Part 47 (1/2)
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 Was.h.i.+ngton. 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 pa.s.sable 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 a.s.sumed 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-sh.e.l.l case.
”It'll take a moment to set up,” the polygraphist said.
He explained that his new machine was a five-pen a.n.a.log. 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.”
”Do you think Dr. Sutsoff currently could pose a risk to the security of the United States and other nations?”
Winfield hesitated.
”Sir, your response? Do you think Dr. Sutsoff currently could pose a risk to the security of the United States and other nations?”
Winfield swallowed.
”Yes.”
The exam continued with similar questions asked different ways for nearly an hour before it ended. Winfield was given a few old copies of Newsweek and Time and left alone in the room. Thirty minutes later he was taken to another room where he saw three men his age.
They were familiar.
”Foster?” One of them stood. ”We figured they'd grab you, too.”
It took a few seconds before he recognized what time had done to Andrew Tolkman, Lester Weeks and Phil Kenyon, his old team from Project Crucible.
”h.e.l.lo. Good to see you.” Winfield touched each of them on the shoulder then glanced around. ”Although, not ideal circ.u.mstances.”
”They can't find Gretchen,” Tolkman said.
”No one can,” Kenyon said. ”I told them she's the one they need.”
A door opened and a man in his forties, wearing jeans and a golf s.h.i.+rt, entered and handed each of them a slim file folder.
”Gentlemen, my name is Powell, Army Intel. Biochem. We have little time. As you may have gathered, this concerns your work on Project Crucible. In a nutsh.e.l.l, we think some of your cla.s.sified work is being applied to launch a strike. In fact, it may already be under way.”
Kenyon muttered a curse.
”No one else is better qualified to help us at this stage than you. I'll give you time to read the material, then we'll suit you up to work with our people on the sample we have in the lab. We hope you can tell us what we're up against.”
The file contained information on the deceased cruise-line pa.s.senger from Indiana, based on reports provided by the Broward County M.E., the CDC and the army's experts. The aging scientists read it all carefully.
”How is it possible?” Andrew Tolkman whispered more to himself than to the others as Powell returned.