“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, God, 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 Nassau, 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 passport and to pack a bag.
His escorts provided no details. Their classified assignment 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.
The short flight ended when his escorts handed him off to a team from U.S. Army Intelligence and the CIA. They put Winfield into a black SUV and drove him to Fort Detrick and the army’s biodefense lab, located northwest of Washington. During the drive, Winfield considered all the scenarios that could arise from Crucible and hoped that Lancer, the FBI agent, was still working on the case.
The vehicle arrived at the fort’s checkpoints, where they were cleared by armed guards before driving to a remote building. In silence, Winfield was led down hallways equipped with security cameras, electronic sensors and a series of secure doors passable via keypad-coded entry systems.
He was taken to a small, barren room with white cinder-block walls. It had a hard-back chair on either side of a table with a wood veneer finish.
The door opened and two men in suits entered.
One sat opposite Winfield. The other stood.
“Dr. Winfield, this concerns our investigation into your letter.”
Winfield had assumed as much.
“We have reason to believe the subject is related to an ongoing threat to national security.”
Winfield nodded.
“Before we proceed,” the man said, “I’ll remind you that as a retiree you must still adhere to agency standards and agree to undergo a polygraph examination.”
Periodic polygraphs were fairly common when he’d worked on Crucible.
“Of course.”
A few minutes later, a young man with prematurely gray hair entered the room carrying polygraph equipment in a hard-shell case.
“It’ll take a moment to set up,” the polygraphist said.
He explained that his new machine was a five-pen analog. The man connected instruments to Winfield’s heart and fingertips to electronically measure breathing, perspiration, respiratory activity, galvanic skin reflex, blood and pulse rate. Then he began posing questions.
“Are you Dr. Foster Winfield?”
“Yes.”
“Did you oversee Project Crucible?”
“Yes.”
“Was the program abandoned?”
“Yes.”
“Are you currently involved in using material from Project Crucible for any means?”
“No.”
“Do you have factual information on anyone currently attempting to use research from Project Crucible for any means?”
“No.”
“Do you have information on the whereabouts of Dr. Gretchen Sutsoff?”
“No.”
“Are you currently in contact with Gretchen Sutsoff?”
“No.”
“Are you aware of anyone who may have information on her whereabouts?”
“No.”
