The Panic Zone (5 page)

Fairfax County, Virginia

W
hile Emma Lane rested in Wyoming and Gannon slept in Brazil, Robert Lancer was hard at work in metropolitan Washington, D.C.

He undid his collar button and studied a file while walking down a third-floor corridor of the National Anti-Threat Center. The complex sat amid the wooded suburbs northwest of the capital.

In this building, behind the bullet and blast-proof windows, hundreds of security experts from a spectrum of government branches worked 24/7 analyzing threats to national security.

Lancer re-read his file on his way to the center's East Africa section, hoping that this latest “urgent” interruption warranted pulling him away from his other duties.

He reached the section's locked door, swiped his card, then punched the alphanumeric code into the keypad.

Access approval beeped, and he entered.

The room glowed in the light from the screens and computerized GPS maps suspended above a bank of modular desks where several analysts were entering data into computer keyboards.

Martin Weller, the section chief, was updating his staff and paused when he saw Lancer arrive.

“Bob, thanks for coming. I know you've got plenty on your plate.”

“What've you got, Marty?”

“Not sure. Pull it up, Craig.”

An analyst entered some commands on his keyboard and photos of a man in his late twenties filled one of the large monitors.

An arrest photo.

“This is Said Salelee, a painter who lives near Msasani Bay, one of the poorer sections of Dar es Salaam.”

“Our people in Tanzania called this in?”

“One of the local nationals employed at our embassy reported him acting strangely outside the gate.”

“The sheet says he was taking pictures and making notes?”

“He was doing it for several days. The staffer told her boss, who alerted the Ministry of Home Affairs and the national police picked him up. Turns out he's linked to the Avenging Lions of Africa.”

“How did they discover that?”

“They threatened to feed him his testicles.”

Staring at Salelee's face, Lancer, one of the center's leading senior operational agents, weighed matters. The mission of the Avenging Lions of Africa was to make developed nations suffer for enslaving Africa in poverty. Regionally, the Lions had been linked to bombings, shootings and hostage takings in Kagera, Pemba North, Kigoma and Zanzibar. Lancer had considered them minor league until last year when they attacked the British Embassy in Cairo.

Cairo.

That was a psychological trigger for Lancer.

Ten years earlier, everything in his world went black in Cairo. His wife, his daughter, his life, all changed in Cairo. Since then not a day passed without a word, fragrance or other mundane matter ripping open his wound.

It would never go away.

But Lancer always rode it out, always focused on his work. His determination deepened because he had a personal stake in the job.

Now, everything he did, he did for them.

He flipped through the pages of classified situational reports on Salelee. The CIA and State Department tied the Lions to funding operations through drug networks, human trafficking and Internet fraud.

As he studied Salelee, Lancer thought back to 1998 when terrorists bombed the U.S. embassies in Nairobi, Kenya and Dar es Salaam, foreshadowing September 11, 2001.

Never underestimate any piece of intelligence.

“All right, Marty,” Lancer said, “where are we at with Salelee?”

“The Tanzanians have been going at him for two days—nothing to eat but bread and water, no sleep, not to mention a few other methods that are not pretty.”

“They're compensating for moving too quickly in picking him up,” Lancer said. “They should have put surveillance on him.”

“They were eager to help. Today, our people in Dar es Salaam set up a satellite link in the interview room. Since the original complaint involves U.S. property, Tanzanian officials have invited us to ask Salelee questions. They think he could be ready to talk. Craig, are they set?”

An analyst talking on a landline nodded.

“Bob, as you know, Craig is fluent in Kiswahili. Ask your questions, and he'll repeat them to the police in Dar es Salaam.”

“Fine,” Lancer said, “but I don't expect much. Besides, when you're aggressive, a prisoner will most likely give you bullshit intelligence.”

Within minutes a clear satellite link was activated. In a stark room, a number of men stood around a seated figure whose hands and ankles were bound to the chair. Salelee's face was a stew of swollen cuts that forced his eyes shut. His body sagged with exhaustion.

For nearly forty minutes, the local police questioned Salelee.

There was the drone of Kiswahili with Craig translating quickly and softly. Watching and listening, Lancer noticed two landline phones on the table in the room in Dar es Salaam; one in use that was connected to Craig's line, and a second one not in use.

