The Panic Zone

by Rick Mofina

  Emma turned away, her shoulders sagging with disappointment.

  “You’ve been under so much strain from this horrible accident that it’s likely the call was a wrong number, and you thought you heard something that was never said.”

  Emma shook her head and bit back on her tears.

  “Is there someone I can call for you?” Christine asked.

  “No.” Emma found her composure, straightened her shoulders. “I just thought you could help me. I’m sorry to have taken up your time.”

  “Emma.”

  She left the building and walked, block after block without a destination, struggling not to think as her sense of defeat grew, until it was nearly crushing her. Somewhere near the Staples Center she waved down a cab.

  “Just drive me to a beach, please. Any beach.”

  What was she going to do now?

  Dark clouds were gathering.

  As she sat on the beach for the rest of the morning and early afternoon, watching waves roll over the sand, she realized there was no turning back. She had to see this through. Trust your gut feelings, she told herself, as she kept returning to that telling moment when Christine’s eyes had betrayed her deception.

  She knows, dammit. She knows more about the call.

  Maybe she knows where my baby is?

  Thunder grumbled in the distance as Emma left the beach, walking to a strip mall where she got another taxi and headed back to West Olympic and the clinic. It was 2:40 p.m. Christine had said she needed to leave by three today. Emma didn’t enter the building. Instead, she walked to the rear and inventoried the parking lot for a blue VW bug just as thunder crashed and the sky released a downpour.

  As she ran to the side of the building, she glimpsed Christine dashing to her car with her briefcase over her head. Emma ran after her through the lot. She was drenched when she tapped on the driver’s side window.

  Christine lowered it, concerned.

  “You scared me!”

  “I know you lied to me today.”

  “Come on, get in out of the rain.”

  She hurried to the passenger door and climbed inside. The motor idled and the wipers snapped back and forth.

  “You, of all people, should tell me the truth. I deserve to know.”

  “I understand your pain. You’re suffering post-traumatic—”

  Emma slammed her palms on the dash.

  “Stop it!”

  Christine flinched.

  “I just want the truth!”

  Christine stared at the rain bleeding on her windshield for a full minute then killed the motor. She gripped the wheel, inhaled and turned to Emma.

  “I’ve worked at this clinic for ten years. I believe we do good work. You know we do.”

  “Chris, I’m begging you!”

  “For a long time, one of our lab workers had been overwhelmed with personal problems. Recently she became unstable. We had to let her go.”

  “Did she make the call?”

  “I don’t know. She’s called a few people late at night, crying, making no sense. But I doubt she called clients. We have no proof whatsoever—that’s why we didn’t tell police. Because she’s not employed by the lab anymore, we didn’t want it to reflect on the lab, and it has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with our clinic.”

  “I want to talk to her.”

  “I don’t think that will help you. You need to go home to Wyoming.”

  “I need to talk to her.”

  “Emma, she’s going through all kinds of trouble.”

  “Did she have access to all the client files?”

  Christine said nothing.

  “Chris! Did she have access to all the files when she worked here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want me to start a civil action against the clinic?”

  “Emma.”

  “Chris, I’m begging you to help me! I need to hear her voice to decide if she made the call.”

  Christine bit her bottom lip and stared through her windshield.

  “Chris, my husband died beside me! I saw someone take our son! For Christ’s sake, will you help me?”

  “Her name is Polly Larenski. She lives in Santa Ana.”

  37

  London, England

  Gannon gazed out upon the silver wing against blue sky as his jetliner sailed over the Atlantic, bound for London at 550 miles an hour.

  It felt as if his life was moving at the same speed.

  When he’d returned to the WPA headquarters in Manhattan two days ago, he’d landed in the middle of high-level crossfire. Melody Lyon had ordered him to her office, where she was advising George Wilson that she was dispatching Gannon to London.

  “London?” Wilson said. “The guy was a disaster in Brazil—he’s not ready for international assignments. And you want to send him to London based on a flimsy lead? Let our people over there check it out.”

  “It has to be Jack. His source will only meet with him because of the people he met in Rio,” Lyon said.

  “Look.” Wilson turned to Gannon. “You got lucky and I’m glad you’re still alive—the last thing we needed was another staff funeral—but you need more domestic experience. Keep him here on desk duty, Mel. Sending him to England, or anywhere right now, is a mistake.”

  “He’s on to something that may be tied to the bombing,” Lyon said. “I want him on this. And, I want the support of our London bureau, George, even if it means staying out of his way.”

  Wilson took stock of Gannon, shaking his head at the bruises on his face as if they were badges of incompetence.

  “You’re the boss, Mel. I’ll warn Ian and Miranda at the bureau. Gannon, try not get arrested, beaten up or taken hostage. Try being a reporter like you were in Buffalo. Only better.”

  After Wilson left, Lyon said, “Don’t mind him. We’re still raw after losing Marcelo and Gabriela.”

  “I know.”

  “How are you holding up, Jack? Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  She gave him a large brown envelope.

  “Now, it’s not a requirement for Americans entering Britain,” she said, “but get over to our travel doctor on Broadway and get your main shots. Rachel has set it up. I want you prepared for anything. This envelope has money and other things for you. Rachel’s got you on an early flight out of JFK to Heathrow tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “Ever been to London?”

