbor’s dog. He comes by every day.”

  Lancer’s gaze went to Winfield’s desk: a laptop hooked up to the satellite dish outside, a phone, files, a framed photo of Winfield’s wife, who’d died years earlier. They had no children.

  It underscored a void familiar to Lancer.

  The two men took their coffee out to the deck, where they sat in Adirondack chairs and Winfield talked about his terminal condition while he stroked the dog.

  “I take medication—there’s no discomfort. They gave me six months, five months ago,” Winfield said. “It’s come full circle for me. My parents had a cottage here. Some of the happiest days of my life were the summers I spent here as a boy.”

  Winfield gazed out at the tranquil lake.

  “Forgive me, you’re not here to listen to an old man reminisce.”

  “It’s all right, Foster.”

  “As you know, DARPA was created in the late 1950s, after the Russians launched Sputnik. I came aboard many years later, after they’d headhunted me at MIT.”

  After several years with DARPA, Winfield had been approached by the CIA.

  “The Cold War was in its death throes and the CIA wanted me to put together a secret research team to ensure the nation did not let its guard down—exciting stuff but lots of pressure. I got the best people I could, Andrew Tolkman, very brilliant, from Chicago, Gretchen Sutsoff from San Francisco—she was our youngest team member and known for her strong will and strong views. We had Lester Weeks from Chicago, very even-handed, Phillip Kenyon, the über-intellectual from Harvard, and several others from MIT, Cornell and Pittsburgh. Our objective was to ensure that the U.S. not be surprised by an adversary’s technological advances in weaponry.

  “First, we were to defend against, match, then surpass any work by the Soviets or Eastern Bloc scientists, or the Chinese, or North Koreans, or some Middle East and Gulf states whose research was emerging rapidly.

  “The CIA provided us with historical intelligence on research by Nazi, Chinese and Japanese scientists, up to our time and on dangerous advances made by enemy states.”

  “What kinds of stuff are we talking about, Foster?” Lancer asked.

  “It was a spectrum of research over the years, ways to destroy your enemy’s crops with infestations, ways to contaminate the water supply, the air. We analyzed their work on mind-control experiments, the effects of chemical compounds on humans, parapsychology, engineered pathogens, advances in chemical and biological warfare, human endurance studies, medical breakthroughs and human engineering.”

  “Sounds like a Pandora’s box.”

  “Not all that long ago we learned that some African rogue states had initiated work on genetic attacks. They’d planned to secretly introduce malevolent microorganisms to attack the DNA profile of certain races by secretly contaminating a national health initiative, like flu shots. The microorganisms were designed to cause an extremely high rate of miscarriages in that race, with the aim of wiping it out. That work was covertly thwarted.

  “Another disturbing file concerned biological warfare. One of the Soviet satellite countries was developing a new lethal airborne virus that could be used to infect enemy troops. The scientists who engineered the virus also created the antidote, so that the weapon could not be used on their forces and population. That threat was also contained. And, more recently, we learned of something called File 91.”

  “File 91?”

  “North Korean scientists had made advances on hyper tissue regeneration, to accelerate and increase survival rates of battlefield wounds. The research used nanotechnology, essentially, microscopic robots introduced into the body that are programmed and controlled by computer via low-frequency radio signals to read DNA and engage in rapid rebuilding—molecular manufacturing of cells, tissue and bones.”

  “It sounds miraculous.”

  “Yes. But there’s a flip side. The CIA had learned that other rogue states and terrorist groups wanted to exploit the technology to reverse the process, to manipulate it to attack and destroy, rather than rebuild.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “We feared File 91 technology could, in theory, be used to deliver a synthetic biological agent or microorganism that was unlike any known pathogen.”

  “Would it work?”

  “With File 91, it is theoretically possible to create a new deadly microbe you could introduce into a host, but it would not harm the host. The host could be your mode of delivery. You could manipulate and control release of the new agent, control infection or even target infection of a certain population using DNA profiles, using cutting-edge nanotechnology and state-of-the-art genetic manipulation.”

  “That’s a nightmare. How would you stop it?”

  “That was the crux of our job through a classified program called Project Crucible. Research by our enemies, rogue states and terrorist groups was aimed at killing large numbers of people. Without our scientific understanding of it, the United States would be helpless to defend itself and its allies. Through Project Crucible we worked to defend against, and to dismantle, that work. But in order for us to gain effective knowledge we had to replicate it and, most important, test it.

  “Some CIA agents gave their lives providing us with intelligence on the research. It was a key component but it was not all we needed. We had to embark on the most critical aspect—secret human trials. It was the only way we could get accurate results.”

  Lancer shook his head slowly.

  “Traditionally,” Winfield said, “we used inmate volunteers, usually those serving life sentences. They were told about military research and signed their consent to be test subjects. All work was done with their knowledge, consent and cooperation. Still, some of our team were hinting at modifying trials on Project Crucible to be conducted on civilian populations.”