Lancer thought of strategy, mulling it over as the questioning went on.

“What is your interest in the embassy, Salelee?”

“I told you it is painting. I am a poor painter working hard to support my wife and children. I had learned the Americans want to paint the building. I was sizing up the job to offer—”

“Tell us the truth.”

“I am.”

“We know you are with the Lions.”

“No, I attended a meeting, that is it.”

“Do not lie to us, Salelee, you're a leader.”

“No, I am a poor painter from Msasani. I have a family—”

Lancer waved Weller over, pointed at the screen and asked about the second phone in the room.

“Can we call into the room and make that phone ring?”

Weller whispered to Craig, who checked his computer, then nodded.

“Call in,” Lancer said. “When it's answered, explain who we are, then tell the man to say aloud for Salelee's benefit, ‘hold everything, something has happened.'”

Craig dialed and within ten seconds the line rang.

On the screen one of the interrogators moved to answer in Kiswahili, and Craig spoke Lancer's words. The man in the room repeated them aloud in Kiswahili.

“Now tell him to say to Salelee that police have arrested the others and they're revealing everything about the plan. You, Salelee, are implicated. They fear you have exposed them already.”

The man came back to the phone.

“Tell him to say ‘This is bad for you, Salelee, very bad.
Your friends have moved quickly to implicate you. You'll suffer the most.'”

Salelee's head bowed.

“Tell the man on the line to keep the line open. Tell Salelee now is the time to save himself. We will send people to his house to get his wife and children, for their safety, because the others think Salelee's betrayed them.”

A moment passed before Salelee began nodding.

“He says, ‘I will give you some information on a different plan, but you must protect my family,'” Craig translated.

Lancer crossed his arms and stepped closer to the screen.

“Tell Salelee to tell them now, for the safety of his family.”

The Tanzanian cop repeated the words.

“He says, ‘First, let me talk to my wife on the telephone.'”

The Tanzanian cops, on the earlier advice of the Americans, had already placed Salelee's wife in custody in another office within the building where she sat now with two police officers. The cops with Salelee telephoned her, allowing Salelee to hear her plea for him to cooperate for the sake of their children.

Salelee was prepared to cooperate.

“What was he really doing at the embassy?” Lancer wanted to know. The Tanzanian police asked him.

“The Lions wanted information to target it for a bombing operation on the Independence Day as declared by the Lions.”

“That is not the full plan, what is the operation?”

“It is a separate operation.”

“What is it?” Lancer asked Craig, who conveyed the question.

“An attack,” Salelee said.

“How do the Lions know of this attack?”

“We have a small role.”

“What is that role?”

“We passed coded e-mails, spam, lottery announcements and appeals for large cash transfers. Information relating to the operation is hidden in a few of the millions of spam we send out around the world.”

“What is the nature of the operation?”

“An attack.”

“An attack against the United States?”

“Yes.”

“Any other countries?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Many, most countries.”

“And the weapon is through computers—cyber?”

“No, some of the communication from one group to another is through the spam. We know nothing of the weapon.”

“Who is behind it?”

“We don't know. We were paid great sums through gobetweens.”

“Who are they?”

“We don't know.”

“What is the weapon—is it planes?”

“No.”

“Bombs? Suicide bombings?”

“No.”

“Hostage takings?”

“No.”

“Nuclear or chemical, what is the weapon?”

“I don't know.”

“Who is behind it?”

“I don't know.”

“When will the attack take place?”

“Soon.”

“When? Days? Weeks? Months?”

“They told us that it is too far along for anyone to stop them.”

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

A
phone rang and Jack Gannon awakened in a strange room. He looked at the walls, the sunlight streaming through the shutters.

He lifted the phone.

“Good morning, Mr. Gannon. This is your wake-up call.”

“Thank you.”

Piece by piece, it all came back to him as he rubbed his face. He took two aspirin, shaved, showered, dressed, grabbed some breakfast, got his bag and headed to the bureau. When he arrived, Luiz, the news assistant, was the only person there.

“What's going on, Luiz? Where is everybody?”

“Much has happened. Mr. Archer is interviewing an official with the
Departmento de Polícia Federal.
”

“They're like our FBI and Estralla is with the Civil Police?”

