The Hades Factor

  Xavier Becker, frowning severely at George’s levity, did not wait to be asked. “What about the secret audit I discovered?”

  “Jack says that only Haldane has actually seen it,” Tremont told them, “and I’ll handle him when we meet before the board dinner at the annual meeting. What else, Xavier?” Mercer Haldane was chairman of Blanchard Pharmaceuticals.

  “I’ve manipulated the computer logs to show we’ve been working on the cocktail of recombinant antibodies that form our serum the whole ten years, improving it since we got the patent, and that we’ve finished our final tests and submitted it for FDA approval. The logs also now show our astronomical costs.” Excitement was in Xavier’s voice. “Supply’s in the millions of doses and climbing.”

  Adam laughed. “No one suspects a damn thing.”

  “Even if they suspect, they’ll never find the trail.” Jack McGraw, the security chief, rubbed his hands, pleased.

  “Just tell us when to move!” George begged.

  Tremont smiled and held up his hand. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a complete timetable based on how fast they realize they’ve got an epidemic on their hands. I’ll make my move on Haldane before the board meeting.”

  The five men drank, their futures growing brighter every second.

  Then Tremont put down his brandy. His face grew somber. He again raised a hand to silence them. “Unfortunately, we’ve run into a situation that could be more of a problem than the audit. How big or small the danger is, or whether there’s any danger at all after some, ah, steps we were forced to take, we can’t be certain yet. But rest assured it’s being watched and thoroughly dealt with.”

  Jack McGraw scowled. “What kind of problem, Victor? Why wasn’t I told?”

  Tremont eyed him. “Because I don’t want Blanchard even remotely connected.” He expected Jack to be jealous of security, but in the end Tremont made all decisions. “As for the problem, it was simply one of those events no one could anticipate. When I was in Peru on that expedition where I found the virus and the potential serum, I ran into a group of young undergraduates on a field trip. Beyond being polite, we paid little attention to each other because we were interested in different studies.” He shook his head in wonderment. “But three days ago one called. When she said her name, I vaguely recalled a student who had shown a lot of interest in my work. She went on to become a cell and molecular biologist. The problem was she’s now at USAMRIID, which is studying the first deaths. As we expected, they hadn’t been able to figure out the virus. But the unique combination of symptoms suddenly brought that trip to Peru back into her mind. She remembered my name. She called me.”

  “Jesus!” George exclaimed, his ruddy face gone white.

  “She tied the virus to you?” Jack McGraw growled.

  “To us!” Xavier exploded.

  Tremont shrugged. “I denied it. I convinced her she was wrong, that there’d been no such virus. Then I sent Nadal al-Hassan and his people to eliminate her.”

  There was a collective relaxation in the giant living room. Sighs of relief as the tension eased. They had worked hard and long for more than a decade, had risked their professions and livelihoods on this one visionary gamble, and none had any intention of losing the riches that were now within reach.

  “Unfortunately,” Tremont went on, “we were unsuccessful in doing the same to her fiance and research partner. He escaped us, and it’s possible she had time to speak to him before she died.”

  Jack McGraw understood. “That’s why al-Hassan is here. I knew something was up.”

  Tremont shook his head. “Don’t make more of this than there is. I sent for al-Hassan to report on how we stood. While I have the most to lose, we’re all in it together.”

  The silence in the room was louder than any noise.

  Xavier broke it. “Okay. Let’s hear what he’s got to say.”

  The fire had died down to glowing coals and a few flickering flames. Tremont moved to the side of the stone fireplace. He pressed a button in the carved mantlepiece. First Nadal al-Hassan and then Bill Griffin entered the cavernous room. Al-Hassan joined Victor Tremont before the fireplace, while Griffin remained unobtrusive in the background. Al-Hassan related details of Sophia Russell’s call to Tremont, her death, and his removal of everything that could connect the virus to the Hades Project. He described Jonathan Smith’s reactions. He detailed Griffin’s blackmailing of Lily Lowenstein and the subsequent erasure of all electronic evidence.

