“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 world’s 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. Might’ve even taken up citizenship in another country, Senegal or Aruba, or someplace. No one in our old circles has been able to find her. It’s 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 we’d 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, you’d said that you feared Project Crucible’s experiments are now being replicated?”
“Elements have surfaced in some obscure online discussion groups. I’ve alerted the CIA to my concerns and they’ve concluded that they are without substance. They’ve suggested I’ve misread things. I know they’ve 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 I’ve picked up online that someone is out there now attempting research arising from Crucible’s 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 don’t know. I’ve been in touch with a few of the remaining Crucible scientists. Not everyone agrees with me and we’ve debated my concerns. Maybe someone sold research, that’s one possibility. But we don’t know. However, something’s come up that may help.”
“What’s that?”
“This morning, before you arrived, Phil Kenyon e-mailed me saying he’s got a lead on something recent he thinks is tied to Gretchen Sutsoff.”
“Will he talk to me?”
“I’ll arrange it. He’s 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 Alfonso’s waistband. When a breeze lifted Alfonso’s 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 God’s-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 didn’t 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.
When Fatima Santo set a glass before him, Gannon noticed her hands were scarred and wrinkled from years of cleaning the houses of the rich. Her eyes were dimmed with tears, her body weighted with sorrow. A gold-framed photograph of her murdered daughter was perched on the shelf above the TV, draped with a rosary.