Then he looked into the rearview mirror at Marty with amazement. “You really were able to find the report from the Prince Leopold?”
Marty nodded. “And virus reports from Iraq.”
“Amazing. Thank you. What about Bill Griffin and Sophia’s phone records?”
“No. Sorry, Jon. I really tried.”
“I know you did. I’d better read what you’ve got.”
They were approaching the Connecticut Avenue exit at the extension of Rock Creek park in Maryland. Smith took the exit, drove into the park, and stopped the Rolls at a secluded meadow surrounded by a stand of thick trees. As Marty handed him the two printouts, he said, “They’d been deleted by the director of NIH’s Federal Resource Medical Clearing House.”
“The government!” Smith swore. “Damn. Either someone in the government or army’s behind what’s happening, or the people who are have even more power than I’d thought.”
“That scares me, Jon,” Marty said.
“It scares me, and we better find out which it is soon.”
Muttering, he read the Prince Leopold report first.
Dr. René Giscours described a field report he had seen while doing a stint at a jungle hospital far upriver in Bolivian Amazonia years ago. He had been battling what appeared to be a new outbreak of Machupo fever and had no time to think about an unconfirmed rumor from far-off Peru. But the new virus jogged his memory, so he checked his papers and found his original note—but not the actual report. His jottings to himself back then emphasized an unusual combination of hantavirus and hemorrhagic fever symptoms and some connection to monkeys.
Smith thought about it. What had caught Sophia’s interest in this? There were few facts, nothing but the vague memory of an anecdote from the field. Was it the mention of Machupo? But Giscours made no special connection, did not suggest any link, and Machupo antibodies had shown no effect on the unknown virus. It did suggest the new unknown virus actually existed in nature, but researchers would assume that. Perhaps it was the mention of Bolivia. Maybe Peru. But why?
“Is it important?” Marty wanted to know, eager to help.
“I don’t know yet. Let me read the rest.”
There were three more reports—all from the Iraqi Minister of Health’s office. The first two concerned three ARDS deaths a year ago in the Baghdad area that were unexplained but finally attributed to a hantavirus carried by desert mice drawn into the city by lack of food in the fields. The third reported three more ARDS cases in Basra who had survived. All three in Basra. Smith felt a chill. The exact same numbers had died and survived. Like a controlled experiment. Was that what the three American victims were, too, part of some experiment?
Plus there was the connection of the first three American victims to Desert Storm.
He felt a settling in his chest, as if now at last he had a clearer sense of direction. He had to go to Iraq. He needed to find out who had died and who had survived … and why.
“Marty, we’re going to California. There’s a man there who’ll help us.”
“I don’t fly.”
“You do now.”
“But, Jon—” Marty protested.
“Forget it, Marty. You’re stuck with me. Besides, you know deep down you like doing crazy things. Consider this one of your craziest.”
“I don’t believe thinking positively is enough in this case. I might freak out. Not that I’d want to, you understand. But even Alexander the Great had fits.”
“He had epilepsy. You have Asperger’s, and you’ve got medication to control it.”
Marty froze. “Little problem there. I don’t have my meds.”
“Didn’t you bring your case?”
“Yes, of course I brought it. But I have only one dose left.”
“We’ll have to get you more in California.” As Marty grimaced, Smith restarted the Rolls and pulled onto the Interstate. “We’ll need money. The army, the FBI, probably the police, and the people with the virus will be monitoring my bank accounts, credits cards, the works. They won’t be monitoring yours yet.”
“You’re right. Since I value my life, I suppose I have to go along. At least for a while. Okay. Consider it a donation. Do you think fifty thousand dollars would be enough?”
Smith was stunned at the large sum. But when he thought about it, he realized money was meaningless to Marty. “Fifty thousand should do fine.”
Over the roar of the rotors and the slipstream wind, Nadal al-Hassan shouted into the phone, “We have lost them.” He wore dark sunglasses over his hatchet face. They seemed to absorb the sunlight like black holes.