  “Nothing remains to connect us to Russell or the virus,” al-Hassan finished, “unless she told Colonel Smith.”

  Jack McGraw growled, “That’s a pretty damn big ‘unless.’”

  “That is what I think,” al-Hassan agreed. “Something has made Smith suspicious that her death was not an accident. He has been investigating vigorously, ignoring his share of the scientific work on the virus itself.”

  “Can he find us?” the accountant, George, asked nervously.

  “Anyone can find anyone if they look long enough and hard enough. That is why I think we must eliminate him.”

  Victor Tremont nodded to the rear of the room. “But you don’t agree, Griffin?”

  Everyone rotated to stare at the former FBI man, who was leaning against a wall behind them. Bill Griffin was thinking about Jon Smith. He had done his damnedest to warn his friend off. He had used his old FBI credentials to learn from Jon’s office that he was out of town, and then he had gone through a Rolodex of agencies acquiring one bit of information after another until he had finally uncovered which conference Jon was attending and, from there, where in London he had been staying.

  So as his canny gaze swept the five who stared at him, he did what he had to do to save himself, while trying to distract the heat from Jon: He shrugged, noncommittal. “Smith’s been working so hard to find out what happened to the Russell woman that I think she must’ve told him nothing about Peru or us. Otherwise, he’d likely be here right now, knocking on the door to talk to you, Mr. Tremont. But our mole inside USAMRIID says Smith’s stopped investigating her death and is back concentrating on the virus with the team. He’s even flying to California tomorrow to do the routine interviews with the family and friends of Major Anderson.”

  Tremont nodded thoughtfully. “Nadal?”

  “Our contact in Detrick says General Kielburger ordered Smith to California, but he refused,” al-Hassan reported. “Later he volunteered to go, and that is a very different matter. I believe he is seeking corroboration in California for what he already suspects.”

  Griffin said, “He’s a doctor, so he was at the autopsy. No big deal. They found nothing. There’s nothing to suspect. You’ve taken care of everything.”

  “We do not know what Smith found at the autopsy,” al-Hassan said.

  Griffin grimaced. “Kill him, then. That solves one problem. But every new murder increases the danger of questions and discovery. Especially the murder of Dr. Russell’s fiancé and research partner. And especially if he’s already told General Kielburger about the attacks on him in D.C.”

  “To wait could be too late,” al-Hassan insisted.

  The silence in the room seemed heavy enough to crush the lodge itself. The conspirators glanced at one another and settled their uneasy gazes on their aristocratic leader, Victor Tremont.

  He paced slowly in front of the fire, a frown creasing his forehead.

  At last he decided, “Griffin could be right. Better we not risk another killing involving the Detrick staff so soon.”

  Again they looked at one another. This time they nodded. Nadal al-Hassan watched the silent vote, then he moved his hooded eyes to study Bill Griffin where the ex-FBI agent lurked in the room’s shadows.

  “Well,” Tremont said, smiling, “that’s settled. We’d better get some sleep. With final plans to make, tomorrow will be a busy day.” He shook each man’s hand warmly, the gracious host and leader, as they exited the imposing living room.

  Al-Hassan and Griffin were last.
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  Victor Tremont gestured them to him. “Watch Smith carefully. I don’t want him to shave without your knowing when, where, and how close.” He looked down at the glowing coals of the fire as if they were oracles for the future. Suddenly he lifted his head. Al-Hassan and Griffin were just turning away to leave. He called them back.

  When they stood close in front of him, he said in a low, hard voice, “Don’t misunderstand me, gentlemen. If Dr. Smith proves to be trouble, of course he has to be purged. Life is a balance of risk and security, victory and loss. What we might lose in a few pointed questions about the coincidences of his and his fiancée’s deaths could prove to be more than offset by stopping him from revealing the circumstances of her death.”

  “If he’s really digging around.”

