Thats a nightmare. How would you stop it?
That was the crux of our job through a classified program called Project Crucible. Research by our enemies, rogue states and terrorist groups was aimed at killing large numbers of people. Without our scientific understanding of it, the United States would be helpless to defend itself and its allies. Through Project Crucible we worked to defend against, and to dismantle, that work. But in order for us to gain effective knowledge we had to replicate it and, most important, test it.
Some CIA agents gave their lives providing us with intelligence on the research. It was a key component but it was not all we needed. We had to embark on the most critical aspect-secret human trials. It was the only way we could get accurate results.
Lancer shook his head slowly.
Traditionally, Winfield said, we used inmate volunteers, usually those serving life sentences. They were told about military research and signed their consent to be test subjects. All work was done with their knowledge, consent and cooperation. Still, some of our team were hinting at modifying trials on Project Crucible to be conducted on civilian populations.
What?
Not using anything lethal, Winfield said, but substituting the agent with something as harmless as a common cold, to study the effectiveness of delivery and other aspects even more accurately because youre using the real environment, or theater of application.
But with the publics knowledge?
Thats a sensitive area. As you know, throughout history thereve been cases of secret experiments on humans without their consent or without them understanding the risks involved. Im talking about notorious experiments conducted on soldiers, on unsuspecting groups like the poor, POWs or concentration camp victims. Such work is criminal and morally repugnant to doctors and scientists. It gave rise to the Nuremberg Code.
Which deals with consent.
The code holds that the voluntary consent of a human subject is essential for research. Now, Gretchen Sutsoff was a leading expert on genetic manipulation and diseases. She was a passionate firebrand and in the case of File 91 she was convinced it was flawed. To prove it, she advocated that Project Crucibles trials be conducted on a civilian population without consent.
Without consent?
Tolkman and Weeks said her strategy was a clear violation of the Nuremberg Code.
How did she react?
Not well. We argued. I told her we would never allow public trials to happen without consent, but I needed Gretchen on the team. I admit she was arrogant, impatient, isolated and lacking in social skills. She had a troubled life. But she was also one of the worlds most accomplished scientists. She was astounding. I admired her, respected her and valued her insights and contributions. I felt she was getting burned out, suggested she take a leave, travel, clear her head.
Did she?
Yes, but ultimately she resigned. She debriefed with the CIA, severed all ties, then disappeared. A legend grew around her departure. She was ostracized by much of the scientific community. Rumor had it that she found lucrative research in some poor country after she left the U.S. Mightve even taken up citizenship in another country, Senegal or Aruba, or someplace. No one in our old circles has been able to find her. Its not surprising-she was embittered when she left.
What happened with File 91 and Project Crucible?
Our agents worked covertly to destroy File 91. Winfield peered at the bottom of his coffee cup. I know we produced some good work, work that saved lives, but ultimately all research wed completed to that stage of Project Crucible was shelved. All our Crucible work was destroyed or locked up. A new generation of scientists has carried on with new research that seems to focus on cyber threats.
Foster, youd said that you feared Project Crucibles experiments are now being replicated?
Elements have surfaced in some obscure online discussion groups. Ive alerted the CIA to my concerns and theyve concluded that they are without substance. Theyve suggested Ive misread things. I know theyve written them off as the age-impaired ramblings of a dying old man.
What do you think?
Few people alive know the contents of Project Crucible as well as I do, and I am convinced that from the snippets Ive picked up online that someone is out there now attempting research arising from Crucibles files. And in the time I have left, I will continue sounding the alarm.
What do you think?
Few people alive know the contents of Project Crucible as well as I do, and I am convinced that from the snippets Ive picked up online that someone is out there now attempting research arising from Crucibles files. And in the time I have left, I will continue sounding the alarm.
Who do you think is behind it? Gretchen, or maybe someone from your old team?
We dont know. Ive been in touch with a few of the remaining Crucible scientists. Not everyone agrees with me and weve debated my concerns. Maybe someone sold research, thats one possibility. But we dont know. However, somethings come up that may help.
Whats that?
This morning, before you arrived, Phil Kenyon e-mailed me saying hes got a lead on something recent he thinks is tied to Gretchen Sutsoff.
Will he talk to me?
Ill arrange it. Hes in Chicago.
21
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
A fine rain was falling the next day when Gannon returned to the diner to meet Alfonso, his guide into the slum.