  “Nope.”

  Gannon turned from the plane’s window. His arm still aching from his shots, he lowered the metal tray, switched on his laptop and reviewed his files. Maria Santo’s friend, Sarah Kirby, had put him in touch with Oliver Pritchett in London. He headed Equal Globe International, the human rights group they had been working with. Pritchett knew more about the human trafficking situation. He’d agreed to share information, but his responses to Gannon’s e-mailed questions were clear.

  I will only meet you alone and face-to-face in London. It will be completely off the record, but I assure you it will be significant. I give you my word you are the only journalist who knows of this case and I will not speak to any other news organization.

  Gannon studied the notes on his laptop until metropolitan London sprawled below. He recognized the Thames just as the landing gear lowered and locked into position. At Heathrow, a young British Customs officer, curious about Gannon’s bruises, accepted his explanation about his ordeal in Brazil.

  “I trust you won’t have any similar problems in the U.K.”

  It took Gannon’s taxi a little under an hour to slice through traffic and get him to the WPA’s London bureau on Norwich Street.

  It was situated in a six-story stone building built on the site of a bakery destroyed by Nazi bombs during the Second World War. It was a five-minute walk from Fleet Street, now the address of more law and business offices than newspapers. But the Associated Press and other foreign wire services were nearby, reminding Gannon that the risk
of losing the story increased as time ticked by. The bureau was on the first floor and the reception desk was empty. A man in a suit came from an office to place a folder on it.

  “Excuse me.” Gannon set his luggage aside. “Jack Gannon from WPA New York. I’m looking for Ian Shelton?”

  “You’ve found him.” Shelton shook Gannon’s hand. He was a tall, gaunt man in his thirties. “Welcome to London. George Wilson advised us that you were coming to work on your Brazil story.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I take it you had quite a drama in Rio’s slums, judging from your face.”

  “A little bit.”

  “Dangerous stuff, given what happened to our friends there. Why don’t you let us help you here, Jack? We do know something about the U.K., enough to ensure you aren’t taken hostage.”

  “Thank you. I’m good right now.”

  “I see. George called you a lone wolf, or some such thing.”

  “I’m sure he did. Ian, what I’d like to do is get a hot shower. New York said that after I checked in here, the bureau would have a hotel for me?”

  “Yes.” Shelton searched the top of the vacant desk, finding an envelope with Gannon’s name on it. “You said you need to be in Kensington. We’ve got you at the Seven Seas, in Kensington, Earl’s Court, on our account. Not as close to the bureau as we’d hoped, sorry.”

  “Thank you.” Gannon tucked the envelope into his bag.

  “Call us if there’s anything we can do,” Shelton said.

  During the cab ride Gannon reflected on what Melody Lyon had said when she hired him—how she’d warned him to expect tension, even resentment, if he were sent to help out at the international bureaus.

  “They’re turf-protectors. They consider anything and anyone from headquarters a challenge to their expertise about their coverage area.”

  She was right about that, he thought, as he reached his stop. The Seven Seas Inn was a town-house hotel, a four-level building attached to other four-level buildings that, together, resembled wedding-cake layers where Penywern Road led to the gentle curves of Eardley Crescent.

  Gannon’s room was the equivalent of a cramped closet with frayed carpet. It was on the third floor, overlooking the street. He started his laptop and sent Oliver Pritchett an e-mail telling him he had arrived. Then he showered. He was unpacking when Pritchett called.

  “Trust you had a safe trip.”

  “It was all right.”

  “Fancy a walk to our office, then?”

  Using his map to follow Pritchett’s directions, it took Gannon thirty minutes to walk along Earl’s Court Road to Kensington and a side street, Stafford Terrace. Equal Globe International’s nameplate was on a battered red door, shoehorned between Mae’s Flower Shop and First-Rate Tuxedo Rentals. Gannon pressed the button for EGI, and the intercom buzzed. He looked into the small security camera, held up his WPA ID and said, “Jack Gannon, WPA New York.”

  “Right,” Pritchett said and the door clicked.

  Gannon climbed the staircase to a second floor, where he could hear music turned low. “I Don’t Like Mondays,” the old Boomtown Rats song.

  “Oliver Pritchett,” said the man waiting at the top of the stairs.

  Pritchett had a full salt-and-pepper beard, small round wireless glasses and long silver hair tied in a ponytail. He wore sandals, torn faded jeans and a T-shirt with the face of an emaciated child with huge pleading eyes, under the words Don’t Let Another One Die.

  Gannon followed him into an office that had a hardwood floor and wooden tables cluttered with computers, and towers of newspapers, books and reports alongside walls papered with posters of Live Aid, protests, starving children, children toiling in sweatshops and prisoners facing torment. Pritchett shoved some files into a faded military canvas shoulder bag, then snatched his keys and a cell phone.

  “We’ll talk in the park.”

  A few blocks later they arrived at Holland Park, a glorious field of tranquil green space. They sat on a bench. Across the pathway a white-haired man was reading a newspaper. Pritchett waited for a couple conversing in German and pushing a stroller to pass before speaking.