  “What?”

  “Not using anything lethal,” Winfield said, “but substituting the agent with something as harmless as a common cold, to study the effectiveness of delivery and other aspects even more accurately because you’re using the real environment, or theater of application.”

  “But with the public’s knowledge?”

  “That’s a sensitive area. As you know, throughout history there’ve been cases of secret experiments on humans without their consent or without them understanding the risks involved. I’m talking about notorious experiments conducted on soldie
rs, on unsuspecting groups like the poor, POWs or concentration camp victims. Such work is criminal and morally repugnant to doctors and scientists. It gave rise to the Nuremberg Code.”

  “Which deals with consent.”

  “The code holds that the voluntary consent of a human subject is essential for research. Now, Gretchen Sutsoff was a leading expert on genetic manipulation and diseases. She was a passionate firebrand and in the case of File 91 she was convinced it was flawed. To prove it, she advocated that Project Crucible’s trials be conducted on a civilian population without consent.”

  “Without consent?”

  “Tolkman and Weeks said her strategy was a clear violation of the Nuremberg Code.”

  “How did she react?”

  “Not well. We argued. I told her we would never allow public trials to happen without consent, but I needed Gretchen on the team. I admit she was arrogant, impatient, isolated and lacking in social skills. She had a troubled life. But she was also one of the world’s most accomplished scientists. She was astounding. I admired her, respected her and valued her insights and contributions. I felt she was getting burned out, suggested she take a leave, travel, clear her head.”

  “Did she?”

  “Yes, but ultimately she resigned. She debriefed with the CIA, severed all ties, then disappeared. A legend grew around her departure. She was ostracized by much of the scientific community. Rumor had it that she found lucrative research in some poor country after she left the U.S. Might’ve even taken up citizenship in another country, Senegal or Aruba, or someplace. No one in our old circles has been able to find her. It’s not surprising—she was embittered when she left.”

  “What happened with File 91 and Project Crucible?”

  “Our agents worked covertly to destroy File 91.” Winfield peered at the bottom of his coffee cup. “I know we produced some good work, work that saved lives, but ultimately all research we’d completed to that stage of Project Crucible was shelved. All our Crucible work was destroyed or locked up. A new generation of scientists has carried on with new research that seems to focus on cyber threats.”

  “Foster, you’d said that you feared Project Crucible’s experiments are now being replicated?”

  “Elements have surfaced in some obscure online discussion groups. I’ve alerted the CIA to my concerns and they’ve concluded that they are without substance. They’ve suggested I’ve misread things. I know they’ve written them off as the age-impaired ramblings of a dying old man.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Few people alive know the contents of Project Crucible as well as I do, and I am convinced that from the snippets I’ve picked up online that someone is out there now attempting research arising from Crucible’s files. And in the time I have left, I will continue sounding the alarm.”

  “Who do you think is behind it? Gretchen, or maybe someone from your old team?”

  “We don’t know. I’ve been in touch with a few of the remaining Crucible scientists. Not everyone agrees with me and we’ve debated my concerns. Maybe someone sold research, that’s one possibility. But we don’t know. However, something’s come up that may help.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This morning, before you arrived, Phil Kenyon e-mailed me saying he’s got a lead on something recent he thinks is tied to Gretchen Sutsoff.”

  “Will he talk to me?”

  “I’ll arrange it. He’s in Chicago.”

  21

  Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

  A fine rain was falling the next day when Gannon returned to the diner to meet Alfonso, his guide into the slum.

  He was waiting in the street, straddling a motorcycle and wearing a helmet and a baggy flowered shirt. He waved, and Gannon approached him.

  Alfonso pointed to the gas tank and the hills and held up four fingers. Gannon gave him about forty reais, roughly twenty bucks U.S. Alfonso stuffed the bills in his jeans and nodded for Gannon to strap on the spare helmet and climb on behind him.

  “You will take me to the parents of Maria Santo, Pedro and Fatima Santo?”

  Alfonso gave him a thumbs-up, the motorcycle roared and they raced off along the crowded streets. Small shops, kiosks and parked cars blazed by as the commercial fringe of Zona Sul morphed into a narrow road, twisting into a lush jungle gateway to the favela.

  The road continued slimming, coiling up and up. The engine growled as Alfonso shifted gears, threading through traffic. His body slid back and Gannon saw something sticking out from Alfonso’s waistband. When a breeze lifted Alfonso’s shirt, he saw the butt of a pistol.

  They climbed for an eternity, the hills growing steeper, the road shrinking until finally they stopped at a side street.

  The engine sputtered into the quiet of Céu sobre Rio on a Sunday.