In his office near the Adirondack lake, Victor Tremont swore. “Damn. Who is this Martin Zellerbach? Why did Smith go to him?”
Al-Hassan covered his open ear to hear better. “I will find out. What about the army and the FBI?”
“Smith’s officially AWOL and connected to the deaths of Kielburger and the woman because he was the last to see them alive. Both the police and the army are looking for him.” The distant roar of the helicopter in his ear made him want to shout as if he were there with al-Hassan. “Jack McGraw’s staying on top of the situation through his source in the Bureau.”
“That is good. Zellerbach’s residence has much computer equipment. Very advanced. It is possible that is why Smith went there. Perhaps we could learn what he is looking for by analyzing what this Zellerbach was doing when we arrived.”
“I’ll send Xavier to Washington. Have your people watch the hospitals where all the victims were treated, especially the three survivors. So far the government hasn’t revealed the survivals, but they will. When Smith hears about them, he’ll probably try to reach them.”
“I have already seen to it.”
“Good, Nadal. Where’s Bill Griffin?”
“That I do not know. He has not reported in to me today.”
“Find him!”
Chapter Twenty
7:14 P.M.
New York City
Mercer Haldane, chairman of Blanchard Pharmaceuticals, Inc., could barely manage a smile as Mrs. Pendragon brought in the agenda for tomorrow’s board meeting. Still, he bid her his customary cheerful goodnight. Safely alone again, he sat brooding in his white tie and tails. One of the quarterly dinners for the board was tonight, and he had an enormous problem that must be addressed first.
Haldane was proud of Blanchard, both of its history and its future. It was an old company, founded by Ezra and Elijah Blanchard in a garage in Buffalo in 1884 to make soap and face cream from their mother’s original recipes. Owned and run by one or the other Blanchard, it had prospered and branched into fermentation products. During World War II, Blanchard was one of the few manufacturers selected to make penicillin, which elevated it to a pharmaceutical company. After the war, the company grew rapidly and went public with great fanfare in the 1960s. Twenty years later, in the early 1980s, the last Blanchard descendant handed over the operation of the company to Mercer Haldane. As CEO, Haldane ran Blanchard into the 1990s. Ten years ago, he had assumed the chairmanship as well. It was his company now.
Until two days ago, the future of Blanchard looked as rosy as its past. Victor Tremont had been his discovery, a brilliant biochemist with executive potential and creative flair. Haldane had nurtured Victor slowly, bringing him up through all the company’s operations. He had been grooming Victor to succeed him. In fact, four years ago Haldane had promoted him to COO, even though he retained effective control. He knew Victor seethed under the constraint, that he was eager to run the company, but Haldane considered that a plus. Any man worth his salt wanted his own show, and a hungry man kept his competitive edge.
Tonight it was Mercer Haldane who seethed.
A year ago, a new auditor had reported accounting for research and development that seemed odd. The auditor was concerned, even nervous. It was impossible to follow funds for a project through to its conclusion. Haldane considered the man’s worry nothing more than unfamiliarity with the intricac
ies of R&D in the pharmaceutical industry. But Haldane was also a cautious executive, so he had hired a second outside auditing firm to look more deeply.
The result was alarming. Two days ago, Haldane had received the report. In an intricate pattern of small, barely noticeable irregularities—overruns, shortfalls, paper transfers, borrowings, excessive supply and repair costs, pilfering, and spillage and leakage losses—almost a billion dollars appeared to be missing from the total R&D budget over a tenyear period. A billion dollars! In addition, a similar sum appeared to have been applied to a phantom R&D program Haldane had never heard of. The paper trail was exceedingly complex, and the auditors admitted they could not be absolutely certain of their findings. But they also said they were sure enough that they believed they should be granted permission to continue digging.
Haldane thanked them, told them he would be in touch, and immediately thought of Victor Tremont. Not for a second did he believe a billion dollars could be lost through tiny pinpricks, or that Victor would steal such a sum. But it was possible his hungry second-in-command could order a secret research project and try to keep it hidden from Haldane. Yes, he would believe that.
