The pills she’d taken to help her face crowds were working. She looked at the float pen on her tray and contemplated how she’d survived the horror that killed her family to devote her life to correcting nature’s errors with the human race.
She alone had forged the solution.
It was right here, in her laptop and in this novelty pen. And seventy others like it that would be put to use. She picked it up, raising and lowering the ends, making the tiny sailboat bobble up and down in the barrel filled with her new formula.
About one thousand miles northwest in Washington, D.C., the FBI was working on the fugitive file for Sutsoff.
Information and intelligence from police agencies around the world was flowing into FBI headquarters.
The CIA had provided her Social Security number, date of birth, physical description and fingerprints. Interpol obtained what were thought to be the most recent passport photos and a number of aliases.
Gretchen Rosamunde Sutsoff was characterized as a scientist formerly contracted by the U.S. government, who was wanted for a range of charges including, murder, kidnapping and theft of U.S. government property. When the file was ready, Gretchen Sutsoff would be sought around the world by Interpol and would top the FBI’s Ten- Most Wanted list.
As Sutsoff’s plane came to a full stop at Newark Liberty International Airport in New Jersey, the Office of Enforcement at U.S. Customs and Border Protection headquarters in Washington, D.C., received an urgent alert from the FBI through Homeland Security.
The alert was for Gretchen Rosamunde Sutsoff, a dangerous murder suspect, believed to be preparing to enter the United States. It was immediately sent to a coordinator for processing.
After studying the details listing Sutsoff’s DOB, race, height, weight, eye and hair color, and aliases, and looking at the accompanying photographs, the coordinator called her supervisor for final sign-off before releasing it.
In Newark, Sutsoff gathered Will and her bags and prepared to leave the plane. Smiling attendants helped her get Will into her umbrella stroller. Just before boarding in Nassau, Sutsoff had it gate-checked; now it was waiting for them on the jetway.
She pushed the stroller along, joining other passengers walking through the terminal toward U.S. Immigration, where she got into the line for non-U.S. citizens. The wait was not as long as she’d expected. Weary security officials had just cleared three 747 charter flights from Europe-here for the Human World Conference?-and they were coming to a shift change before a new wave arrived.
Sutsoff’s queue moved smoothly. She got her passport and other papers ready. It was not long before she reached the front of the line.
In Washington, after the U.S. Customs and Border Protection enforcement supervisor had read the alert on his monitor, he issued his electronic approval and called his senior coordinator.
“Let’s get this out to everyone now,” he said.
Back at the airport in Newark, the U.S. Immigration inspector waved Sutsoff to his desk and received her passport, her I-94 card, her B-2 visitor’s visa, a notarized letter signed by her “daughter” allowing her to travel with her “grandson,” and other papers. She was photographed and fingerprinted on a scanner, after which the inspector studied her documents. All of them were in the name of Mary Anne Conrad, a new alias she’d arranged through a passport forger and people she’d bribed to help her obtain documents. The baby was identified as William John Conrad. The inspector scrutinized Sutsoff, ensuring her photograph matched her face.
“Where were you born?”
“The United States, Virginia.”
“How did you become a citizen of the Bahamas?”
“My family moved around quite a bit when I was young.”
“Who is the child and why does he have an American passport?”
“He’s my grandson. My daughter lives here in the United States.”
“What’s the purpose of your visit?”
“My daughter will be joining us in New York for a visit to see the city, then taking Will home with her. He stayed with me for a bit while she dealt with a career change.”
“And where does your daughter live?”
“Wyoming.”
“All right, thank you.”
After she cleared Immigration, the inspector’s shift ended. He closed his station and directed other passengers to the next desk. Sutsoff went to baggage claim, then lined up for U.S. Customs, handing her information to the female officer who yawned as she processed her entry.
In the half minute after Sutsoff had cleared Customs, the officer’s computer beeped with an alert, but she’d already turned from her desk to allow a colleague to take her place for a break.
The relief officer’s eyebrows rose when she read the details of the alert, but she had no inkling that a wanted fugitive had just cleared her very post.
Struggling with the stroller and her luggage, Sutsoff made it to the arrivals area, where she’d spotted a man wearing a black chauffeur’s cap, a sport coat, white shirt, black tie, black pants and holding up a sign reading M. Conrad NYC.
“Over here,” Sutsoff said. “Thank you. Do you have the car seat I reserved?”
“Yes, we’re all set, ma’am. Let me get your things.”
The driver helped Sutsoff and Will settle into the luxurious Buick. After loading the luggage and stroller, he got behind the wheel and confirmed their destination.
“The Grand Hyatt in Manhattan?”
“Yes.”
Sutsoff had requested to be dropped off there, but she planned to walk three blocks to another hotel. As the gleaming black sedan glided along the freeway, she took another pill. The miles clicked by and the span of the magnificent George Washington Bridge ascended in the distance just as they passed a huge billboard announcing the Human World Conference.
Sutsoff felt her stomach lift as she gazed across the Hudson where Manhattan’s skyline awaited them.
She turned to the baby, content in his car seat, then she contemplated New York City, then her float pen.
This was the power.
Ahead was the glory.
65
Fort Detrick, Maryland
That night, the ramifications of Gretchen Sutsoff’s new creation dawned on Foster Winfield.
He turned to his colleagues Tolkman, Weeks and Kenyon, seated at the table in a small meeting room. They had worked nonstop, analyzing material transported by jet fighter from Sutsoff’s secret lab on Deus Island. The four scientists sat in silence, then Kenyon said what everyone was thinking.
“She’s insane.”
“This defies the science,” Tolkman said. “How did she do it?”
“Why did she do it?” Weeks asked.
“I’m responsible,” Winfield said. “I brought her in to Project Crucible.”
Major Powell entered the room carrying a briefing binder.
“They’re all set in Washington.” Powell positioned a telephone console and speakers at the center of the table, keyed in several numbers and linked them to an emergency teleconference call with a spectrum of security agencies working on the new threat.
“Who’ve we got there?” a voice asked.
“Major Powell in Fort Detrick. With me are the four agency scientists who’d worked on Project Crucible.”
