The Panic Zone Part 19

Happy, she started back, stopping to get sweets for Pan.

As she neared her stall, alarm pinged in her stomach.

It was empty.

She went inside and looked around, puzzled and afraid.

What was going on?

She asked her neighboring vendors, who shrugged.

"It's been so busy, Li. We've seen nothing."

No sign of her son. No sign of the researchers.

"Pan!"

Her mouth went dry, fear slid down her throat and devoured her hope that he would appear.

"Pan Qin!"

Li left her stall, scanning the area, searching the faces of small children, running through the crowds screaming for her son. Her mind swirled. She didn't even have the names of the researchers, no cards, no doc.u.mentation.

Nothing.

"Pan!"

The minutes bled into a half hour, which became an hour. Time swept by without a trace of her boy. The other vendors pa.s.sed on the word, some sent people to Li's stall to help search the market.

The whole time Li accused herself.

Why weren't you watching your child?

Why did you trust him to strangers?

How could you be so stupid?

Two police officers came by and Li pleaded to them, told them about the medical researchers, the government's hygiene study.

"We know nothing of any study," one officer said, while his partner relayed details on the radio.

"There is no such study in the market," he said.

Li screamed.

This was a nightmare. She had to wake up. Yes. Sha would be waking her any moment now and she would tell him of her bad dream and she would go to Pan's cot and hold him so tight and cry tears of joy.

As the sun sank and the market crowds thinned, Li remained in her stall praying for Pan's return. Word got back to the village and Sha was alerted. He raced to the stall, his face a mask of disbelief.

Li collapsed in his arms.

"Kill me! Kill me for what I've done. I've lost our son!"

Sha only held her and stared at the empty market as a misting rain descended on them.

All night long, Li and Sha walked the abandoned streets, their voices echoing as they called out Pan's name. They never stopped because they could not bear to go home, could not bear to face his empty cot and the devastating truth.

Their little boy had been stolen.

25.

Chicago, Illinois.

Robert Lancer's hotel was near the Chicago River.

As he waited alone in a quiet corner of the hotel's restaurant, staring through the window at the buildings soaring skyward, he questioned if pursuing the old CIA file as a potential threat was the way to go right now.

He didn't have a lot of time.

He considered the upcoming Human World Conference. Maybe I should be concentrating on Said Salelee's claim of an imminent attack? Lancer was grappling with his circ.u.mstances when two older men, both in their seventies, approached his table.

"Bob?" the one with the close-trimmed beard asked.

"Yes."

"Phil Kenyon."

Kenyon set a laptop on the table and Lancer shook his hand, and then shook hands with the second man, who was wearing gold-framed gla.s.ses.

"Les Weeks."

Through Foster Winfield's arrangement, Lancer had expected to meet only Kenyon, who was in town attending an international science trade fair. But when Kenyon informed him on the phone that Lester Weeks was attending the same event, he agreed to meet both retired CIA scientists at the same time. The men kept their voices low.

"Foster talked to us about his concerns a few weeks ago," Weeks said. "But not all of us share his interpretation of the online chatter on some of the subject matter."

"Is that what you told the agency when it followed up?" Lancer asked.

"Pretty much," Weeks said. "Our work was advanced at the time but there've been breakthroughs since. I understand how Foster would be concerned about the appearance of someone using our work as the basis for engineering some sort of genetic attack."

"But is it possible that someone from the original team could be using that work to be plotting something? Chemical, biological or genetic attacks are rare, but this stuff from Project Crucible--and I admit I don't understand it all--but this stuff could produce a devastatingly effective weapons system if the right expertise were behind it."

Weeks and Kenyon exchanged glances.

"It's possible," Weeks said.

"So Foster's concerns are valid?"

"Absolutely." Kenyon's hand rested on his small laptop.

"In theory," Weeks added.

"That's where you and I disagree, Les," Kenyon said.

"Well, what about Gretchen Sutsoff?"

"Gretchen was a rare bird but absolutely brilliant," Kenyon said. "Once Foster and I were wrestling with a physics problem on Crucible. We had an equation plastered across the board in our cafeteria. For days we'd worked in vain on that monster and Gretchen read it while her kettle boiled. She walked over and solved it in about a minute flat. It was astounding."

"But would she be capable of trying to replicate unsanctioned experiments arising from Crucible?" Lancer asked.

"I don't think so," Weeks said.

"I disagree." Kenyon switched on his laptop and inserted a memory card. "Let me show you something I just received the other day from a friend with an Australian university who monitors fringe groups." Kenyon positioned his laptop so the three of them could see and hear it. "The speaker uses a voice changer and her face is obscured. It runs nearly ten minutes. Here we go."

