by Rick Mofina
The meeting commenced when Lincoln Hunter, assistant to the National Intelligence director-the president’s advisor on intelligence-slapped his report on the tabletop.
“What do we have?”
The woman from the Centers for Disease Control summarized the gruesome case of Roger Timothy Tippert, a forty-one-year-old high school teacher from Indianapolis, who died while on a Caribbean cruise. Aspects of the autopsy troubled the Broward County M.E. who alerted the CDC.
“We’ve observed that it appears-I mean-” she cleared her throat “-there are strong indications that the pathogen that killed Mr. Tippert was manufactured.”
“Do we know who’s behind it and if there are other victims?”
“No,” she said. “We alerted Homeland.”
“And we’ve alerted Fort Detrick,” the Homeland analyst said.
“We’re in the process of flying samples from Atlanta to the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases at Detrick,” said the colonel from the Defense Intelligence Agency. “But our people are extremely concerned about the early indications.”
“What do they show you?” Hunter asked.
“Based on our teleconferencing with CDC, we concur, there are signs of genetic, or DNA, manipulation. It’s very complex but it seems similar to or evocative of, classified research conducted by U.S. scientists years ago.”
“What? Is this a domestic? What do we know about this research?” Hunter was taking notes.
Lancer watched Raymond Roth, Nick Webb and a few of the CIA people shifting uncomfortably in their chairs.
Roth leaned forward to respond.
“It was called Project Crucible,” he said. “It emerged in the years following the end of the Cold War. Through covert operations we obtained access to advances in military, chemical, biological and genetic research made by enemy and rogue states.”
“What was the objective of Crucible?” Hunter asked.
“The project’s scientists were tasked to first defend, then dismantle, the work. But in many cases, they had to replicate it.”
“Replicate it? And you think someone is using the technology gleaned from Crucible against us?”
Lancer was waiting for his CIA colleagues to reveal the full story.
“We won’t know that until the people at Fort Detrick conclude their testing,” Roth said.
“Who ran Crucible?” Hunter asked.
“We did, sir,” Roth said. “And when this Florida case came to light we endeavored to locate former personnel who had been assigned to Crucible to determine if it was a factor.”
“Excuse me,” Lancer said to Roth, “but I understand concerns surfaced long before this Florida case. I believe that approximately one month ago, Crucible’s lead scientist contacted the agency expressing anxiety about someone attempting to replicate the project’s research.”
“I don’t believe that’s entirely accurate.” Roth did not look at Lancer.
“I have a copy of Foster Winfield’s letter and the agency’s response,” Lancer said.
“Could I see that?” Hunter asked. “I’ll attach it to my report to the director for his brief to the Oval Office.” Hunter then took stock of the room and shook his head.
Roth refrained from looking at Lancer.
“Sir,” Roth continued, “since we’ve been investigating we’ve discovered that files and material from Crucible are missing, dating back to the time the project was abandoned.”
“Christ.” Hunter clicked his poised pen. “What’s missing?”
“Samples of Marburg and anthrax.”
“Christ,” Hunter said. “What else?”
“A number of other materials and files.”
“And no one knew?”
“It first appeared to be an inventory error. Dangerous material was to have been destroyed or locked away years ago. But our further investigation, prompted by Winfield’s letter, confirms material was never destroyed and has, in fact, been missing since Crucible was phased out.”
“And you’ve accounted for and interviewed all former personnel?”
“We’re in the process.”
“Listen up.” Hunter’s jaw was pulsating. “You find every scientist who worked on this nightmare and get them to Detrick ASAP to, first, help us determine who’s behind the missing material and, second, help our people there analyze the tissue to determine what we’re dealing with.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you hold them until we determine what the hell we’ve got and who’s responsible. And to the rest of you-don’t let your guard down or rule out other sources.”
Hunter stood, gathered his material and glared in Roth’s direction.
“You get those scientists to Fort Detrick-now,” Hunter said.
As the meeting broke up, Lancer went to Roth and Webb.
“Marburg and anthrax? That’s a witch’s brew-how do you lose that right from under your own noses?”
Roth and Webb glared at Lancer without speaking.
“Would you guys like some help?” Lancer asked. “I could use some help locating Sutsoff.”
The agents began walking away.
“We’re supposed to work together to connect the dots, break down these compartmentalized barriers.”
“Stay out of our way, Lancer.”
Lancer left the room and the building, and hurried to his car.
Dammit, is this all connected? Is something big coming down?
A million scenarios shot through Lancer’s mind as he drove across Fairfax County to the Anti-Threat Center. When he came to a red light, his cell phone rang. He pulled over to answer it.
“This is Jack Gannon with the World Press Alliance.”
“Yes.”
“Are you the agent who was with me in Libya?”
“Yes.”
“I have to be sure. What was the name of the man I was supposed to meet?”
“Corley.”
“I have information that might be critical to both of us.”
“I’m listening.”
“Before I go ahead, I want a name. I want to know who I’m dealing with.”