“Yes. And Mr. Porter and Ms. Turner are interviewing people about the Colombian narco connection to the bombing.”

“Porter said the victim list might be released today?”

“Yes, but not yet. Not officially. Mr. Archer wants me to help you follow today's major story. JB has obtained the list.”

“JB—what's that and what did they get?” Gannon switched on his laptop.

“JB has broken the story identifying all the bombing victims,” Luiz held up a newspaper,
Jornal do Brasil,
with the main headline:
Caras dos Mortos,
over a gallery of ten head shots superimposed on a photo of the ruins of the Café Amaldo.

Gannon did not have to understand Portuguese to see that the newspaper had beaten its competition by obtaining the victim list in advance.

Gabriela Rosa and Marcelo Verde were on the newspaper's front page, staring back from WPA file photos.

Luiz blinked back tears, staring at the newspaper.

“Seeing it now in the paper like this is hard,” Luiz said. “Gabriela was kind to me, she helped me write travel features for WPA. She took me out for lunch on my birthday.”

Luiz gazed at Gabriela's empty desk, orderly and uncluttered compared with Marcelo's desk. His was heaped with magazines, manuals and empty food wrappers. Marcelo's monitor was feathered with two dozen small yellow notes.

“Marcelo was a consummate photographer, an artist who loved his work. He was fun, always joking but so forgetful with many things. He needed all these notes.”

Gannon studied the
Jornal do Brasil
and the faces of the ten victims, five men and five women. There were small bios about each of them. It was good work. He tapped the picture of Angella Roho-Ruiz, a beautiful woman in her twenties, smiling under the headline:
Era uma Execução do Narco?

Luiz nodded.

“That is Paulo's daughter on a shopping vacation in Bogotá, Colombia. The headline
Era uma Execução do Narco?
is asking, Was this a narco execution?”

Gannon took a moment to process the growing speculation that the bombing was the result of a drug war.

Was everyone else right about who was behind it?

Was he an idiot to question reporters who worked, lived and breathed in Brazil everyday? Was he out of his league?

Gannon looked at the other victims. Was Gabriela's source among them? Maybe they'd met and the source left? Or maybe the source never showed up at all?

The sheaf of charred and bloodied papers from the alley sat next to his laptop. If he could connect the victims to any of these documents, it would be a key puzzle piece.

First, he had to take precautions. His little adventure from last night underscored the need to protect his documents, for now.

“Luiz, will you do a confidential favor for me?”

“Of course.”

“Copy these pages, keep a set in a safe place, but tell no one. Do you swear to me you will do this?”

“I like working with you, Mr. Gannon. You're different from the others. I give you my word I will do as you ask.”

“Good, these pages could be very important, we need to be careful. But I don't want you to tell anyone. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Luiz flipped through the papers. “It won't take long.” He disappeared into the small supply closet. As the photocopier hummed, Gannon reviewed the faces in the newspaper and tried to think of a strategy to determine the café's seating situation at the time of the explosion. Maybe talking to the families of the victims would be a good start.

Luiz returned the original documents and Gannon put them in his bag.

“I've hidden my copies in our supply room,” Luiz said. “I will not speak of them to anyone.”

The bureau's door opened and two uniformed police officers entered. They were grim faced, and spoke in gruff, rapid Portuguese to Luiz before they approached Gannon.

“Jack Gannon, American citizen of New York City, U.S.A.?” One of the cops stood before Gannon, unfolded a single sheet of paper, glanced at it, then at Gannon.

“Yes.”

“Your identification, please?”

Gannon retrieved his passport from his computer bag. The officer looked at it, then tucked it in his breast pocket and snapped the flap closed.

“You will come with us to police headquarters.”

“Why, what's this about?”

“For questioning.”

“Questioning? About what? Do you have a warrant?”

“No warrant, come with us.”

“Not without a warrant, or lawyer.”

“You will come with us now.”

“Am I being charged? Am I under arrest?”

“You will cooperate and come with us now, or you will face immediate expulsion from Brazil.”

The second officer stepped around Gannon. Their body language was loud and clear. Gannon looked at Luiz, then back at the cop and got his bag.

“I will cooperate. Luiz, call Frank, tell him to alert New York and the U.S. consulate that I have been arrested without a warrant.”