  “Sarah’s team in Rio said we could trust you, Jack.”

  “I won’t run anything based on information your group provides until we’re both comfortable with it.”

  Pritchett considered the situation.

  “Why don’t you tell me about Equal Globe International and what you think you’re on to?”

  “Give you my spiel?” Pritchett looked off to the trees.

  “Beyond what’s on your Web site.”

  “We’re an ideal really. We hold dear the belief that everyone is equal and we strive to make it a reality. EGI is an umbrella of social justice organizations around the planet—church groups, charities, labor groups, student associations. We fight injustice in all its manifestations—poverty, hunger, crime, war. We lobby governments. We are on the front lines. We issue reports and, well, lately we gather intelligence on acts of injustice and all that they entail.”

  “That’s what Maria Santo was doing in Rio de Janeiro?”

  Pritchett removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “She was brave. We think she was the target of the café bombing in Brazil because she’d infiltrated the law firm, Worldwide Rio Advogados. You see we had long suspected that firm of illegal activity around the world—money laundering, bribery, police corruption. Their activities seemed to escalate. Maria worked at getting a job inside, then started sending us reports, files.”

  “And you found a link to something bigger?”

  “It’s complicated. Very complicated. But some of her files seem tied to what we were getting from another EGI worker, Adam Corley. He thought there was a link to a vast and organized human trafficking network.”

  “Wait, who is Adam Corley?”

  “Adam is Irish, an ex-cop from Dublin who’d worked in the Irish Garda’s Special Branch as a low-ranking security and intelligence officer. When his wife died suddenly of a brain tumor, he left his career, devoted himself to his church and pursued a PhD in humanities abroad.”

  “So how did he come to work with your group?”

  “Through his church’s global charity network. When Corley learned of us and what we did, he volunteered. He gathers intelligence. He’s one of our best people.”

  “And he thinks Worldwide Rio Advogados is involved in a global child-stealing operation that involves illegal adoptions?”

  “Yes, but he thinks there’s more. Recently Corley got word of a private meeting of traffickers and their associates in Libya. He managed to observe the players and obtain more intelligence. He now believes the child-stealing network is tied to something bigger.”

  “What could be bigger than stealing children for illegal adoptions?”

  “Corley thinks there’s a purpose.”

  “Money, I would think.”

  “No, bigger.”

  “Like what?”

  “Not sure, but he hinted that there were scary elements lurking in the shadows. He was pressing his sources and hoping to learn more for a detailed report he’s preparing for us. We may take it to a special committee on human trafficking at the United Nations.”

  “I need to talk to Corley.”

  “I’ve arranged it. He’s agreed to talk to you.”

  “Can we do it tonight?”

  “No. This is very dangerous. Adam’s convinced that the people behind it are vigilant. He insisted on a face-to-face meeting with you.”

  “Fine, where is he?”

  “Rabat, Morocco.”

  “Morocco? I’ll get my bureau to get an airline ticket and a visa for me.”

  “Contact me when you get there, then Adam will get in touch with you.”

  When he returned to his hotel, Gannon alerted Lyon in New York about what he’d learned from EGI and that he’d gotten a lead that required him to go to Morocco.

  “It’s a good thing
you got your shots. I’ll authorize the travel and get the London bureau to get you a ticket and visa as soon as possible,” she said, adding, “We want this story, but I need you to be very careful given all that’s happened so far.”

  “I know.”

  “That means no more risks, Jack. We’ve lost too much already.”

  “Melody, this story was a risk from the get-go.”

  38

  Rabat, Morocco

  The sound of seat belts unbuckling filled the cabin as Gannon’s Air France flight came to a stop at Salé International Airport.

  He tried to concentrate on the job ahead but was haunted by what happened in Brazil. He didn’t want to go through anything like that again.

  Was he losing his nerve? Or should he chalk it up to jet lag?

  Exiting the terminal, he jettisoned his doubts and got into a cab to his hotel. Rabat was Morocco’s capital, and the World Press Alliance had a one-person bureau here. But the bureau chief was on assignment in Tangier.

  Gannon was on his own, which made him a little nervous. Rabat was not as big as Casablanca, but terrorism in this region remained a security concern because extremist groups had taken up the cause of al Qaeda. His face was still bruised and he was still shaky from his ordeal with the Blue Brigade in Rio de Janeiro.

  He looked out at the city with its modern buildings, mosques, markets and ancient tombs. Feather duster palms lined the main thoroughfares. His hotel, the Orange Tree, was on Rue Abderrahmanne El Ghafiki, in the district of Agdal, Rabat’s center.

  Gannon checked in, then, as he had in London, he e-mailed Oliver Pritchett with his hotel information, confirming he’d arrived and was ready to meet Adam Corley as soon as possible.

  Gannon then went online and searched for developments on the café bombing. Reuters and the Associated Press had each moved items reporting that while no arrests had been made, police had all but ruled out narco gangs. These were obvious follow-ups to his WPA story. It meant the competition was inching closer to his trail.

  The phone in his room rang.

  “Jack Gannon.”