Lancer hesitated. “None of this ever goes in print, you swear.”
“You’ve seen what I’ve gone through for this story.”
“Lancer, Robert Lancer, FBI, tasked to Anti-Threat Operations.”
Gannon explained Emma Lane’s case, the accident that killed her husband, her conviction that her baby was alive and the connection to the clinic and Polly Larenski.
“What sort of information was this Polly selling?”
“DNA.”
A car horn sounded behind Lancer and he realized he was blocking a lane.
“Hold on.”
He wheeled his car around to a strip-mall parking lot and continued his conversation with Gannon.
“Lancer, I have two phone numbers. You have to search the phone records and see who was buying DNA from Polly Larenski. It could lead us to whoever is behind the child trafficking.”
“I’d need to get warrants. You should call the local police.”
“No. She tried that, there’s no time. These numbers are critical.”
“I need to know how you got your information.”
Gannon hesitated.
“Jack, what led you to Emma Lane and the DNA angle?”
Gannon was deciding on how much to share with Lancer.
“Come on, Gannon!”
“Corley sent me his files.”
“What?”
“Before I was supposed to meet him, he’d made arrangements to send me a memory card. He thought he was being watched. The card came to the hotel before I left and I read the files on the plane home.”
This changed everything.
“Are you withholding evidence? You’d better turn those files over to us.”
“I’m sharing the information. Listen, Emma Lane’s file was in Corley’s information. There’s some sort of connection to her baby’s DNA. Lancer,
you have to search the call history of these two numbers, look for a similar number on both. One is Polly Larenski’s home, and one is a pay phone near her home.”
“I want that memory card, Gannon.”
“We can’t waste time!”
“Give me the numbers and let’s go over everything one more time.”
56
Big Cloud, Wyoming
Swirls of scorched pavement marked the spot where Emma Lane had lost her husband and baby boy.
Today under the morning sun, she knelt near it, where the gravel shoulder met the grass, and placed a memorial wreath of roses against a small white cross that Joe’s friends had erected.
Jack Gannon was watching with Emma’s aunt and uncle a short distance away. Seeing Emma mourning on the high plains before the majestic mountains resurrected what he’d lost. He thought of his mother and father, killed in a car crash in Buffalo. They’d been on their way to meet a priest who had information on the whereabouts of his sister, Cora. Years earlier, she’d run off with a loser who’d gotten her hooked on drugs.
In the time that had followed, Gannon’s parents tried to find her. There were a few long-distance calls from her, an occasional letter with no return address, but ultimately, they never saw her again.
Gannon searched the peaks.
In his loneliest times, when he missed having a family, he thought of finding Cora. He thought of confronting her with all he was carrying: anger for leaving them and hurting everyone. He hated her for what she had done, yet loved her for what she had meant to him.
She was his sister.
As Emma returned to the car, his cell phone vibrated. It was his editor calling from New York. He answered and strolled away.
“Gannon.”
“It’s Melody, how is it going?”
“Major pieces have emerged. Emma Lane believes her son was abducted from a crash that killed her husband. Get this-she says it’s tied to a California fertility clinic she’d used where someone in the lab was selling DNA to some shady corporation. I’ve got some phone numbers we’re trying to trace. I think this could be tied to the cafe bombing, that Rio law firm, illegal adoptions and child trafficking.”
“Is it the clinic Golden Dawn Fertility Corp. in L.A.?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“The Los Angeles Times just reported that a woman who died in a suspicious fire was a former lab worker suspected of selling the clinic’s files to an unknown research group.”
“Oh, man.”
“People are gaining on us, Jack. We need to hide Emma Lane. We’ve invested too much in this story to get beat now. Ask her if she’ll come to New York today, for further interviews on the story. The World Press Alliance will pay her expenses. Try to get back here as soon as possible.”
After Gannon told Emma what the WPA wanted, she contemplated the request then consulted her aunt and uncle.
A moment later she gave Gannon her answer.
“I’ll do anything if it brings me closer to my son.”
57
Washington, D.C.
Robert Lancer entered his section chief’s office at FBI Headquarters and set a folder before him.
Hal Weldon slid on his bifocals and loosened his tie. As he reviewed the file, Lancer glanced out the window overlooking the National Mall and the White House.
Since Jack Gannon called him yesterday, Lancer had worked on warrants to obtain the phone records of Polly Larenski and the pay phone in Santa Ana, California.
He’d called the FBI’s Los Angeles field office and FBI’s Santa Ana Resident Agency. He prepared a summary of all the facts, including his sworn oath and belief that the information was linked to a suspected imminent attack. The rest had to be processed up the chain for sign-off before it went to a judge.
“Looks good, Bob. I’ll take it from here.” Weldon removed his glasses. “I just got off the phone with Charley. We’re still trying to locate Drake Stinson and Gretchen Sutsoff.”
“Are we going to go public?”
“It’s being considered.”
“And the others?”