  Tremont aimed his analytical gaze at Bill Griffin. “Yes, if. It’s your job to discover that, Mr. Griffin.” His voice was abruptly cold, a warning. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  10:12 A.M., Wednesday, October 15

  Fort Irwin, Barstow, California

  The C-130 transport from Andrews Air Force Base touched down at the Southern California Logistical Airport near Victorville at 1012 on a warm, windy morning. A military police Humvee met Smith on the runway.

  “Welcome to California, sir,” the driver greeted Smith as he grabbed his bag and held the vehicle’s door open.

  “Thanks, Sergeant. Are we driving to Irwin?”

  “To the helicopter landing area, sir. There’s a chopper from Irwin waiting for you there.”

  The driver heaved Smith’s bag into the rear, climbed behind the wheel, and careened off across the tarmac. Smith hung on as the big combat vehicle bounced across ruts and potholes until it reached a waiting helicopter ambulance marked with the logo of the Eleventh Armored Cavalry Regiment—a rearing black stallion on a diagonal red-and-white field. Its rotors were already pivoting for takeoff.

  An older man wearing the gold leaf of a major and a medical caduceus stepped out from beneath the long blades. He held out his hand and shouted, “Dr. Max Behrens, Colonel. Weed Army Hospital.”

  An enlisted man took Smith’s bag, and they climbed into the vibrating ambulance chopper. It lurched into the air and banked at a steep angle, low across the desert. Smith looked down as they passed over two-lane highways and the buildings of small towns. Soon they were following the broad four lanes of Interstate 15.

  Dr. Behrens leaned toward him to yell over the wind and noise. “We’ve kept close watch on all units on the base, and no other cases of the virus have appeared.”

  Smith said loudly, “Mrs. Anderson and the others ready to talk with me?”

  “Yessir. Family, friends, everyone you need. The colonel of OPFOR said you’re to have anything you want, and he’d be glad to speak with you himself if that’d help.”

  “OPFOR?”

  Behrens grinned. “Sorry, forgot you’ve been at Detrick awhile. That’s our mission—Opposing Force. What the Eleventh Cav does here is act the role of enemy to all the regiments and brigades that come through for field training. We give them one hell of a hard time. It entertains us and makes them better soldiers.”

  The helicopter flew across a four-lane highway and plunged deeper into the rock-strewn desert until Smith saw a road below, a WELCOME sign, and at the top of a hill a jumble of piled rocks all painted with the brightly colored logos and patches of units that had been stationed there or passed through Irwin over the years.

  They swept on above lines of fast-moving vehicles trailing clouds of dust. It was startling how much the visually modified American vehicles looked like Russian mechanized infantry BMP-2s, BRDM-2s, and armored division T-80 tanks. The chopper swooped over the main post and settled to the desert floor in a cloud of sand. A reception committee was waiting, and Smith was jolted back to why he was here.

  Phyllis Anderson was a tall woman and a little heavy, as if she had eaten too many transient meals on too many army bases. Her full face was drawn as they sat on packing boxes in the silent living room of the pleasant house. She had the frightened eyes Smith had seen on so many relatively young army widows. What was she going to do now? She had spent her entire married life living from camp to camp, fort to fort, in on-base or off-base housing that was never her own. She had nowhere to call home.

  “The children?” she said in answer to Smith’s question. “I sent them to my parents. They’re too young to know anything.” She glanced at the packed boxes. “I’ll join them in a few days. We’ll have to find a house. It’s a small town. Near Erie, Pennsylvania. I’ll have to get some work. Don’t know what I can do …”

  She trailed off, and Smith felt brutal bringing her back to what he needed to ask.

  “Was the major ever sick before that day?”

  She nodded. “Sometimes he’d run a sudden fever, maybe a few hours, and then it’d go away. Once it went on for twenty-four hours. The doctors were concerned but couldn’t find a cause, and he always got better without any problem. But a few weeks ago he came down with a heavy cold. I wanted him to take some sick days, at least stay out of the field, but that wasn’t Keith. He said wars and hostile skirmishes didn’t stop for a cold. The colonel always says Keith can outlast anyone in the field.” She looked down at her lap where her hands twisted a ragged tissue. “Could.”