He made no immediate move. Victor and he would meet in his New York office before the private dinner he gave for the board at the quarterly meeting. He would brace Victor with what he knew and demand an explanation. One way or another, he would discover whether any secret program existed. If it did, he would have to fire Victor. But the project might be worth saving. If there were no such program, and Victor could not explain the lost billion, he would fire him on the spot.
Haldane sighed. It was tragic about Victor, but at the same time he felt an eagerness that made his blood rush. He was getting on in years, but he still enjoyed a good fight. Especially one that he knew he would win.
At the sound of his private elevator coming up, he crossed the luxurious office with its view south over the entire city to the Battery and the bay. He poured a snifter of his best XO cognac and returned to his desk. He opened a humidor, selected a cigar, lighted it, and took the first long, savory draw as the elevator stopped and Victor Tremont stepped out in his white tie and tails.
Haldane turned his head. “Good evening, Victor. Pour yourself a brandy.”
Tremont eyed him where he sat behind the big desk smoking the cigar. “You’re looking solemn tonight, Mercer. Some problem?”
“Get your brandy, and we’ll discuss it.”
Tremont poured a snifter of the fine old cognac, helped himself to a cigar, sat in a comfortable leather armchair facing Haldane, and crossed his legs.
He smiled. “So, let’s not waste our valuable time. I have a lady to pick up for the dinner. What have I done wrong?”
Haldane bristled. He was being challenged. He decided to be blunt and put Victor in his place. “It seems we have a billion dollars unaccounted for. What did you do, Victor—steal it or divert it into some pet scheme?”
Tremont sipped his brandy, turned his cigar to study the ash, and nodded as if he had expected this. His long, aristocratic face was shadowy in the lamplight. “The secret audit. I thought that was probably it. Well, the simple answer is no … and yes. I didn’t steal the money. I did divert it to a project all my own.”
Haldane controlled his anger. “How long has this been going on?”
“Oh, I’d say ten years or so. A couple of years after that specimen-finding trip to Peru you sent me on when I was working in the main research lab. Remember?”
“A decade! Impossible! You couldn’t have fooled me that long. What really—”
“Oh, but I could, and I did. Not alone, of course. I put together a team inside the company. The best men we have. They saw the billions that could be made on my concept, and they signed on. A little creative bookkeeping here, help from security there, some fine scientists, my own outside laboratory, a lot of dedication, some cooperation inside our federal government and military, and voilà!—the Hades Project. Conceived, planned, developed, and ready to go.” Victor Tremont smiled again and waved the cigar like a magic wand. “In a few weeks—months at most—my team and Blanchard will make billions. Possibly hundreds of billions. Everyone will be rich—me, my team, the board, the stockholders … and, of course, you.”
Haldane held his cigar frozen in midair. “You’re insane.”
Tremont laughed. “Hardly. Just a good businessman who saw an opportunity for gigantic profit.”
“Insane and going to prison!” Haldane snapped.
Tremont held up a hand. “Calm yourself, Mercer. Don’t you want to know what the Hades Project is? Why it’s going to make all of us filthy rich, including you, despite your lack of gratitude?”
Mercer Haldane hesitated. Tremont was admitting he had used company funds for secret research. He would have to be terminated and probably prosecuted. But he was also a fine chemist, and legally the project did belong to Blanchard. Perhaps it would make a large profit. After all, as chairman and CEO, it was his duty to protect and enhance the company’s bottom line.
So Haldane cocked his white head. “I can’t see how it can change anything, Victor, but what is this brilliant coup of yours?”
“When you sent me to Peru thirteen years ago, I found an odd virus in a remote area. It was deadly, fatal in most cases. But one tribe had a cure: They drank the blood of a specific species of monkey that also carried the disease. I was intrigued, so I brought home live virus from victims as well as various monkeys’ blood. What I found was startling, but rather elegantly logical.”
Haldane stared. “Go on.”
