The Panic Zone Part 46

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. Emba.s.sy in Na.s.sau. 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 Na.s.sau.

"Paul Worden, FBI."

"Bob Lancer, FBI at the Anti-Threat Center. Paul, you're our Legat in Na.s.sau, 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 emba.s.sy," 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, Na.s.sau."

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.

Sirens and traffic noises filled the sunny morning air.

As they walked to WPA headquarters, Emma took in the buildings and searched the stream of faces, wondering if she would ever see Tyler again, hoping Jack Gannon and his global news service were the answer to her prayers.

It did not take long to travel the few blocks beyond Madison Square Garden and Penn Station. Melody Lyon met them in her office.

"Thank you for coming, Emma." Lyon shook her hand. "On behalf of the WPA, please accept our belated condolences for your loss."

Once Emma was seated, Lyon got down to business.

"You're obviously contending with more than anyone should have to bear," she said. "Jack told us of the extraordinary steps you've already taken. Are you certain you're up to this?"

"I'm certain because I need to find my son."

"As you know, we've lost two of our people recently and we think their deaths are linked to your case. In our pursuit of the truth we'll be sharing confidential information with you. Emma, as cra.s.s as it sounds, we need to know that your cooperation remains exclusive to the WPA."

"Yes," Emma said. "No one else believed me or would help me. Before we left, my aunt and uncle promised not to speak to any other reporters."

"I'll update you," Lyon said. "Jack, we've just learned that the New York Times is going to report that the CIA wants to question former scientists about a canceled top-secret program that may be at play somewhere in all of this. This could be related to our story. A number of news organizations are chasing pieces of it, but we've got most of them. Jack, is there anything new on your other angles?"

"I'm still waiting to hear back from Lancer on Polly Larenski's phone numbers. I have files to review and sources to check."

"Good, we've put more WPA people on this story, quietly digging. I did some checking with my sources in Was.h.i.+ngton. I've just sent you some new data we've put together. I want you both to review it. Jack, you will remain our lead reporter on this file. Start a running draft of all we know as soon as possible."

The first thing Gannon and Emma did was go to the WPA cafeteria for two strong coffees. Alone in the elevator, Emma turned to Gannon.

"Will I find my son?"

"I don't know. But a lot of people are pus.h.i.+ng hard to get to the truth behind what happened to you, Adam Corley and the people murdered in Rio de Janeiro," he said. "We've both come a long way and neither one of us is giving up."

At his desk in the newsroom, Gannon got a second chair for Emma, then set up his laptop for her to read over files. While he worked on his PC, Emma paged through older files and notes from his sources. Her concerns grew as she realized the magnitude of what could be looming.

She looked at Gannon's monitor and her breathing quickened as she read what was on it: the detailed note from Melody Lyon.

Jack, I called in a few favors with my sources in the intelligence community and this is what I've put together on Extremus Deus. The group's origins flow from the following: In the Cold-War era, various White House administrations and Western governments expressed alarm over the population explosion. There were fears the earth's population would double, even triple, in a short time, deplete the planet's resources and result in chaos and the collapse of civilization.

At that time, some officials were consumed by these fears and over a few decades, various strategies for slowing growth were secretly discussed. Some included chilling military options involving the creation of new lethal agents that could attack certain segments of the population.

By the late 1970s, fears about population had subsided, but the years that followed saw a combination of key events, namely, the collapse of Communism in Eastern Europe and the emergence of the new threat of global warming. New democratized nations joined materialistic Western societies in a wanton depletion of the earth's resources in a time of out-of-control greenhouse-gas emissions.

In some darker corners of the world, this served to rekindle the belief that the world was racing headlong to ruin and that action was needed.

Some conspiracy theorists hold that a select number of scientists, intellectuals and various rogue political, military and intelligence players created a secret organization known as Extremus Deus, from the Latin meaning "Extreme G.o.d," to formulate policies, strategies and action.

According to the theories, the most effective way to reduce the strain on the planet and the threat to humanity is to reduce population.

The conspiracy theorists hold that Extremus Deus has been secretly developing chemical and biological options gleaned from military experiments, such as a genetic attack through the manipulation of DNA...

Emma's face was a mask of fear. She'd dropped her coffee. Gannon reached for a box of tissue as she tapped his monitor and the note.

"This group, this Extremus Deus--this can't be serious."

"There's no evidence this group exists, but the theories are based on facts."

"Are you telling me some freakish doomsday cult stole my baby for his DNA? Oh, G.o.d, they've killed Joe and now they'll kill Tyler."

"Take it easy, Emma. We don't know if there's a connection. This is just one possible piece of a story that has many pieces. We don't know what's real, speculation or fiction."

The phone next to his computer rang.

"WPA, Jack Gannon."

"It's Lancer."

"Did you process those phone numbers I gave you?"

"I'll tell you something, but think hard before you answer."

"All right."

"I want Corley's memory card. I need to see those files."

"I already told you what I found."

"You don't have a clue as to what's relevant. Now, I can invoke national security, get warrants, jam up your life, even have you arrested."

"Don't threaten me, Lancer! After you witnessed me being--" Gannon caught himself. "You know what I went through, so don't threaten me."

"You forget that I'm the guy who got you out of that mess."

"What do you want?"

"Send me electronic copies of Corley's material now--all of it--and I'll give you new information."

Gannon looked around, knowing where news organizations stood when it came to sharing information with police. He was walking a fine ethical line.

"What have you got for me, Lancer?"

"Possibly the next phase of this case."

Gannon had to decide this on his own. No one but Lancer knew what he went through in the Moroccan prison. And it was true: Lancer was the one who got him out.

"Send me an e-mail address," Gannon said, "then give me a few minutes. It's a large file."

Gannon worked fast copying everything from Corley's files into special folders he sent via e-mail to Lancer. Ten minutes went by, then twenty, thirty, nearly forty when Gannon's line rang again.

"Listen up," Lancer said. "We're going to execute warrants on a subject in Na.s.sau, Bahamas, tomorrow. It's a three-hour flight from New York. Check in to the Grand Blue Tortoise Resort and wait for my call."

"Wait! Give me some idea of the target."

"When you get there."

"No, I need to alert my desk."

"A child-care center."

"A child-care center?"

Emma's eyes widened.

"Okay, Lancer, I'll be there, but I'll have another person, a reporter, with me and maybe a photographer."

"Just get there, stay out of the way and wait for my call."

60.

Wheeler-Sack Army Airfield, Fort Drum, New York Less than twenty minutes after Foster Winfield was helped into a waiting plane, it accelerated down the runway and lifted off.

Hours earlier, a caravan of vehicles carrying two plainclothes RCMP officers, two Canadian military officers and three U.S. military personnel, one of them an army doctor, arrived at his cottage in Canada.

Winfield was instructed to give them his pa.s.sport and to pack a bag.

His escorts provided no details. Their cla.s.sified a.s.signment was to deliver the CIA's former chief scientist to a specified location. It concerned a matter of U.S. national security. Few words were spoken as they sped through the tranquil countryside, but Winfield had deduced that it was about Project Crucible. He hoped that there was still time to do something.

The caravan crossed into the United States without a hitch at the Thousand Islands border crossing, then rolled toward Watertown, New York, and Fort Drum, where a plane stood by to rush Winfield to Maryland.