  “Anything you can tell me that might be connected to the virus that killed him?”

  He saw her flinch at the word, but there was no other way to ask the question.

  “No.” She raised her eyes. They held the same pain he felt, and he had to fight to keep it from reflecting in his own eyes. She continued, “It was over so fast. His cold seemed better. He took a good afternoon nap. And then he woke up dying.” She bit her lower lip to stop a sob.

  He felt his eyes moisten. He reached out and put his hand on top of hers. “I’m so sorry. I know how difficult it is for you.”

  “Do you?” Her voice was forlorn, but there was a question in it, too. They both knew he could not bring back her husband, but might he have a magic remedy to wipe away the endless, bottomless pain that made her ache from every cell?

  “I do know,” he said softly. “The virus killed my fiancée, too.”

  She stared, shocked. Two tears slid down her cheeks. “Horrible, isn’t it?”

  He cleared his throat. His chest burned, and his stomach felt as if it had just been invaded by a cement mixer. “Horrible,” he agreed. “Do you think you can go on? I want to find out about this virus and stop it from killing anyone else.”

  She was still a soldier’s wife in her mind, and action was always the best comfort. “What else do you want to know?”

  “Was Major Anderson in Atlanta or Boston recently?”

  “I don’t think he was ever in Boston, and we haven’t been in Atlanta since we left Bragg years ago.”

  “Where else besides Fort Bragg did the major serve?”

  “Well …” She reeled off a list of bases that covered the country from Kentucky to California. “Germany, too, of course, when Keith was with the Third Armored.”

  “When was that?” Marburg hemorrhagic fever, a close cousin of Ebola, had first been discovered in Germany.

  “Oh, 1989 through’91.”

  “With the Third Armored? Then he went to Desert Storm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anywhere else overseas?”

  “Somalia.”

  That was where Smith had his fatal encounter with Lassa fever. It had been a small operation, but had he known everything that happened there? An unknown virus was always possible deep in the jungles and deserts and mountains of that unfortunate continent.

  Smith pressed on. “Did he ever talk about Somalia? Was he sick there? Even briefly? One of those sudden fevers that went away? Headaches?”

  She shook her head. “Not that I remember.”

  “Was he ever sick in Desert Storm?”

  “No.”

  “Exposed to any chemical o
r biological agents?”

  “I don’t think so. But I remember he did say the medics sent him to a MASH for a minor shrapnel wound and some doctors said the MASH could’ve been exposed to germ warfare. They inoculated everyone who went through.”

  Smith’s gut did a flip, but he kept the excitement from his voice. “Including the major?”

  She almost smiled. “He said it was the worst inoculation he ever got. Really hurt.”

  “You don’t happen to recall the MASH number?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  Soon after that he ended the interview. They stood in the shade of her front porch, talking about nothing. There was solace in the normal interactions of everyday life.

  But as he stepped off the porch, she said in a tired voice, “Are you the last one, Colonel? I think I’ve told everything I know.”

  Smith turned. “Someone else questioned you about the major?”

  “Major Behrens over at Weed, the colonel, a pathologist from Los Angeles, and those awful government doctors who called here on Saturday asking terrible things like poor Keith’s symptoms, how long he lived, how he looked at the—” She shuddered.

  “Last Saturday?” Smith puzzled. What government doctor could have called on Saturday? Both Detrick and the CDC had barely started their investigations of the virus. “Did they say who they worked for?”

  “No. Just government doctors.”

  He thanked her again and left. In the glaring sun and hard wind of the high desert, he walked to his next interview thinking about what he had learned. Could the virus have been contracted by Major Anderson in Iraq—or given to him there—and then lain dormant over the next ten years, except for unexplained mild fevers, finally erupting into what seemed like a simple heavy cold … and death?

  He knew no virus that acted that way. But then no virus they had known had acted like HIV-AIDS until it exploded from the heart of Africa onto the world.