Victor Tremont took a long drink of the cognac, smacked his lips in appreciation, and smiled over the top of the snifter at his boss. “The monkeys were infected by the same virus as the humans. But it’s a strange one. The virus lies dormant for years inside its host, rather like the HIV virus before it becomes AIDS. Oh, a small fever perhaps, some headaches, other sudden and brief pains, but nothing lethal until, apparently spontaneously, it mutates, gives symptoms of a heavy cold or mild flu for two weeks or so, and then becomes lethal to both humans and monkeys. However, and this was key, it strikes earlier and with far less severity in the monkeys. Many monkeys survive, and their blood is full of neutralizing antibodies to the mutated virus. The Indians learned this, by trial and error I expect, so when they fell ill they drank the blood and were cured. In most cases, anyway, if they got the right monkey’s blood.”
Tremont leaned forward. “The beauty of this symbiosis is that no matter how the virus mutates, the mutation always appears in the monkeys first, which means antibodies are always available for any mutation. Isn’t that an exquisite bit of nature?”
“Stunning,” Haldane said drily. “But I see no avenue to profit in your anecdote. Does this virus exist elsewhere where there’s no natural cure?”
“Absolutely nowhere as far as we’ve been able to ascertain. That’s the key to the Hades Project.”
“Enlighten me. Please. I can’t wait.”
Tremont laughed. “Sarcasm. One step at a time, Mercer.” He stood up and walked to the bar. He poured more of the chairman’s fine cognac. Seated again, he crossed his knees. “Of course, we couldn’t very well import millions of monkeys and kill them for their blood. Not to mention that not all monkeys carried the antibodies, and that blood would deteriorate rapidly anyway. So first we had to isolate the virus and the antibodies in the blood. Then we had to establish methods of large-scale production and provide a broad enough spectrum to accommodate some of the spontaneous mutations over time.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me you did all this.”
“Absolutely. We isolated the virus and were capable of production within the first year. The rest took varying lengths of time, and we finalized the recombinant antiserum only last year. Now we have millions of units ready to ship. It’s been patented as a cure for the monkey virus, without mentioning the human virus, of course. That’s going to appear to be a bit of luck. Our costs have be
en inflated and well tabulated, so we can claim a higher price to the public, and we’ve applied for FDA approval.”
Haldane was incredulous. “You don’t have FDA approval?”
“When the pandemic starts, we’ll get instant approval.”
“When it starts?” It was Haldane’s turn to laugh. A derisive laugh. “What pandemic? You mean there’s no epidemic of the virus to use your serum on? My God, Victor—”
Tremont smiled. “There will be.”
Haldane stared. “Will be?”
“There have been six recent cases in the United States, three of which we secretly cured with our serum. More victims here are coming down with it, plus there have already been over a thousand deaths overseas. In a few days, the globe will know what it’s facing. It won’t be pretty.”
Mercer Haldane sat motionless at his desk. Cognac forgotten. Cigar burning the desktop where the stub had fallen from the ashtray. Tremont waited, the smile never leaving his smooth face. His iron-gray hair and tan skin glowed in the lamplight. When Haldane finally spoke, his rigidity was painful to witness, even for Tremont.
But Haldane’s voice was controlled. “There’s some part of this scheme you aren’t telling me.”
“Probably,” Tremont said.
“What is it?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Haldane thought that over for a time. “No, it won’t play. You’re going to prison, Victor. You’ll never work again.”
“Give me some credit. Besides, you’re in as deep as I am.”
Haldane’s white eyebrows shot up in surprise. “There’s no way—!”
Tremont chuckled. “Hell, you’re in deeper. My ass is covered. Every order, every requisition, and every expenditure was approved and signed by you. Everything we did has your authorization in writing. Most of it’s real because when you get in an irritable mood, you sign papers just to get them off your desk. I put them there, you scribbled your signature and shooed me out of the office like a schoolboy. The rest are forgeries no one’s going to spot. One of my people has an expert.”