A video emerged on the screen showing a woman at a podium. No markings anywhere to identify the location, the speaker or the event. Kenyon kept the volume low.

"Thank you, Doctor and members of the faculty. I am deeply honored by your invitation to lecture today at the Condition of Mankind's Progress Symposium. I am surprised and pleased at the recognition you've afforded my research. Your generosity has been boundless. You have made me feel more than welcome."

The lights dimmed and a mammoth screen lowered behind her with images to accompany her remarks.

"On the theme of the condition of mankind's progress, I'll begin by saying we are without question driving headlong toward calamity.

"In the early 1800s the earth's human population stood at around one billion. Today, we're in the range of seven billion...."

Images of cities choked by traffic, overcrowding, polluted by factories filled the screen.

"In less than forty years, notwithstanding the world decline in fertility rates, the world's human population will reach about nine billion, which would be like adding another China and another India to the planet."

She paused before resuming.

"In a little over two hundred years, we will have seen the human population increase nearly tenfold."

More grim images of poverty.

"This should be cause for alarm, yet political leaders are moving with glacial speed. Most movements parrot the same tired emphasis that rapid industrialization, rapid urbanization, out-of-control consumption and resource depletion have given rise to global warming, which is exacting a toll. The mantra of 'we must go green, we must reduce our carbon footprint, we must save the earth,' is a subst.i.tute for effective action."

The screen displayed images of spewing smoke stacks and melting ice shelves.

"This line of thinking is but a digit in the full equation; it is useless as a foundation for a solution, akin to a bandage on a terminal patient. It deflects attention from the root cause of our destruction of the planet.

"Overpopulation.

"To put it simply, the earth cannot sustain the current trend of population growth. There are simply too many of us putting too much strain on the earth. We are wearing it out. Birth control, contraception, sterilization, natural disasters and pandemics, even wars are not enough to alleviate the stress we have put on this planet.

"Within fifteen years, every corner of the globe will face acute water and food shortages, unlike anything we've experienced. While wealthy nations s.h.i.+eld themselves with technological and financial resources, poorer regions with unchecked populations will grow desperate. It will lead to civil unrest, instability and chaos."

The speaker paused to drink water.

"We must take critical action now. As hope for the planet flickers, governments must take brave new steps. There are several options, but one that I put forward today is for the United Nations to champion a year of zero population growth.

"As it stands, there are approximately 140 million births each year worldwide and 55 million deaths. In order to address this ratio, in the face of our current crises, governments should be encouraged to enact legislation that outlaws pregnancy for one year."

The speaker paused for the murmur of disbelief then continued.

"At the same time, all programs that prolong, or extend the life of anyone over the age of eighty, could be terminated for the same period. I am not advocating euthanasia, just removal of practices that thwart natural mortality and delay the inevitable. The combination of these initiatives holds the potential to curtail world population by some 200 million humans. China and governments of other populous nations have taken similar approaches, but they have not gone far enough."

The speaker drank water, absorbing further ripples of reaction.

"Some may call me an apocalyptic prophet. They may align me with fringe elements, doomsday cults, extremists or brand me an outcast for challenging popular opiate thought.

"That does not trouble me, for in my life I have experienced how humanity reacts in times of distress. I have seen the worst unfold before my eyes after warnings were ignored, after rational thought evaporated.

"I am your witness to reality.

"I advocate extreme action because we face an extreme situation. Time is running out on human existence on this planet. We are entering the panic zone...."

The video faded to black.

"This is extreme," Lancer said. "Is it Sutsoff?"

"No way of telling. No one's heard of this 'Condition of Mankind's Progress Symposium.' My friend thinks the video was made in Turkey or Africa."

"Or it's a complete hoax produced by undergrads at Yale or MIT," Weeks said. "I just don't think Gretchen is behind this, or anything like it."

"Really, and why not?" Lancer asked.

"To let a professional disagreement fester over time into motivation for a vengeful act, using our work on Crucible, is just unfathomable, impossible."

"Les, you didn't work with Gretchen as closely as Foster and I did. The stuff in this manifesto is precisely what she was leaning to before she left."

"Let me get this straight," Lancer said. "Gretchen Sutsoff could be using Crucible's research to put her extremist views into action?"

"That's the scenario Foster and I fear," Kenyon said.

"I just don't buy it." Weeks shook his head.

"Well, consider this," Kenyon said. "About a month ago the CIA looked into Foster's concerns about rumors online. They talked to me, too. I know that at first they dismissed Foster, but I recently heard from a friend at Langley who said the agency had reconsidered."

"Why?"

"I don't know. At this stage one can only speculate that they must have discovered something."

"Your video?"