He was waiting in the street, straddling a motorcycle and wearing a helmet and a baggy flowered shirt. He waved, and Gannon approached him.
Alfonso pointed to the gas tank and the hills and held up four fingers. Gannon gave him about forty reais, roughly twenty bucks U.S. Alfonso stuffed the bills in his jeans and nodded for Gannon to strap on the spare helmet and climb on behind him.
You will take me to the parents of Maria Santo, Pedro and Fatima Santo?
Alfonso gave him a thumbs-up, the motorcycle roared and they raced off along the crowded streets. Small shops, kiosks and parked cars blazed by as the commercial fringe of Zona Sul morphed into a narrow road, twisting into a lush jungle gateway to the favela.
The road continued slimming, coiling up and up. The engine growled as Alfonso shifted gears, threading through traffic. His body slid back and Gannon saw something sticking out from Alfonsos waistband. When a breeze lifted Alfonsos shirt, he saw the butt of a pistol.
They climbed for an eternity, the hills growing steeper, the road shrinking until finally they stopped at a side street.
The engine sputtered into the quiet of Ceu sobre Rio on a Sunday.
Gannon turned to the Gods-eye view of downtown Rio de Janeiro, the beaches, the bay, the statue of Christ on Corcovado Mountain. The upward sweep over the endless jumble of rooftops was amazing. Shacks and multi-story houses covered every speck of land, every outcropping; they were crushed together, battling for sun, angling to stand free as somewhere church bells tolled.
Alfonso led Gannon to a stairwell slicing between buildings and taking them higher. As they climbed, Gannon extended his arms, touching the lichen-laced walls on either side of the canyon they passed through. From time to time he saw large nests of wires and cables, common in favelas where residents spliced illegally into city utilities.
Drenched with sweat and breathing hard, Gannon guessed the temperature at more than a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, when they veered down a tight passageway that led to a side street.
Here, the low-standing concrete walls in front of the houses were coated with graffiti and bullet-pocked from gang shootouts with police.
They pushed on, passing more walls and shacks, then a pack of dogs yipping at children who were using sticks to probe garbage in the middle of the street. Watching them were several teenaged boys, smoking pot and sitting on a seat ripped from the rear of a car. Each of them had a gun and regarded Gannon as if he were new merchandise.
Alfonso gave a little whistle and led him down an alley that was slivered into yet another ascending canyon of stairs. This one opened to an oasis of well-kept houses, painted neatly in coral pinks, blues and lavenders. They were small houses with clean stone walls and ornate metal gates. Most had flower boxes in the windows.
Pretty, Gannon thought, as Alfonso stopped at one and unlatched the gate. They stepped into the cramped stone landing that welcomed them to a sky-blue house with a bone-white door.
Santo. Alfonso nodded to the door, holding out his hand for payment.
Gannon gave him another forty reais then knocked.
The door opened to a man in his fifties. His haunted, tired eyes went to Alfonso then traveled sadly over Gannon. His white mustache was like snow against his leathery skin.
Pedro Santo? Gannon asked.
The man nodded.
Alfonso spoke to him in Portuguese and the older man looked at Gannon.
Do you speak English? Gannon asked
Pedro Santo shook his head.
Gannon turned to Alfonso who shouted in Portuguese to some girls down the street who were skipping with a rope. One, who appeared fourteen or fifteen, approached them. Alfonso spoke a stream of Portuguese to her. She looked to Gannon and said in English, Hello, sir. My name is Bruna. I will try to help you. I am learning English from the British ladies at the human-rights center where Maria Santo has many friends.
Bruna listened intently as Gannon told her that he was a journalist from New York with the World Press Alliance and needed to talk to Pedro Santo and his wife about Maria. After Bruna translated, Pedro opened his door wider, inviting them inside.
The house was immaculate but small with a living room and adjoining kitchen. Pedro Santo introduced his wife, Fatima, who was washing dishes at the sink. Pedro spoke to her in Portuguese and she gave Gannon a slight bow then began fixing him a fruit drink, indicating he sit in a chair at their kitchen table.
A moment of silence passed.
Over his years as a crime reporter, Gannon had come to learn a universal truth-that it didnt matter if it was Buffalo or Rio de Janeiro, a home visited by death was the same the world over, empty of light. Like a black hole left by a dying star, its devastation was absolute.