The Panic Zone Part 15

"This means someone saved Tyler! My baby's alive!"

Emma's commotion drew other deputies and clerks to the counter.

"Emma, you should be home resting." Cobb gave a little nod to the others.

"No! You should get your people out there looking for that d.a.m.n car!"

"Emma, you're upsetting yourself." Cobb exchanged glances with the other staff members. "We're going to get you home. John and Heather are going to make sure you get home safely."

"No!"

"We can take of care your car later."

The deputies, John Holcomb and Heather MacPhee, approached Emma. She knew them a little from school fund-raisers down at the Big Cloud fair grounds. Holcomb was a part-time rodeo clown who operated a dunk tank and MacPhee sold home-baked pies and tarts. Her apple pie was very good. The deputies each took one of Emma's upper arms.

"No," Emma said. "Stop! What are you doing?"

"Take it easy now, Emma." Holcomb's grip was firm.

"My baby's alive! Help me find him!"

"Emma, you have to stop this kind of talk," Cobb said. "It's not doing you any good."

"No!" Emma struggled. "Why are you doing this? Help me find my son!"

20.

Dog Lake, Ontario, Canada.

After landing in Ottawa, Robert Lancer drove southwest for nearly two hours before turning his rental car onto Burnt Hills Road.

The side road led to secluded parts of cottage country, where Foster Winfield, the CIA's former chief scientist, was living out his last days. Upon crossing a wooden bridge over a waterway, the pavement became a dirt road winding through sweet-smelling forests. Gravel popped against the undercarriage and dust clouds rose in his rearview mirror, pulling Lancer back to Said Salelee's claim of a looming attack.

Marty Weller's team was following Salelee's information. Tanzanian police and U.S. agents were searching for other Avenging Lions for questioning, to determine who was behind the operation.

Was Salelee's information valid or, like most raw data, unverifiable?

They had to be vigilant.

As I should've been with Jen and Becky.

As Lancer drove, he remembered the events of a decade ago.

Seeing his wife and daughter off at the airport for their trip to Egypt.

Becky, who was attending school in New York, had received a scholars.h.i.+p to study Egyptian art in Cairo for a year. Jen, who had worked in Cairo when she was a cultural attache with the State Department, was going to help her set up. Back then, he was with FBI Counterterrorism.

Watching their plane lift off that night in the rain, Lancer had felt a drop of concern ripple through him because of threats against the West by 37MNF, a new militant faction in Egypt. U.S. a.n.a.lysis said the group was poorly organized and poorly funded with little means to carry out an action.

That a.n.a.lysis was dead wrong and the life Lancer knew ended the moment his section chief called him into his office and told him to sit down.

Jen and Becky were on a tour bus near the pyramids on Cairo's outskirts when 37MNF extremists hijacked it to the desert where they murdered all forty-two tourists, the driver and tour guide.

Egyptian police later tracked down the militants and shot them.

Lancer blamed himself.

While the a.n.a.lysis was not his, it reflected the work he did, and it had concluded that 37MNF did not const.i.tute 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 pa.s.senger 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 gra.s.s-and-rock stretch that twisted down to the lakesh.o.r.e 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 uber-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 surpa.s.s 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 n.a.z.i, Chinese and j.a.panese 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 a.n.a.lyzed 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 cla.s.sified 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 subst.i.tuting 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 soldiers, 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 pa.s.sionate 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 citizens.h.i.+p 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."