“Defense and the CIA have located the other scientists who worked on Crucible, and they’ve volunteered to cooperate. They’ve been taken to military bases to be flown to Detrick, but the CIA will give them a rough reception.”
“Why?”
“They’re suspects, too,” Weldon said.
“What? Foster Winfield’s the one who first alerted them to this. The guy’s got a terminal condition.”
“They’re covering their asses,” Weldon said. “Look, we’ll flag our warrant application as an expedited request. How fast we make it through the lawyers to a judge is anybody’s guess. I’ll keep you posted.”
As he navigated D.C.’s traffic back to the Anti-Threat Center in Virginia, doubt gnawed at Lancer.
In the warrant application, he’d failed to specifically detail that Jack Gannon claimed to possess Adam Corley’s computer files on the case, because he knew Weldon would have demanded he go after Gannon for the files with a warrant, or even an arrest.
Am I a fool to allow Gannon, a reporter, free rein with what could be a significant piece of evidence in a threat to national security?
Lancer was on a tightrope.
He needed time to cultivate Gannon as a source. The guy was good at digging up information. Maybe he could strengthen their uneasy alliance with some quid pro quo? As for the warrant, well, that was a roll of the dice at best. They could take days or hours.
Even then, would it yield anything?
At his office at the center, Lancer scrutinized everything he had that was related to the case. He made calls and followed leads. The sun had set by the time he got a call from Weldon.
“We got our pitch to a judge who granted the warrant. Our people are banging on doors in California. We should have the phone records by morning, Bob. I hope to hell we get some mileage out of this.”
58
Rapid keyboard tapping underscored the intensity with which Sandra Deller attacked the data yielded by the new warrants.
Deller, the chief analyst at the Anti-Threat Center’s Information Command Unit, had made Robert Lancer’s case her priority. Pages of call logs going back several months for Polly Larenski’s landline number appeared on Deller’s monitor.
“According to my source-” Lancer came and stood next to her “-Larenski is believed to have received and made calls concerning our subject from her home phone and the pay phone near her home on Civic.”
Deller clicked and a second set of call logs appeared.
“This one?” she said.
“Correct.”
“We’re looking for a number or numbers that will appear in both logs.” Deller issued a few commands for a merge. “Voila.” She highlighted the number that appeared: 242-555-1212.
“Where is that?”
Deller entered the number in another database.
“Bahamas. Nassau. Actually, it’s Paradise Island. That’s a resort area. Hang on.” Deller continued her swift searches. “Look, it’s for the Grand Blue Tortoise Resort.” Deller went to a Web site for the resort and clicked through pages. “Nice. Let’s see if we can be more specific with the number.” She continued searching and said, “The number is for the Blue Tortoise Kids’ Hideaway. Let’s check it out.” She went to the Hideaway’s Web page. “It’s a child-care center, Bob.”
Lancer raised his eyebrows as his instincts hammered at him.
“I think we have something. Thank you, Sandy. Let me know if you find anything more.”
At his desk, Lancer searched for the FBI’s legal attache at the U.S. Embassy in Nassau. The whole time he questioned whether they should put the child-care center under surveillance or hit it with the Bahamian police?
There were risks to both, he thought, as he dialed a number. If you took your time and watched your subject, you built a stronger case for prosecution. But if an attack happened during that time, if something got by
you, you’d be accused of not taking action.
So many signs pointed to an imminent attack.
He couldn’t take anything for granted.
The call connected to Nassau.
“Paul Worden, FBI.”
“Bob Lancer, FBI at the Anti-Threat Center. Paul, you’re our Legat in Nassau, right?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“Going to need your help. It’s urgent.”
For the next twenty minutes as they reviewed the file over the phone, Lancer brought Worden up to speed.
“I’ll get in touch with our senior people at the embassy,” Worden said, “then with my sources at the Bahamian Attorney General and the Royal Bahamas Police Force. I’ll use the wording from your warrant to get the wheels turning here. We’ll run every record we can on the Kids’ Hideaway. We’ll request surveillance or get warrants to swoop down on the place, whatever you want. We’ll keep each other posted.”
Lancer hung up and his line rang. It was Sandra Deller.
“There’s a second number,” she said. “It has an 841 area code.”
“What’s that one?”
“It’s an area code for a satellite phone with world service.”
“Anything on an owner?”
“A numbered company with a post office box on Cable Beach, Nassau.”
Lancer called Worden back with the new information, then exhaled and dragged both hands over his face.
Now what?
He glanced at his small desk calendar and the red Xs marking the Human World Conference in New York.
Was it the target? Was the president attending? There were too many unknowns.
Then there was Jack Gannon, who had Adam Corley’s files.
Were there answers on Corley’s memory card?
Lancer had to move on this.
His digital clock rolled into a new hour.
59
New York City
The World Press Alliance had a contract with a hotel near the Empire State Building to put up out-of-town editors and reporters.
The WPA had arranged for Emma Lane to stay in a twentieth-floor room. Gannon and Emma’s flight had arrived late at LaGuardia. He got her checked in to the hotel and met her there the next morning.