  Gannon turned to the God’s-eye view of downtown Rio de Janeiro, the beaches, the bay, the statue of Christ on Corcovado Mountain. The upward sweep over the endless jumble of rooftops was amazing. Shacks and multi-story houses covered every speck of land, every outcropping; they were crushed together, battling for sun, angling to stand free as somewhere church bells tolled.

  Alfonso led Gannon to a stairwell slicing between buildings and taking them higher. As they climbed, Gannon extended his arms, touching the lichen-laced walls on either side of the canyon they passed through. From time to time he saw large nests of wires and cables, common in favelas where residents spliced illegally into city utilities.

  Drenched with sweat and breathing hard, Gannon guessed the temperature at more than a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, when they veered down a tight passageway that led to a side street.

  Here, the low-standing concrete walls in front of the houses were coated with graffiti and bullet-pocked from gang shootouts with police.

  They pushed on, passing more walls and shacks, then a pack of dogs yipping at children who were using sticks to probe garbage in the middle of the street. Watching them were several teenaged boys, smoking pot and sitting on a seat ripped from the rear of a car. Each of them had a gun and regarded Gannon as if he were new merchandise.

  Alfonso gave a little whistle and led him down an alley that was slivered into yet another ascending canyon of stairs. This one opened to an oasis of well-kept houses, painted neatly in coral pinks, blues and lavenders. They were small houses with clean stone walls and ornate metal gates. Most had flower boxes in the windows.

  Pretty, Gannon thought, as Alfonso stopped at one and unlatched the gate. They stepped into the cramped stone landing that welcomed them to a sky-blue house with a bone-white door.

  “Santo.” Alfonso nodded to the door, holding out his hand for payment.

  Gannon gave him another forty reais then knocked.

  The door opened to a man in his fifties. His haunted, tired eyes went to Alfonso then traveled sadly over Gannon. His white mustache was like snow against his leathery skin.

  “Pedro Santo?” Gannon asked.

  The man nodded.

  Alfonso spoke to him in Portuguese and the older man looked at Gannon.

  “Do you speak English?” Gannon asked

  Pedro Santo shook his head.

  Gannon turned to Alfonso who shouted in Portuguese to some girls down the street who were skipping with a rope. One, who appeared fourteen or fifteen, approached them. Alfonso spoke a stream of Portuguese to her. She looked to Gannon and said in English, “Hello, sir. My name is Bruna. I will try to help you. I am learning English from the British ladies at the human-rights center where Maria Santo has many friends.”

  Bruna listened intently as Gannon told her that he was a journalist from New York with the World Press Alliance and needed to talk to Pedro Santo and his wife about Maria. After Bruna translated, Pedro opened his door wider, inviting them inside.

  The house was immaculate but small with a living room and adjoining kitchen. Pedro Santo introduced his wife, Fatima, who was washing dishes at the sink. Pedro spoke to her in Portuguese and she gave Gannon a slight bow t
hen began fixing him a fruit drink, indicating he sit in a chair at their kitchen table.

  A moment of silence passed.

  Over his years as a crime reporter, Gannon had come to learn a universal truth—that it didn’t matter if it was Buffalo or Rio de Janeiro, a home visited by death was the same the world over, empty of light. Like a black hole left by a dying star, its devastation was absolute.

  When Fatima Santo set a glass before him, Gannon noticed her hands were scarred and wrinkled from years of cleaning the houses of the rich. Her eyes were dimmed with tears, her body weighted with sorrow. A gold-framed photograph of her murdered daughter was perched on the shelf above the TV, draped with a rosary.

  “Please tell them—” Gannon turned to Bruna “—that I give them my sympathy for the loss of their daughter.”

  Bruna nodded then translated, softening her voice as she grasped Gannon’s intentions. That small act, the inflection of Bruna’s voice, won his immediate respect, for he realized that in Bruna, he had the help of an intelligent young girl.

  Gannon began by asking Pedro and Fatima to tell him about the kind of person Maria was. Bruna put the question to Fatima, who buried her face in her hands and spoke in a voice filled with pain.

  Bruna translated, “She says that Maria was a good girl who went to mass and worked hard at important jobs in big offices. They wanted her to leave the favela for a better life but she insisted on remaining in Céu sobre Rio. Maria wanted to make life better for everyone, the children of the favela, the whole world.”

  Pedro spoke in a deep, soft voice to Bruna, who nodded.

  “He says that is why Maria worked with the human-rights groups, the earth groups, the unions. She was committed to social justice.”

  A motorcycle thundered by, rattling the door, distracting Gannon momentarily as he resumed taking notes.

  “I am interested in the kind of work Maria did for these causes.” Gannon gestured. “Did she keep files, records or notes here?”

  Bruna translated and Pedro led them to a small bedroom, neat and evocative of a monk’s cell. It smelled of soap and contained a single bed, a dresser with a mirror, a desk, posters from Amnesty and other global and environmental groups. In one corner stood a four-drawer steel file cabinet.